#one time she pulled off a particularly grand stunt

[aaandbackstabbed]

Scrooge actually finds it very sexy when Goldie commits crimes. ((not that he’d ever admit it))

[ohwell-itsme-but-danganronpa]

📒‼️‼️‼️

Warning: on PC it takes 8 lenghts of the screen to look through the entire draft, I think posts are a little wider, but still

So, this is something I'll never write out because it has the core elements of most of my daydreams: unrequited feelings for Kokichi, unnecessary martyrdom and overpowered self-insert original character

meet the Ultimate Manic Pixie Dream Girl, they were born out of my reading of the "Obligatory Chatfic", it stays focused on v3, but I wanted to play with the ideas of all the classes interacting together after going through their games in vr, and Hope's Peak having history of human experimentation on students, putting all of them through it so casually because They ARE The Bad Guys and have been doing this shit to students for decades like they're free lab rats

My OC joins the v3 class about a month or two after they left the simulation, bullshits something about special circumstances for transferring at that point, makes some suspiciously too accurate guesses about people, as if playing Sherlock Holmes, jokes about being a whore after revealing their talent, seems to be under the influence, but they say it's just jet-lag, they arrived freshly from America. And on the first lunch break they have an obnoxious reunion with Junko, they've partied together many times before, after clicking instantly on some formal fashion-related celebrity event. They throw an ice-breaker karaoke on the soonest free Friday evening to show the v3 babies how to party, at least the select few that decide to come (as most doesn't want to be anywhere near Junko or parties), notably, Kamukura is also there, he's always close to at least one of my two girlies. Generally, they make a big deal out of music, quote lyrics, assign people songs (a part of their "too accurate guesses" gimmick), make karaokes a regular thing, Junko rarely joins the later ones, it actually becomes a v3 class thing they wanted it to be in the end, but in the meantime they bring in various friends they make at HPA.

Their immediate & obvious crush on Ouma makes everyone cringe and brace themselves, thinking it'll crash and burn sooner rather than later as they'll get to see more of his personality, but they become friends, as our MPDG collects all outcasts and freaks of this school, but those who pay attention can tell they give extra attention to Kokichi, so those observant classmates (minus Saihara, who, of course, doesn't know) are waiting for them to realize that Kokichi is pining after Shuichi (but they know that, they knew from the start, they don't mind). They gush about him a lot, both to Junko and Izuru, sometimes to Miu, but as a running joke where she always reacts with fake gagging, highlighting how amazing it is that he doesn't want anything from them, that he makes them feel free (watch my aro ass re-invent being lithromantic on accident, I had this OC for... more than a year, and heard this term while having this in the draft). They spoil Ouma as their bestie, but since they're touchy with all their friends (and more touchy with people they want something from, using their talent to manipulate) and throw grand gestures left and right they play it off, even though their jealousy shows around Saihara sometimes. They have a brief phase where they took on an appearance that was just Saihara with their spice added (brighter hair, bolder make-up, expensive suit with suspenders... they disappeared for a bit after that stunt, equal parts ashamed and proud for pulling it off), they like intimidating him and asking him questions he doesn't know how to answer. They have mood swings between trying to wingman for saiou and antagonizing Shuichi, circling around him, during a particularly bad episode they decide to seduce him like everyone who stands in their way (even though they still wouldn't pursue Kokichi if he wasn't in the way).

As people start to notice they know too much to really be just analysing what they see & that they seem to grow lost in their increasing amount of notes (carrying a bunch of notebooks, recording their voice) and in their head (spacing out, repeating themselves, changing personas faster) they throw out pieces of their convoluted backstory to cause a distraction. How they ran away and don't talk to their mom. How their first heartbreak changed them. The many friends they lost in their time in Hollywood, not to mention partners, it's always others that the death touches so don't worry about them. Izuru gives them knowing side-glances and takes them on breaks, those two have Talks about life that tend to go nowhere. Sometimes Junko joins them and they only mean less and probably smoke. (I am super averse to smoking, but this one just has to, so yeah, the trio does). It's revealed that they are so close as a trio because they have a shared lab and work on something together (Enoshima technically has a second lab as a fashionista, but this is an analyst, MPDG & "Hope" lab). It also becomes known at that stage that they disappeared from Hollywood nearly a year before they officially joined HPA. They use Shuichi's curiosity about the matter to get closer to him & succeed in their goal.

The truth is they were originally offered to be the Ultimate Actress in Junko's year, but turned that down (important: they already knew Junko at that point) and got scouted again under a different name, from a school in some small town in another state after using that place as testing grounds for their plan, polishing their skills and purposefully pulling some shit to get scouted on their own terms. And it's pulled out of them in a full story instead of little hints by Kokichi, because (as he doesn't know what they did to Shuichi) they're best friends and he can't be easily distracted from warning signs that he knows from experience. They get him in on the plan to destroy Hope's Peak. Yes, they knew about the human experimentation before they came there, always hanging around older rich people with their "I'll fuck my way to the top" mentality allowed them to hear lots of stories from the prestigious world that are otherwise kept under wraps, and meeting Junko when she was recently scouted, looking into it and willing to talk about it solidified the idea they had about the place.

Even without knowing much they were growing convinced that the whole showbiz world is rotten to the core and Talent is a bad thing that burns you out, they watched people die chasing fame and ones becoming hollow once they got it, how everybody seems unhappy and only wants more of something, exactly just how fake all that jazz is. They make many comments about being expected to die young & beautiful, getting irrelevant if they don't, being special just because they're tragic, how being gifted fucks up kids, how this isn't designed for them but for people who watch them. They look at Hope's Peak and see what it symbolizes. And they want it gone.

So they say they accepted HPA's second scouting (without coming clear to them about the previous one being them as well), and became Ultimate MPDG, since they were late to join the class, their participation in this year's project was studying its events and assisting everyone's recovery with their talent. That is not the whole truth, just enough of it to make Kokichi think it is. The half-true reason for proceeding slowly with the plan to burn down the school is avoiding suspicion and making sure everything will go right. They don't buy big quantities of gasoline, not from one place, not with one face. They acquired the building plan and mapped out how the fire should spread. They collected the files with all the dirt on HPA. They arranged for a date when students won't be inside, when they will be at an event and therefore have alibis. They prepared their escape. It makes sense for Kokichi to believe that all the planning is what's wearing them down, he did think they had something in common there.

But they omitted that they enter virtual reality on a daily basis, that they die in it more often than not, that they're helping develop it and the main reason they were scouted this time was their ability to switch personas on a whim and become them, creating full lives as if they actually lived them and being able to contain those multitudes. They wanted to push that potential, to push the VR's limits and see how much it can manifest and how real it can feel. They're testing how it affects them, reducing the time needed to recover after a death, disconnecting from the body via replacing it with various avatars, separating it into elements that can be controlled & don't need to be in the same place or even present at all for other elements to work, turning sensations into sliding scales that can be manipulated. Junko and Izuru also enter the vr, usually there's one person observing from the outside and two in the simulator, but it's MPDG that took on the "effects of repeated deaths as time progresses" test, and it's eating away at them. They're losing touch, dissociating a lot, forgetting the boundaries of the real world and their mortality. And most importantly, that they've been doing it since before v3.

They've been at the academy since they got scouted, which not only wasn't late for the start of v3's first school year, it was late in the previous one, v3 applied some things they were testing out and when they found out it was happening they stormed headmaster's office and demanded to join their classes and oversee their recovery, because they were supposed to be the Head Researcher (it seemed beneficial to have them see it this way, who knew they'd be this bossy?) of this, and they were not done testing, so why the hell did you use this on a whole class of ultimates?! There are still things with defined plans of improvement, besides the applied features that might have side effects, months of work load on their project, this wasn't in their plans. Really, in the moment they might be more livid about it being outside their control, done without their knowledge, not to mention approval, one that they would not give.

Feeling for those inside comes with watching the footage. They're not a very empathetic person though, there certainly is sympathy, but that's mostly for the ones they grew to have positive opinions of. Now, unlike the real me, MPDG learned to hide their negative feelings quite well, they're used to acting nice with people they dislike, but that's when it aids their goal. They do not feel like they have to be nice to Momota, there's nothing they want from him, they're trying to get Maki and Shuichi away from him and his influence, actually. In a timeline that doesn't end in tragedy they could be convinced to give him a chance, get to know him for real, deal with the feeling of self-recognition through another (derogatory) and both of them would come out of it as better people, bickering in more friendly ways, helping keep each other's burst of righteous anger contained. But in the main-line, when MPDG holds back from punching him after blowing a fuse and ranting excessively in reaction to a comment he made during lunch, in front of everyone, they revel in the sense of superiority over him it gives them to come off cold in their hatred and don't resort to physical violence like he would, their next move is to pull strings to get him expelled, very satisfied with themselves, fully believing that somebody like him doesn't belong there. (elitarian, playing into the system, becoming the very thing they swore to destroy, etc; etc.)

Nothing quite like this, but they have issues getting along with a few others, get into arguments with Kaede despite trying to be friendly, they're uncomfortable around Gonta (oh, they despise feeling small and fragile, muscular men just so aren't their type, it's not a fear, it's not a fear, it's not- oh fuck, he could kill them on accident, what if he finds out they hate bugs?), and honestly they just find Korekiyo too much to unpack so they don't get in his business the way they love to do with most people.

When they can't drag it out any longer, their research is done, all information they wanted to sell is sold, everything is prepared to burn the school, the final karaoke is arranged and everyone but them and Izuru is at the venue, they finally set the flame, it's done. But the next step was to join others at the venue, have Izuru drive them there, swap places with their bodydouble, do a big reveal by showing them The MusicalTM (a movie they made mostly with the use of NWP, showing their story along with a very dramatic soundtrack, dancing performances included), give their friends the playlist they made for them and finally ask Kokichi to run away with them in a moment of having nothing to lose, leaving either way. That doesn't happen, because. Because their affair with Shuichi. No, the guilt isn't getting to them that much, maybe a little. They're pregnant and don't want anyone to know. It ruins their plan, so they choose to leave without saying anything, this way Kokichi won't hate them and at least saiou will have a chance. They sort of confess with a song in the musical, but they leave without goodbye, leaving him no way to reply. Telling Shuichi would only complicate things, since he's a good guy, who'd take responsibility and they don't want him.

Being a wanted criminal, they definitely leave Japan and live somewhere on the down low. They stop detoriating but the damage is already done, and they never rocover, so they're very scatterbrained and often dissociate til the end. Izuru also runs away and lives a quiet life. Junko gets arrested but gets out pretty quickly, she refused to help trask down MPDG or Izuru, but expressed certainity that neither of them will cause trouble again and proceeded to instead testify against HPA scientists, helped find people who were involved in the Kamukura project (they're not dead here, but if MPDG didn't show up with their dramatic ass plans, who knows what Junko & Izuru would have done on their own, it probably would be a lot closer to the Tragedy), used her Analyst talent to prevent some bigger terrorist attacks that would have hurt a lot of people (when theirs only destroyed the building and everything to do with NWP, except for the notes MPDG took with them. They considered selling the concept just like they did with other secrets, but even though they believe there could be better uses for it, it's too dangerous, so not a word of it gets out), she refuses to continue working with anti-terrorists later once she's not obligated to. Saiou get together and seem to have their happy ending, domestic ever after, except a few years later... a child shows up at their doorstep.

But that would be a sequel/an entirely separate thing, because it's just a little scenario I had, a maybe preteen-at-most weird girl shows up and flips their life upside down, MPDG left a will & letters in envelopes titled "Open when [specific situation that's kinda expected to happen happens, first one being "open when you've met her"]" and they're actually mostly adressed to Kokichi, some to Shuichi and some of the later ones are adressed to their daughter, set for birthdays and other big occassions. They always expected to die young and it never becomes evident or relevant how they died exactly, but there are things that could lead to it, like the damage from the NWP, their even older history with drugs, with dangerous people, their own mind becoming too restless after a few years of a peaceful and normal life, no matter how much they tried for their child, something was going to catch up to them, they were sure, so they were writing letters since they made their escape. All of that is not easy on saiou's relationship, but at this point they're either married or at least engaged, so it's not enough to tear them apart, once they calm down it's not like Shuichi did anything wrong by sleeping with MPDG months before they got together, frankly, he got played and Kokichi can recognize that. But the kid is there, and not only is Shuichi the closest & only* family (*technically, MPDG's parents are alive, but the link got lost a long thread of identities ago), but they're both written in the will to inherit everything, except for what they already put away on their daughter's savings account. So they're in for a ride.

[super-ion]

Writing some backstory for my D&D character and it kinda got away from me

Setting belongs to @sunnylucy31 (with a couple of my own head canons for some minor details)

~~~

An icy wind whipped over the Cryptfloe tundra. The twisted stunted trees that sparsely dotted the plains did nothing to stop it so it cut like icy knives. Worse, it brought the faintest stench of rot.

It was not yet mid-spring, but Artemisia had overheard the rangers speaking of an early thaw. This far north, there should have been little to fear from roving undead, otherwise they wouldn't have sent three students on patrol with one of the rangers.

The Frostborn prided themselves on being poets and scholars, trading more in song and knowledge than the material wealth of their lumber and coal. Kofar itself was so isolated, there was little need for any sort of standing army, a point of pride among the ivory tower types who dwelled in Whitespire. Beyond the city walls, beasts and monsters still dwelt among the mountains and the forest and the occasional undead creature made its way across the Cryptfloe. A loosely organized volunteer force of rangers patrolled the lands. It was a difficult, thankless job, but it was necessary.

Service assignments were one of the prices of education in the Frostlands. Everybody worked, everybody contributed. The work was meant to keep scholars humble and keep the skalds in touch with the common people. Some assignments were certainly cushier than others. Some assignments they reserved for particularly troublesome students.

She could endure this. She had to. She was going to be a skald and she was going to travel the world.

She was freezing her ass off.

Artemisia pulled her cloak tighter around her and her tail miserably as she trudged onwards. Instead of grand far off fantasies, she shifted her focus to imagining the warm meal waiting for her back at the outpost. If she played her cards right, she might be able to enjoy a warm body too.

Her gaze drifted to Valoshar. The ranger was half orc, tall and powerfully built. She had spied him in the saunas on the second day of her exile to the tundra and had been slowly probing his defenses. Intuition told her that she couldn't just throw herself at his feet, he had too much self respect and likely had all manner of folk clamoring for his attention with each batch of students that were sent out here. No, if she wanted it, she had to work fort it. So she had contented herself with long game. The best part was he was definitely on to her little game and might even be playing along. Their slow dance of seduction was the only thing that made this sojourn almost tolerable. It was a good distraction and gods above and below, it would be so worth it. Oh, to finally feel those tusks brush roughly against her lips and… elsewhere… it would be-

"I fucking hate this," Eriem muttered for the hundredth time, shattering her fantasy.

The half-elf had done nothing but complain since they had gotten here.

"Yeah, well," Artemisia replied spitefully. "If somebody hadn't been caught stealing from the kitchens, we might have been sent somewhere more pleasant."

"Anyone could have been caught," Eriem protested.

Artemisia scoffed.

"You were bumbling around like an owlbear. It's like you wanted to get caught."

"And I suppose you wouldn't have?" he snipped.

"Oh please," she replied. "I was stealing from my father's kitchen as soon as I could walk. There's an art to it."

"Then why are you out here stumbling around in the snow like the rest of us?"

"Because I'm cursed to associate with morons and idiots," she shot back.

Laru, the fourth member of their party, cleared his throat softly.

"I… I think it's a great honor," he said. "To see the frontier and the brave warriors who defend it."

The little gnome scholar had a soft, melodic voice, he might have made a good skald if he were able to hold a tune worth a damn. But he liked stories, so Artemisia had taken a liking to him. He had responded initially with suspicion, but gradually relaxed when he realized she wasn't a threat.

"Oh please," Eriem scoffed. "You got sent here as a punishment just like Artie and me."

Artemisia ground her teeth at the nickname, but she held her tongue. He knew she hated it and she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her discomfort.

"To each according to their need-" Laru began, but was cut off by another scoff.

"This shit again?" Eriem interrupted.

Laru fell into sullen silence at that.

"Gods, Eriem," she muttered, "do you have to be such an ass all the time? Don't you think this whole situation might be just a little more tolerable if you were pleasant for a change?"

Eriem grumbled something uncharitable that she chose to ignore.

The sad part was Laru believed what he said. Well… she believed the words, she was Frostborn after all. They were a hardy people, but that hardiness came from community. The actual sad part was the scholar believed he had been specially chosen by the Conclave to patrol the Cryptfloe as part of his service curriculum. The maxim of "live together, die alone" took on a looser meaning in Whitespire where so many people living in one location in comfortable safety led to stratification. The likely truth was that he was a pawn in some political machination, somebody's nephew or cousin, shunted off to the tundra for a semester for some blackmail purposes.

Skald education was somewhat different than a scholar's. Artemisia and Eriem were both apprenticed to Gwynris Horthahk. The dwarf was a demanding teacher but when she sang, her audience hung rapt on every note, every word, every tiny gesture. Artemisia wanted that. She had wanted it more than anything ever since Gwynris had stayed at their inn when she was seven. The woman had traded a performance for a room and her father had certainly gotten the far better end of that deal.

Two years prior, word had reached Fardrift that Gwynris was seeking an apprentice and Artemisia had seized her opportunity and made the trek to Whitespire alone in late autumn only to discover that a rich family with an important name was already paying her a tidy salary to mentor one of their scions.

Artemisia, tiefling bastard daughter of an innkeeper from Fardrift, had a name that might have meant something a hundred years prior and a handful of silver that her father had pressed into her hands upon her hurried departure. But she was Frostborn: she knew how to be relentlessly patient.

It was rare for a skald to take on a second apprentice, but she decided to make her presence a problem until she secured that apprenticeship, no matter how long it took.

For two weeks, she hounded the woman's every move, charming her way through the staff entrances of inns, taverns and mead halls across the city, desperate for even a scrap of wisdom. It had taken Eriem three entire days before he realized they were being waited on by the same serving girl in every establishment, but Gwynris herself never commented on it. The woman just regarded her with a detached curiosity.

Eventually, either Gwynris had been impressed by Artemisia's persistence, or she had heard something special in one of her street performances, or maybe she just grew annoyed by the vagabond sleeping on her doorstep. Whatever the reason, Gwynris took her on and Artemisia quickly discovered how harsh of a mentor the dwarf really was.

Eriem, the pompous little shit that he was, was destined to be an orator, singing sagas for the richest families of Kofar and the wealthiest diplomats from abroad. His family's money kept Gwynris well fed and her sole interest in his education was ensuring that he didn't embarrass her.

Artemisia on the other hand, she worked three times as hard. There were endless errands and harrowing lessons that would go on for hours. Artemisia chafed under the preferential treatment and found herself questioning her life's purpose on more than one occasion. But she persisted, and slowly, grudgingly came to realize that Gwynris was preparing her to survive in the world beyond the shores of Kofar. Whatever spark Gwynris saw in Artemisia, she meant for it to thrive and even blaze in the wider world.

Artemisia was certain this assignment, patrolling the tundra's edge with the rangers, was another lesson. Officially, it was punishment. Eriem had indeed stolen sweet cakes from the Conclave kitchens, but Artemisia had the impression that he was being punished more for being caught than the actual crime itself. Artemisia had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and "it would be good for her" and "she might learn something".

So she had decided to make the most of it. She swapped tales with Laru and was already composing an epic ballad based on one of the more obscure stories he told her. She had to embellish, of course. No sense writing an epic if it was just going to put people to sleep.

She also collected bawdy drinking songs and solemn dirges from the rangers. It was a fascinating subculture out here on the tundra where frozen undead thawed and slowly advanced every summer. She could probably write a book about it if she were so inclined. Somebody would probably read it.

She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice Valoshar had stopped in his tracks until she almost plowed into him.

By instinct, she froze. She had grown up between the mountains and the forest. She knew that when a ranger stopped moving, something was afoot.

She cocked her head and strained to hear, but the tundra was dead silent save for the wind.

"What the hell is going on, Val?" Eriem shouted.

Before she could turn to tell him to shut up, there was a thunderous crack and she was knocked gracelessly to the frozen ground as a massive shape erupted from beneath them.

The wind was knocked out of her and her hands and knees smarted painfully from where she landed. She only had a moment to blink dazedly before the screaming started.

She scrambled painfully to her feet and whirled. The zombie might have been a bugbear once, but it had rotted and frozen and refrozen beyond recognition. It had its jaws clamped tight around Laru's leg as he beat helplessly at its face.

Her hand grasped the hilt of her rapier and yanked it free. Her mind raced as she tried to recall the details of all the lessons Gwynris had beaten into her. She had never fought a real enemy before, but her understanding was that stage fighting was very much different from the real thing. She squared her stance and raised her blade.

Eriem stood a few paces away, his eyes were round and panicky and his mouth hung slack in terror. He held the hilt of his own sword in a white knuckled grip, but shock had completely frozen him before he could draw it. Fine, if he was going to be useless, at least he had the good sense to stay out of the way.

That left her and…

A warhammer slammed into the zombie's shoulder with a crunch, spraying shards of mostly frozen flesh. The zombie released Laru and turned to face Valoshar. It opened its mouth to groan or howl, but no sound emerged from its frozen lungs. The whole effect was deeply disconcerting in Artemisia's opinion.

She had to do something, anything to assist Valoshar, so she did what came naturally. She opened her mouth and sang.

"The sun blazed high in the clear sky

O'er frozen ground, where no plants grow

The thrice cursed dead, he sent to rest

Their bodies thick upon the snow"

It was from the epic she was composing from Laru's story. Valoshar cocked his head at her in a moment of bafflement, but drew himself up at the words.

She took the opportunity to thrust with the rapier. It bounced ineffectively off the frozen flesh, dimming her bravado somewhat, but it was enough to give Valoshar a chance to deliver a devastating blow to the monster's head.

It went down with a crash, twitching and spasming before Valoshar dealt it another blow that brought it back to stillness.

Artemisia stood panting. They had won. Her words had inspired a mighty warrior into great deeds.

Laru moaned in pain nearby, shattering the thrill of victory. The gnome was in poor shape, his leg was mangled and too much blood lay freezing on the ground.

She swallowed. She knew what she had to do, she had seen it done before.

She held her hands before the wound and began to sing a wordless tune. It wasn't quite the same as when she sang for Valoshar, though there had been magic in that. This was rhythm and melody reshaping the world. There were tales that claimed the world had been sung into existence, but she herself had never come close to believing that until now. Laru's wound knit together, color returned to his skin and his breathing calmed.

She finished the song and continued kneeling at his side. She had sung countless times, for audiences of all sizes, but she had never sung like that before. She had done it. She had cast a spell. She had woven sound and magic together into the world and the whole experience left her breathless and exhilarated.

[rangedreign]

ohhh my favourite part of ask games, (harmless) petty fandom drama. i know these are a lot so ofc feel free to pick and choose but im nosy and love gossip so if you feel like it *eyes emoji*:

1 2 (just for the drama lol) 6 (feel free to ignore i understand u completely but i live for drama lol) 7 (MORE) 8 12 (<3) 16 (*eyes emoji*) 21 22 (for some final positivity)

1 - the character everyone gets wrong cedric the sorcerer. he deserves respect as a person, and the royal family was wrong to deny him that, but he does little to earn respect as royal sorcerer. 'oh he has such a good and relatable arc' whup tee doo his grand finale was... *checks notes* doing his job correctly. the one he's been training for his whole life. color me unimpressed by a character that should have either left that job YEARS ago or put a little effort into anticipating what he'd be asked to do and practicing instead of trying to prove his worth through stunts and domination.

2 - a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom can't do it lol, everyone's a verse in my mind

6 - which ship fans are the most annoying? shoutout to the time i went through the snape/lily tag and couldn't scroll 3 posts without a james/lily shipper trying to pull moral rank. however i think 75% of the hp fandom has ship rabies.

7 - what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them? eh, none, i don't let fandom influence my interpretations of characters that way. cedric is closest but the fandom misinterpretation is just an additional annoyance, rather than a driving force

8 - common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about 'cedric and sofia have a good relationship'. shipping or not, they're completely one-sided. what does cedric provide sofia with? he doesn't even listen to her particularly well.

12 - the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them to no one's surprise, my first pick here is wormwood from sofia the first. he was created as a joke, ha ha the pet is smarter than the human master, but then the show makes you judge him by human moral standards as the foil to cedric's 'deserving of second chances'. the show itself asks you to view a character that cannot leave servitude as human, and wants you to believe that his station is right. it's so deeply unfair. i care him. i respect him. i want to see him take the power of humanity for himself, abuse it, naturally, because that's all humans have ever done to him, then grow into a complete person when he realizes he cares despite it all. knowing that, i feel like mentioning areelu should come as no surprise. doing great evil in response to evil that was done to you? that's so up my alley. up my pussy even. making her bond with daeran of all people is such a great idea, someone who cannot forgive her, but must move on and work with her regardless. it seems like most people write her off as too evil to live, but she's still a super genius. there's a lot to be gained by befriending her. the gold dragon ""redemption"" happens so absurdly fast though. 'oh shit guess this is pretty fucked up, so glad you're a piss-colored lizard bc that's the only way i'd ever listen to you' wrath's writing in general has a bit of a quantity over quality issue. a lacking-logic issue. no way my azata would sacrifice herself just cuz without knowing what areelu will do once she's gone.

16 - you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc) - hero-type main characters in general. idk exactly what it is but i find most of them very dull, and often irritating. a lack of desires beyond duty? can't often be described as freaks? they just never have any footholds for interesting ideas to me. - gold aasimar cum. if you want something golden to come out of daeran's dick, you can just make him piss XD also does that imply his hair is naturally white? - daeran x chill/lawful/'boring' kcs - i can tell that on some level he wants the stability from people like that, but i can't see him actually bonding with them. esp not towards the start of the game. - truly, utterly pathetic meow meows. like, listen, i love shoving a character into a Situation and watching them flounder around, but they've gotta be proficient at something!

21 - part of canon you think is overhyped for just about everything: the worldbuilding. i think people get impressed by the mere existence of worldbuilding, rather than the quality of it. pf surprised me when i looked deeper into stuff and found it gave me the same 'this is a hot mess and i have to make shit up for it to make sense' feeling as stf. i expected better from a massive ttrpg but ok. for wrath, also the characters and the music. the characters rely on one-note personalities with maybe a ~hint~ of spice, with one extremely notable exception of daeran. the degree to which he beats out every other character in complexity is stunning, really. the music is... just fine? it's not amazing, it does exactly what you'd expect a track for that purpose to do. I think most of the tracks have muddy orchestration, too much focus on harmony/vibes and not enough on rhythm and melody. the one track i really love is 'a drink before the battle', it has a great flow and dynamics and i wish it played more often.

22 - your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores the villains/antagonists, best part of literally any media ever

[sophiethewitch1]

Small Town Wonders

Chapter Two - My Neighbour Todoroki

–o–

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Same as last chapter, Bakugou is rudeTM, and slightly odd behaviour because I can’t write nonhumans acting human

“Foxes, or kitsune , are found all across Japan. They are identical to wild foxes found elsewhere in the world apart from their incredible magical powers. Their cute faces and small size make them particularly loved by most people.

Kitsune are extremely intelligent and powerful shape-shifters .”

- Matthew Meyer (A.K.A. Yokai.com) on Kitsune

--o--

Your morning rest is broken by knocking at the front door, and you blink wearily into your pillow. There’s sleep stuck to your eyes, and you’d rather die than greet the neighbour at the door, but you slowly push yourself up anyway. Your phone sits next to you on the floor where it was last night, and you turn it on, checking the time. 8:30 in the morning. Now, any normal sane person with a job would be up by now, but you were not one of those people. 

You see yourself in the mirror, hair mussed and eyes tired, and quickly try to fix at least some of your messy form. You pat your hair down and rub your eyes. It works a little but… definitely not enough…

You hear another knock at your door and curse under your breath, running over to it and pulling it open. There before you stands…

A man with wide green eyes and matching fluffy green hair. He blinks in surprise at the abrupt door opening, but then his face switches to a warm smile that twists the freckles on his cheeks. Behind him are two other guys, one with blond hair and angry red eyes (wow, those contacts sure are a statement), and another with that TikTok half-divided hair you’d seen, one side red and one side white. His eyes are the same in their mismatchedness, one gray and one blue, the blue one having a red scar surrounding it.

...Well, they’re certainly unique…

“Uh, can I help you?” you ask, eyes drifting back to the green-haired man at the front. 

“Uh- haha, we were wondering if you were the new owner of this house? We’re your neighbours?” The guy says, his smile is a little shy. He scratches his neck with one incredibly scarred hand, and you match his smile.

“Yeah, it was my family’s. It’s nice to meet you-” your greeting is cut off by the one in the back with blond hair, his eyes narrowing on you.

“Hah?! You’re the old guy’s daughter?” he asks (rather rudely, might you add), and you raise an eyebrow at him. Your smile immediately drops into a frown at his tone, it’s too damn early to deal with rude assholes. And also, did you look that old? Your Mum was well into her fifties by now… Not that she wasn’t beautiful, of course.

“No? I’m his grand daughter, and what does it matter?” you say, and the green-haired boy waves his hands in apology, moving between the stare off you and the blond had going on.

“Um! Please ignore Kacchan, he doesn’t mean it,” the blond scoffs from behind him, “We knew him... when we were kids! Your grandfather was a very important part of our community,” he says, and your heart heaves slightly. You only had a few memories of Grandpa, and it almost seems like these strangers knew him better than you ever did.

It’s… whatever. Too late now anyway. Hey, look at it on the bright side, maybe you’ll find out more about him up here. 

“...That’s lovely to hear,” you lie, smiling kindly at your new neighbours. One returns the smile, the other glares at you like your gum on the bottom of his shoe, and the other just… stares. Your eyes flicker away from the quiet guy’s immediately, mildly perturbed by his staring. 

C’mon, Sophie, new people, you can do this, let’s make some friends!

“I’m Magers Sophie, may I have your names?” you ask, and the rude one immediately scoffs. Apparently not… you roll your eyes in your mind, but in reality, keep a pleasant face.

The green-haired one laughs, an awkward and stunted sound, as he rubs the back of his neck. He turns and whispers something to the blond one, and you raise an eyebrow when his expression grows even worse.

“Yeah, of course! I’m Midoriya Izuku-” he points to himself, and then hikes a thumb over to the rude one, “This is Bakugou Katsuki,” and finally he gestures at the quiet one, “And Todoroki Shoto. It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Magers!”

You nod, before holding a hand out to the entrance of your home, inviting them inside.

“As you know I just moved in, but I can serve you a cup of tea if you’d like?” you ask, leaning against the doorway and watching as Midoriya winces. He opens his mouth to speak (probably going to say they couldn’t… which doesn’t sound that bad…) but instead the quiet one speaks up.

“That’d be nice,” he says, and you’re surprised by the smoothness of his voice. You get it now, if he spoke too much there would be mass-fainting from women all around Japan. 

Plus the guy was really, really attractive. They all were in their own way, but Bakugou could lighten up and Midoriya… Well, he was… kinda plain. You didn’t know he managed it with bright green hair, but he did. Almost a skill at that point…

You move to let the three of them in, and when they pass through Bakugou- well, he gets extremely close to you, his eyes furious. You think he’s trying to intimidate you, but all you feel is flustered… it’s because you were just thinking about how attractive they were… yeah, that’s it. Sometimes you couldn’t tell what was denial and what was the truth. 

But hey, it means you’re such a great liar you can even fool yourself. Woop-woop!

They enter your home, which barely has any boxes inside (it’s because you still haven’t unpacked them from the car) and look around. You notice they only focus on the parts of the house you’ve changed, and realise they must have been here a lot when your Grandpa was alive. ...Fuu, this was gonna be harder than you thought.

You clap your hands twice.

“Alright, you three can settle down here. I’ll go get us some tea and some biscuits,” you say, and turn, leaving to the kitchen.

Once inside, you grab the teapot and run it under the tap, and then put it on top of its heater. You hum to yourself as you go to your box of food supplies, rummaging through it till you find the biscuits. Happy, you set in to wait for the pot to boil, crossing your arms. You're on the opposite side of the house from them, but since the walls are still so thin you think you can hear them talking.

Hm, wonder what they’re chatting about?

-

Midoriya sits on a floor cushion, nervously biting his nails. He hadn’t believed it when Kacchan had told him someone had moved into Master Akiyama’s old home, and when he heard her say that she was his granddaughter, he thought he might pass out. No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink last night, his instincts had been screaming at him.

Screaming about a bond that shouldn’t exist.

“...She’s his inheritor,” Todoroki says, and Midoriya looks up at his words. He was right, he was absolutely right but-

“No fucking way! There’s absolutely no way that stupid girl is related to Akiyama-sama, she’s so weak- I didn’t even notice her until she nearly fucking ran me over in the garden. It’s impossible-!” Midoriya sighs at Kacchan’s ranting words, shaking his head. He knew this was gonna be his reaction, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“I don’t think you should be so upset, the universe has given us a second chance-” Todoroki says, and Kacchan slams his hand against the coffee table, clanking the cups that sit atop it, ready for tea.

“Ha!? You think the universe has anything to do with this?” 

“You know, for one of Inari’s chosen, you sure are quite unfaithful.”

“The hell did you just say?!”

Midoriya rolls his eyes, once again listening to this silly argument between Todoroki and Bakugou. They’d been this way ever since their thirteen year, when the ceremony chose Bakugou… and not Todoroki. Midoriya often thought it was silly that Todoroki even felt jealous about it, seeing as how he was still most likely stronger than Bakugou. Not that he’d ever say that aloud, he didn’t want to be burnt alive.

Midoriya blinks, his eyes darting to his right. He curses under his breath and announces to the other two-

“She’s coming back,” to which they both go quiet, eyes flicking to the exit where the kitchen leads to. Both of them usually would have heard her, but seeing as they were in these forms, they hadn’t. Midoriya’s hearing was better than them in both forms, but even still his hearing was a little muted. It was a weakness being like this, but it’s not like they could show up… well, like that.

You walk back into the room, a bright smile on your face. Midoriya once again finds himself admiring how beautiful you are, your bright eyes and dazzling smile momentarily stunning him. He knows it’s partially the effects of the bond, but as it hasn’t been activated properly yet… well some of it was that you were just generally gorgeous.

“Sorry for keeping you, it’s all a bit chaotic at the moment,” you say, placing the tea down as well as some plain biscuits. Midoriya’s nose perks up at the smell, gingerbread cookies, he thinks they might be. Did you prefer more western-style desserts? He’d have to keep that in mind… Ah, he’s already thinking like you're his Master.

His cheeks heat up a little, and he ducks his head away from your view.

“The tea is very nice,” Todoroki says, his voice soft. You smile again, but this time with pride in your eyes. Todorokie smiles in return, and Midoriya feels his eyebrows raise. He hadn’t seen that in a while...

“Thank you, it’s been one of my habits growing up, brewing my own tea and stuff,” you say, taking a sip from your cup and humming in delight. Midoriya decides to take a sip as well, and lets out a small gasp of surprise when he does.

“Wow, that is pretty good,” he says, and you chuckle. 

“You’re both too kind - you guys must have way better tea down here. I noticed there was a spa-house that advertised tea-rooms?” you ask, evidently curious.

“Ah-! Yes, I actually work there at the moment!” Midoriya says, rubbing the back of his neck again. Your eyes shine in interest, and it’s obvious that you really, really like your tea. 

He hears Bakugou scoff, and Todoroki’s smile disappears. Jeez… they really didn’t need to start getting competitive already, you weren’t their anything yet, and that was important to remember. But it was silly to argue with instincts, especially ones to do with the soul.

“Huh, you guys have quite a lot of traditional stuff here. There’s a shrine near town too, right?” you say, muttering to yourself. Izuku nods, thinking of the shrine that he and the other residents of the town often visited. He also thinks of the grumpy owner of the shrine, the man’s dry eyes glaring him down. 

“Ah… yes, the man that owns the place is a father of a little girl and his son is one of my close friends!” Midoriya says, thinking of Aizawa-san, Eri and Shinsou. He hadn’t been down there in ages, these days he was so busy with his work on the mountain…

“Oh? Is the girl by chance called Eri?” you ask, and Midoriya blinks, surprised.

“Yes, how did you know that? Have you met her already?” Midoriya says, and you nod to yourself.

“Yeah, they met yesterday,” Bakugou responds before you can, and you look over to him. 

“How’d you know that?” you ask, a suspicious look in your eyes. Bakugou rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“How do you think I knew you’d moved in? I saw you both, moron,” he says, and you smile at him, choosing not to notice his… particular choice of words. Midoriya is secretly relieved at Bakugou’s ability to lie. Well, it wasn’t really a lie… he had seen you two. Just not in a way one would expect.

...Midoriya is very concerned that you’ll discover something you shouldn’t. He is… pretty sure that Kacchan won’t oust them, but he’s always been a little prickly, especially when it came to superiors. Or those he cared about. Or those he didn’t care about. Hm, he’s just a prickly guy, huh?

“Well,” you turn back to Midoriya, “What’s the father and son’s name? I’ve already met Eri, so…” you continue, making good conversation. You seemed to be quite good at this, but it made sense. Your grandpa could speak for hours on end… Izuku remembers his stories fondly.

“Aizawa Shota and Shinsou Hitoshi,” Midoriya answers. He watches the wheels turn in your head, noticing the son and father don’t share the same last name. He wonders what you think about that.

You go to say something else, but in the distance, beyond your hearing, a bell tolls.

Three. Distinct. Times.

The three of them tense up, and curse themselves. Barely twenty minutes and they were already being tugged back to their responsibilities. And today especially, they didn’t want to leave. Midoriya feigns glancing down at his watch. It was the only reason he wore it these days, to make it look like he had a real reason to immediately disappear. Not that he looked like a sane person with it either.

“Ah- look at the time! We really need to be getting going now…” he says, an awkward smile on his face.

You startle at his words, nodding.

“Oh, yeah. Yes of course- make sure to take some cookies for the road, okay?” you say with a smile, gesturing to the treats. Midoriya thanks you, doing so and quickly ushering the other two out of your home. You watch with mild concern, wondering where they’re off to in such a rush, but only bid them farewell in the end.

Midoriya waves back at you as he heads down the main path, watching Todoroki grab the back of Bakugou’s shirt and tug him back on the dirt-trodden road. He was about to run straight into the forest instead of taking the normal route. Or well, normal for you, for Bakugou running straight into the shrubbery was what he always did.

“What on earth is that old man calling us for now?” Bakugou mutters, shrugging off Todoroki’s touch violently. Always the same awful attitude.

“Probably about the demons up north again, their attacks are becoming daily now,” Todoroki says, his eyes following the northern mountains, a quiet look on his face.

“We need to find a way to stop them fully…” Midoriya says to himself, his mind as always drifting off to strategies and ideas. 

“Don’t start muttering again, Deku . Nobody can understand you like that,” Bakugou snarks, and Midoriya chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Midoriya turns back for a moment, his green eyes wandering back to your house.

He can already feel it in his gut, the need to protect you.

He turns back forward.

“Let’s get going, don’t wanna make Yagi-san wait,” he says, hurrying the other two forward into the woods, their forms twisting and shifting. One would think it a trick of the light.

If one didn’t know, that is.

[writingbeary]

Kingdom - To The World (pt.2)

Minyoung’s Outfit

Note:

Texts placed inside brackets are Kingdom’s show subtitles

Italicized texts are in English

Texts that are block quoted are interview cuts

────────── ♔ ──────────

Hongjoong went to the studio to gets ideas from Pirates of the Caribbean and writing down notes when a knock was heard. Pausing the movie, he stood up and unlocked the door to check who came.

"Joong-oppa! I brought you snacks and coffee. I figured you'd pull another all-nighter to brainstorm and a little sugar might help generate ideas." Minyoung entered with a paper bag full of snacks and a cup of coffee.

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be resting by now? I thought you had a schedule tomorrow." Hongjoong frowned knowing how late it is, before taking the snacks thanking the younger girl for them before making himself comfortable on the couch.

"I accidentally left my script at the lockers this morning so I went to get it. I figured I’d drop by the studio and give you something while I'm at it. Don't worry, I'll get some sleep as soon as I get home and the shoot starts at 10 anyway so I'd get plenty of time before I have to leave tomo-.. later" Minyoung smiled plopping down next to Hongjoong

"Just try to get some rest soon. You're busiest among all of us with your drama on top of our promotions and Kingdom." Hongjoong reached out to pat Minyoung's head

"It's nothing I cannot handle! You know me, I can sleep whenever." Minyoung laughed as she look at the screen, recognizing the movie she turned to look at the leader excitedly “You’re watching Pirates? Are we continuing our Introduction Stage concept?” 

“I’m not yet sure but our group’s concept is mostly about pirates so we might as well stick with it.” Hongjoong shrugged taking a sip of coffee

“I always trust your decision oppa! Your ideas for songs and concepts have been all brilliant so far that I’ll follow you in whatever you plan on doing.” Minyoung declared making Hongjoong chuckle.

“I appreciate the confidence but I’ll also ask for your inputs once I talk it over with Eden-hyung” 

“Mhm. I’m just saying that if you tell me to do perform a stunt, I’ll do it. Or maybe even if you tell me to suddenly sing a ballad version of Fireworks or Pirate King, I’d do it in a heartbeat if you arrange it. You know what I mean?” Minyoung said seriously before laughing with Hongjoong. “I’m pretty sure the other members would tell you that too. That’s how much we trust you as our leader.”

“Got it. Thank you bun.” Hongjoong ruffled her hair smiling. “You should head back and get some rest. I’ll finish up here first before my meeting with Eden-hyung. I’ll see you during our meeting, okay? Did you come with manager-hyung?” 

“No. Don’t worry, I’ll just call a cab home. I’ll be fine, I’m already an adult. Geez! If it helps, I’ll send you a message once I’m at the dorms. Fighting oppa!” Minyoung pouted before waving goodbye to Hongjoong “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow!”

[What song did ATEEZ choose for their first round?]

“We just finished our practice and it’s almost 1:00AM” Hongjoong faced the camera as San and Wooyoung fiddle with the vitamins in the box with San being forcefully fed. “It’s good for your body.” Wooyoung chuckled as San looked at him in disbelief.

“We have to win first place after we eat this.” Hongjoong declared laughing

“Okay. First place? We can do it.” San nodded, trying to finish what’s in his mouth despite not liking the taste. “People say what’s good for your body, tastes bad.”

“Do each of these taste different?” Hongjoong asked as he force himself to swallow despite the bitter taste.

“Nope. They all taste the same.” Wooyoung laughed when Hongjoong confessed he might not be able to finish his before going off to get water.

“There is a reason why I made you guys eat this.” Hongjoong said as he took out his tablet showing them the division of the teams made in preparation for Round 1 of Kingdom. “So I need your ideas on what comes to mind when you think about pirates?”

San listed of things that first came into mind like guns, sword, and eye patch. Wooyoung adding in that they need the flags “We already have flags right?”

“But isn’t the ship the most important thing?” San asked as Hongjoong writes down all their ideas on the tablet for the KQ teams to check before their meeting tomorrow.

“Hey. Hey there. Park Seonghwa-ssi. Got any ideas?” Hongjoong called out to the him on the other side of the practice room. The three laughing when they noticed what is happening. Minyoung was clinging unto Seonghwa like a koala while the eldest just lets her do what she wants, patting her back repeatedly as if making her sleep.

Minyoung answered “Treasure! Pirates go sailing for treasure with their treasure map.” her sudden answer making the three in-front of the camera laugh.

“I thought you didn’t want to be in today?” San asked the girl who looked up at him from her position before shaking her head. “I’m comfortable here.” 

Seonghwa chuckled before answering Hongjoong’s previous question “Maybe like a compass, a trumpet, or a telescope.”

“You’re saying we should reuse what we used before? I like the idea.”

“Oppa, I don’t think we have the luxury not to use what we have.” Minyoung commented making the members crack up particularly with how she looked when she said it.

“Now that we’re discussing together, we’re getting lots of ideas.” Wooyoung noted as their concept grows clearer as they talk

Hongjoong looked at the growing list of ideas nodding “Yesterday, I watched all of Pirates of the Caribbean in the studio all night.”

“Did you get anything from it?” Wooyoung asked curious what they’ll adopt into their performance.

“I really want fog effects on the stage. You know how the ship appears with the fog? I really want to incorporate that to our performance.” Hongjoong explaining the scene to the members. Everyone agreeing that it’ll look great and cinematic which is perfect for the concept they’re going for.

The next day, the members sat around in their practice room to discuss the details of their performance with everyone. “Since our results for the Introduction Stage was a bit disappointing, we need to get ready for round one.” Hongjoong stated as everyone looked as determined as ever to rank higher this round. 

“Since we’re sticking with the concept of being pirates, it’ll be fun if we make it like a movie.” Wooyoung suggested

“Then Hongjoong-hyung will be Joongyi Depp.” Jongho quipped with Hongjoong playing along. “San will be a swordsman. San has to fight.”

“As for Wooyoung..” Hongjoong looked at Wooyoung trying to think of a role when Yunho suddenly said “Chef” making everyone laugh at the unexpected role.

“Oh! That’s true though. We all need to eat and someone has to be the chef.” Minyoung said through her giggles

“So when a war breaks out, he’ll be fighting with frying pans.” Hongjoong chuckled doing fighting motions as if he was holding pans in both his hands while Wooyoung just laughed in disbelief at the idea

“As for Yunho since he’s tall, he’ll be in charge of raising the anchor.” Yunho nodded before firing another remark “Seonghwa-hyung can be the parrot on the Captain’s shoulder!” At this everyone laughed imagining the it.

[Parrot Seonghwa, featuring Hongjoong’s shoulder]

“I’m..I’m not even a human?” Seonghwa asked laughing at the idea

“For Yeosang-hyung since he is smart, he can plan strategies.” Jongho continued on.

“What about me? What am I? Oh! I can be the doctor! I like Chopper!” Minyoung exclaimed making everyone crack up at the random remark.

“Okay that’s enough joking around. We can position ourselves and show something in terms of our gestures.” Hongjoong explained as the others nodded already thinking of what to do for the performance.

“We’re not ordinary pirates. It’s a contest in a way..so in order to look more fancy and grand, I think we need fantasy elements. For example, we can have the Kraken come out.” Yunho suggested

“So based on what we said so far, let’s scatter and talk to the professionals if these can actually come true.” Hongjoong nodded delegating tasks to everyone

[They split into the music team and the choreography team and continue the discussion.]

“The TF team was formed just for Kingdom.” Hongjoong explained to the camera while Minyoung and Jongho nodded. “All the members are scattered right now.”

"The reason we split up is because we cannot waste time. We still have our promotions on top of making preparations for Round 1. So I came here with Minyoung and Jongho to discuss the music" Hongjoong explained to their producer Eden

“Personally, I think of Jongho’s crazy high notes as one of our strengths.” Eden started glancing at Jongho as he explained his idea, then turning to look at Minyoung who looked at him curiously.

"I was thinking along the lines of showcasing our main weapon and the hidden weapon." Hongjoong continued as he tapped both of them on their shoulders

"Right. People already know about Jongho's strength but I think it's about time we unveil ATEEZ's hidden treasure. So I’m wondering if I should add 3 or 4 levels of pitch for the both of you and blast them away with that." Eden suggested with Hongjoong agreeing almost instantly when Eden declared “Nevermind. Let’s just go with four. Since we’re doing it anyway, we should go all out.”

Jongho shifted in his seat knowing there’s no backing out of this plan when Minyoung sat up and said in all seriousness along with a blank face "Ah. It is time for my death. You’re asking me to die” making everyone laugh at her antics.

Minyoung let out a sigh before smiling “Since my leader says so, I have to prepare myself thoroughly and execute it well. I'll do my best, at least enough not to drag Jongho down!"

"You'll do well bun." Hongjoong grinned already planning how to highlight the youngest two’s vocals for the performance.

[What did you mean by hidden treasure?]

"It's actually a bit of a shame for me to say this..but we haven't really had the chance to let Minyoung's vocals shine in our songs. Although, we've made her do the killing part of songs here and there but she is mostly highlighted for the dance. If I were to put it in figures... I guess you could say we were only able to show off 40% of her potential as a vocalist." Hongjoong smiled before continuing "You can definitely look forward to it."

[Are you feeling pressured for Round 1?]

"Of course! This time, I was given a very important role that could really make or break our performance. I'm nervous but I think the excitement overshadows that nervousness. I just want to show off what ATEEZ is capable of and give back to our fans who continues to support us." Minyoung answered with a confident smile

“Let’s not worry about anything else and make a movie out there.” Hongjoong looked at everyone as they gathered in for their group cheer before they head to the stage. All of ATEEZ nodding with a smile before they cheered “9 makes 1 king!”  

“Is that a ship?” Chan asked as he moved a bit closer to the monitor as the familiar sound effect was heard.

“Waah. That’s so ATEEZ.” Changbin nodded as the ship interior is shown before the music starts

“I guess their entire stage is set inside the pirate ship.” Q noted to the other members of THE BOYZ.

“Everyone has a story.” Eunkwang leaned in, anticipating the upcoming stage.

“I guess they’re going with the theme of Pirates of the Caribbean for this stage.” Jaeyoon noted finding the feeling of the opening similar to that of the movie.

“I guess he’s the Captain. That so cool! He wore a fur coat!” Bobby noted already absorbed in the performance.

“This is a movie. Totally a movie” Chan commented as the scene played and changed into Hongjoong’s opening rap.

“I asked Minyoung what they planned to do for this stage and all she told me is that I’ll understand when I see it. I can see why she didn’t tell me anything now.” Jisung chuckled as Minyoung’s part played after the opening rap.

“They really prepared a lot for this one. So cool. This arrangement is totally my style.” Eunkwang confessed watching the performance intently.

Everyone was surprised when Wooyoung danced together with the bone-breaking dancers but even more when the Kraken came into the screen. Out of everyone, Bobby was the most excited at seeing the creature. “It’s the Kraken!”

“That’s crazy. How did they come up with this idea?” Jisung exclaimed, letting out an astonished laugh

When Seonghwa sang the chorus, everyone’s mouth was hang wide open and cries of joy were heard from the groups as he fired at the creature killing it. The excitement from that scene has not yet faded when the camera changed and zoomed in on both Jongho and Minyoung on the platform as they sang the bridge as if answering one another. They were also unprepared for when both the youngest members of ATEEZ suddenly pulled off a 4-level high note, leaving most of them speechless.

Minhyuk gasped at how high the notes were while Changsub and Eunkwang clapped in admiration, knowing how hard it is to hit those notes.

“Just how high are they planning to go?” Sangyeon laughed in awe at how the two were able to hit the notes clearly.

Inseong chuckled in disbelief before saying “I can’t believe they’re going all out right now.”

Jisung not expecting the high notes let out a laugh, amazed at both of his friends as he clapped for them. “Wow.. Hold on.” Changbin managed to say shocked at what just happened

Chani laughed astonished particularly towards his friend, exclaiming “Park Minyoung! You’re crazy. From the highnote, now you do this?” when Minyoung took center position during dance booster of the last chorus before passing the focus to Seonghwa for the ending.

After the performance, the groups couldn’t help but compliment the group as they showed off and proven that the title monster performers wasn’t a title without reason.

“They’re awesome” Junhoe stated while Bobby who was still excited with the Kraken and the high note agreed nodding endlessly.

(Comments after the performance)

SF9 Inseong: I was really impressed with Jongho-ssi and Minyoungie. They both hit four high notes. SF9 Jaeyoon: Right. I knew Minyoung-ssi could sing well but I never knew she could do it this well. SF9 Chani: *proud smile* Minyoung pulled a huge surprise attack. 

THE BOYZ Juhaknyeon: I was really surprised when they sang the high notes. Really. 

THE BOYZ Hyunjae: Me too. I thought it was over, but they hit another high pitch. It’s a lot more difficult since there are two of them who did it. *laughs*

iKON Jinhwan: When their performance airs on TV, this will be a legendary performance for them.

Stray Kids Felix: The moment the Kraken came out.. *sound of awe* Stray Kids Changbin: I’ll go see it in person. *stands up* Stray Kids Chan: Yah.

THE BOYZ Sunwoo: They chose the performance they could do well and show who they are the best and executed to perfection. 

BTOB Eunkwang: There were no flaws. Even as another singer, I thought it was really cool. 

Stray Kids I.N: When they got off the pirate ship, everyone danced as a  group. That was very impressive for me.  Stray Kids Han: I loved the Kraken. How did they come up with the idea?  Stray Kids Chan: Wahh. Kraken. Really. That’s all I can think about. Stray Kids Han: No wonder Minyoung wouldn’t give me any hints on what they prepared. Seriously.

iKON Bobby: I was so nervous when Kraken showed up. They defeated it. He shot his gun at the end. iKON Jinhwan: You were so happy iKON Bobby: I was so overwhelmed with the grandeur. It was incredible.

ATEEZ finally done with the performance thanked everyone as they made their way backstage. Minyoung hugging Jongho with tears in her eyes saying “We did it. We really did it.”

“You did well.” Jongho returned the hug, patting the girl’s back lightly. He knows how hard Minyoung had to prepare and how high the pressure she felt for this performance. He was really proud of her and glad that they can finally show off her talents through the show.

“This is why people love Kingdom.” Hongjoong grinned at the camera when it focused on him, Seonghwa adding in “It feels liberating.”

“We all had this feeling. After the performance, we had such a good feeling. I was satisfied with that.” Hongjoong explained when asked what he thought of their performance

As soon as the group is back in their waiting room, everyone commented how it felt liberating after they finished the performance.

“When we finished our performance, I felt so proud of ourselves.” Hongjoong confessed as the other members let out a laugh

“Didn’t you choke up?” Seonghwa asked chuckling

“Do you know who cried after the performance?” Wooyoung grinned teasingly and moving his hands to point towards Minyoung who was still a bit teary-eyed.

“Yah. Let her be. She did extremely well.” Yeosang reached out towards his friend patting his arm

“Who says she didn’t? We all did well but you have to admit, Minyoung had a higher hurdle than any of us.” Wooyoung stated defending himself. “I’m proud of everyone but right now, I’m most proud of Minyoung.”

(Phonecall with Chani and Minyoung)

Minyoung: Hello? Chani: Youngie-ah! What’re you doing? Minyoung: I’m at the broadcast station for our album promotions. Why? Chani: Is ATEEZ preparing well for round one? Minyoung: Are you trying to spy on us right now? *laughs* We’re still not done since we have to promote our album well too. Then what about SF9, are you preparing well? Chani: *laughs* yah. We haven’t even started anything. Minyoung: Ahh. That means you’re almost half way done right? What song are you going to do? <Fanfare>? <RPM>? <Now or Never>? Chani: *surprised* Why are you asking- Minyoung: Oh! So It’s one of the songs I said *laughs* so which one is it? Chani: Why did I even bother to call you? *sighs, chuckling* Minyoung: *laughs* Alright alright. Let’s just see each other’s stages during the filming.

[As expected, these two friends know each other so well]

(During SF9′s Stage)

“I talked to Chani last week and he said they didn’t get to practice as much but every time he says that, it always ends up something incredible. I don’t really believe him anymore.” Minyoung told her members as she focused on the monitor.

“That’s also what you told Jisung when he asked, no?” Jongho laughed as the girl shrugged

“It must be <Now or Never> given how they’re describing the song” San concluded

As SF9 started their stage, everyone wondered about what concept they’re going to show for this performance. 

“Omo. That was a mirror? Are they going for Snow White?” Minyoung asked outloud making Hongjoong look at her laughing “Why Snow White?” 

 “I don’t know. They’re wearing red outfits and Snow White has the Witch with the mirror. Don't mind me." Minyoung shook her head realizing how far fetched the theory sounded.

“Oh, I got goosebumps!” Jongho confessed as the song’s overall atmosphere was changed into a darker tone than usual, highlighting SF9’s vocal and acting abilities.

"What is Chanhee doing? Did he suck blood or something? Omo. Are they vampires? Is that what's happening?" Minyoung fired continuously, Wooyoung who was getting distracted by her comments reached out to place a hand over her mouth. "Shh. Let me watch in peace."

"I know I shouldn't say this when their concept is far from it but Dawon-sunbaenim looks adorable." Minyoung commented, trying to stifle her giggle, as Dawon's part came with a mirror on his back. "..it's like he is pouting"

San still focused on the performance pointed to the monitors and said "I have no idea what is happening but this performance screams SF9. It shows off their mature characteristics. It’s all sexy."

“Oh he took his heart.” Hongjoong noted as the music cut off for a second transitioning to a group dance sequence.

“Omo. SF9-sunbaenim. This is really sexy.” Minyoung mumbled with Wooyoung glancing at her, as the opportunity to tease her presented itself again, saying “Are you falling in-love right now?” Minyoung became flustered shaking her head, lightly hitting his arm. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“SF9-sunbaenim really showed off their acting skills. Their expressions were really on point.” Minyoung exclaimed clapping when the performance ended.

“I really got goosebumps throughout their stage. Wow.” Jongho agreed still in awe of how the performance went.

“But really..they know what the fans want. The fans love concepts that exude these charms and well, they have every capability and the confidence to pull off this concept. They’re all so cool.” Minyoung explained her thoughts from before as the other members nodded in agreement that SF9 does fit well with the concept.

“So are mature concepts are your style? Sexy?” Wooyoung continued to tease her while Minyoung blushed but kept quiet knowing that answering him would only fuel his teasing. 

While this was happening the members of the Minyoung protection squad, as fans would call Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Jongho, looked at each other with a silent agreement: make sure Minyoung doesn’t get too close with the rest of SF9 if they’re her type. If she’s going to be dating anyone then they have to get through at least the three of them before anything else.

All of the participants gathered inside the studio while waiting for the production staff to tally the results of Round 1 for both the expert’s evaluation and group evaluation. ATEEZ were seated beside iKON, a wish granted for the group as they all wanted to interact and get closer to their senior.

“Later..What time are you going?” Chanwoo asked Seonghwa who was seating beside him. 

“We’re probably going to go straight right after this finishes.” Seonghwa answered truthfully, Minyoung who also heard the question looked over, piping in “We still have a schedule around 8 today.”

Jinhwan nodded before asking “How many weeks has it been since the start of your comeback promotions?” at this the whole of ATEEZ had their full focus on iKON, a bit giddy for being able to talk with their idols.

Wooyoung immediately answering “The first week has ended so it’s the second week now.” to which Hongjoong adding in “We came back around the same time as sunbaenims.

“Ah but the choreography for Fireworks is really intense, how did you have the time and energy to do two performances together?” Jinhwan praised them, in awe and curious how they could manage to prepare for the round 1 stage while having to promote with such an intense song. ATEEZ laughed understanding what he meant but offering no comment.

“Were you the one who did the high notes?” Bobby asked Jongho beside him the latter nodding “Ah yes. I did it with Minyoung” motioning to the girl who bowed to the rapper. Bobby was smiling looking over the two vocalists when Jinhwan explained “Bobby said he became a fan.” 

“Ah. Thank you.” Minyoung surprised to hear the revelation bowed in thanks.

“Yeah really. Those high notes were just out of this world, more than the Kraken. For real..you’ll be first this time.” Bobby smiled as ATEEZ thanked them for the compliment.

Yunho taking in the opportunity to talk with iKON confessed that during their trainee period, everyone watched iKON’s performances and practiced their stages a lot. “That’s true. When we were trainees, during our monthly evaluations, everyone here did at least one iKON song for the test. We all did <Apology> and <Rhythm Ta> together.”

“That must have been tough.” Junhoe chuckled, thanking ATEEZ for liking their songs.

“How long has it been since your debut?” Bobby asked curiously

“We debuted in 2018.” Wooyoung answered

“Ah it has been a while. But it’s tough, isn’t it?” Bobby recalled his own experiences when they first debuted while ATEEZ just laughs awkwardly as they cannot deny that it does get tough. “When do you rest then?”

“When the promotion ends..” Jongho started trailing off, Hongjoong finishing the sentence for the maknae “When promotion ends, we get our breaks then.”

The continued to talk regarding promotions when Bobby suddenly asked them where their dorms are with Wooyoung readily describing the place making Bobby in particular excited as it is also near his residence. San invited him to visit the company sometime while Bobby agreed that he’ll drop by when he can.

“If there’s some time, it would be great to get a meal together.” DK suggested as all of ATEEZ agreed, excited at the idea.

“I’ll get your number sunbaenim.” Wooyoung shyly said making the rest of iKON chuckle and agree saying they should get each other’s contact number before they leave the studio today.

“I already have Minyoung’s number though?” Chanwoo confessed making his group members look at him in disbelief. “Yah. You didn’t tell us that though?” while ATEEZ looked at Minyoung who suddenly felt shy with all the attention she’s getting from both her members and iKON.

“We met through SF9′s Chani.” Chanwoo added in as the girl nodded.

“Ah but..we haven’t really talked after exchanging numbers.” Minyoung confessed shyly, wanting to hide herself or use Seonghwa as a shield. This information made both groups laugh, iKON acknowledging Chanwoo as a true insider for having celebrity friends outside of their company.

“That’s true. Sorry, let’s grab a meal together with Chani.” Chanwoo chuckled an apology. 

“Now we’re going to announce the results of Round 1 that you’re so curious about.” the MCs started while all the groups waited with bated breath. The atmosphere in the studio suddenly becoming tense as no one knew what criteria the experts used for their scores or who the experts were. They also didn’t know how the other groups voted. There were a lot of unknown factor in the show made it harder for the groups to anticipate the ranking for the round, particularly so since this is only 50% of their overall score.

Minyoung suddenly feeling nervous, held unto Wooyoung’s and Seonghwa’s hands, trying to get some comfort. She felt as if she’ll faint the longer it takes to announce the results. 

“Today’s first-place team will be given the authority to select the bracket for round two.” MC Changmin announced as all the groups gasp and commented that points aside, it’s a huge advantage to be able to do decide the bracket.

“I’m curious who the experts are.” Seonghwa wondered

As the MCs announced that all of the expert evaluation scores will be announce all at the same time, Minyoung closed her eyes tight mumbling “I cannot take this. Can you just tell me what the results are? I cannot watch. I’m too scared.”

“I’ll look for you.” Wooyoung patted the girls’ hand, giving it a light squeeze.

[What’s the result of the expert evaluation scores?]

As all of the members gasp, Minyoung who had her eyes closed asked scared “What is it?”

“Minyoung-ah, you can look.” Wooyoung let out a relieved sigh as ATEEZ placed first for the expert’s evaluation scores. At this, Minyoung peeked and immediately hugged the male in her joy. “I’m..reading it correctly right? We’re currently in first?” she asked as if in disbelief

“I’m actually relieved and glad that the things we wanted to do were actually conveyed properly.” Yunho confessed during the group interview.

As the results for the group evaluation were announced, Minyoung immediately hid behind Wooyoung scared that the rankings would change drastically.

[What will be the results of the teams’ evaluation?]

“ATEEZ you’re currently in first place. You wouldn’t want to step down. Do you think the others rooted for you?” the MC asked the group everyone nudged Jongho to answer for the team

“The eight of us finished our performance today without any regrets. Well...I’m not sure.” Jongho let out a laugh nervously as there really was no way to know how the other teams voted. Kingdom is still, after all, a competition. Everyone could have voted strategically to secure the points.

The MCs continued on with the show and as soon as the results were all announced, ATEEZ finally felt like they were able to breathe. They kept the number 1 spot even as the group evaluations were added in. Minyoung bit her lip trying not to cry as she felt the pressure lift off a bit. Seonghwa noticing it, rubbed circles on her back smiling at her. Minyoung turned to him and placed her head against his arm as she took deep breathes to calm herself down.

When asked how she felt during their interview “It just..It feels like our efforts were seen not only by the experts but also by the senior groups. We felt disappointed during the Introduction Stages so we steeled ourselves to do better and rise up the ranks but to actually be rewarded with the top spot just made me feel overwhelmed. It’s like hearing everyone say ‘good job today’ after a long day of hard work.”

“The past two weeks were really hard on us. All of the members has many moments when we were exhausted both physically and emotionally. One thing I can say confidently now that the results came out is that it was really hard, but we did our best. I think I can say that now.” Hongjoong concluded nodding

“We did well. ATEEZ is so lovely.” San adding in making the rest of the members smile, even Minyoung who was trying to fan her eyes with Jongho patting her back in comfort.

“Since we won first place, let’s take this energy and work hard to prepare for a great and fun performance.” Hongjoong declared before they did their team cheer “9 makes 1 team. Let’s do it!”

────────── ♔ ──────────

ATEEZ Minyoung Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is just a work of fiction. Any portrayal of real people is a combination based on what we could see on cameras and imagination of the author. This is purely fan fiction written for entertainment. Thank you for understanding.

━━━━━━ʕ ˵• ₒ •˵ ʔ━━━━━━

Writing Beary Corner

I seriously wanted to cry when I had to rewrite this because the site ate my drafted one. I don’t think I was able to capture the initial feeling anymore and it definitely got a whole lot shorter after rewriting but I tried to at least..make it a bit decent.  Again, I have already drafted posts up to the Reborn stage but Kingdom “episodes” would be slowly posted to avoid spoilers for the people who haven’t watched it yet. 

Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading this!

-Mimi

15

[imnotwolverine]

By the fireplace

Summary: Christmas Eve is not going as planned, when Mr. Holmes finds he’s not quite as home-alone as he expected. 

Author’s note: I know it’s the dead of summer. I know. But this fic has been gathering dust in my draft list for months now. I hope you may like a little bit of Sherlock-does-not-know-how-to-deal-with-women-fluff. 

Word count: 1563

Disclaimer: Nothing much. Fluff, with some mild Sherlock being a dumb nut when it comes to dealing with women. 

--

The winter whispered against the frozen window panes and the fireplace was hot with flames. The hour was late and despite his staff having left for family visits on Christmas Eve, Mr. Holmes was fairing well. With a platter of cheese and bread waiting, and red wine at his fingertips, he was nosing through a new file of paperwork that had come in from London. 

It was difficult not to work. Especially when other well-liked activities were little and few in offering. Horse riding and walking wasn’t quite the same when you were freezing your wits off; and so it was that Holmes remained in his oak-panelled office for most of the day. Here he was warm and well entertained. And alone - blessed be. 

With a puff from his pipe he raised up, deciding a break was in order. His fingers had grown cold despite the roaring fire and lest he not move, he might just be found frozen by his personnel when they’d return later tomorrow. His chair scraped the floorboards, and with a few strides he was out and about in the halls that stretched before him.

Mr. Holmes didn’t mind the lack of heating here. The heavy winter robe he had made by his maids was perfectly warm. Pulling the tie a little more tight, he started towards the Northern wing.

Whenever he walked here, he could hear Microft’s voice. What a perfectly sensible estate for family rearing. But that was simply not a thing Mr. Holmes expected from life. Women were the one thing he could never quite figure out. No books, scrolls or magic fairy dust could help him in that department. Mysterious creatures they were. Irene Adler for instance; marvelously splendid, but absolutely daunting to be near. These women all were so dainty and dazzlingly different from reason and words and..

*CLANG* 

Mr. Holmes stiffened. He was not a frightened man - not easily, but surely he had not imagined that sound just now, right? Halting his steps he cautiously looked out into the rest of the dimly lit hallway. He had to admit that he had not really paid attention when his personnel left. Too occupied with the new case to be bothered with who left, when and where-to.

He listened in on any further sounds: a soft swearing was heard. Female. Definitely female. A..female intruder? Perhaps stealing something? Ha! Wouldn’t that be the charmer. With a click of his tongue, Holmes set out to the source of his female visitation. 

A few steps later he was there, hand on the doorknob and shoulders stiff as he quickly switched the knob to enter. Inside it was not some smidgy burglaress, but a familiar face he found. 

Minnie.

She just stood there, wrapped up in all the clothing she probably owned, lips blue and hands awkwardly trying to clasp around her chest. Minnie had been at the estate for quite some years now, as part of Mr. Holmes’ staff. And thus it surprised Mr. Holmes to find her blue with frost in his library. 

‘I-I...’ Minnie’s jaw clattered with cold, hands gripping quickly to her chest. 

Mr. Holmes blinked. Minnie of all people. Why hadn’t she gone off to..whomever it was she wanted to see? Didn’t she have family around? 

With cautious eyes he eyed the rest of the library. No glass broken, no signs of intrusion. Just... Minnie. Minnie the quiet dear help -- it was why he hired her way back when. He enjoyed quiet staff. 

Returning his studious gaze to Minnie he quirked his head. 

‘You’re..cold.’ He stated. 

No shit Sherlock. 

Minnie gulped, teeth clattering and tears brimming at the rims of her eyelashes. ‘I’m - I’m sorry Mr. Holmes, sir. I - I..’ 

‘You need warming.’ Sherlock didn’t hear a word she said, hands quick to move to her upperarms, rubbing them with sheer focus.  

‘I didn’t mean to..’ Now she was truly crying. 

Goodness. The girl was practically freezing! Frowning, Holmes checked her pulse, complexion, pupils. Quite terrible indeed! 

The decision next taken was perhaps a shock to Minnie, but to Holmes perfectly logical. 

‘Alright. Up you go.’ With a swoop Mr. Holmes picked her up bridal style, his feet not once losing their stride. He quietly congratulated himself on keeping up with his physical well-being despite his love for the academic pursuits. Without much effort he had lifted the plump little woman in his arms, eyes focused on the flickering light that came from his study. 

‘I just..’ Minnie sobbed quietly, lips chattering loudly in the echoing hallway. She barely noticed herself how she held on tight to Holmes’ robes, her small fingers eagerly grasping onto the smooth velvet that carried his warmth. But, it was not the only thing she kept close to her. 

As Holmes returned the two of them to his study, the hearth still burning gently in the corner, his eyes noticed something else, sticking out from beneath her wrapscarf. It was either a book OR the poor woman had a particularly square chest all of a sudden. 

A book? Minnie with a book? The poor woman never even had a day of education in her LIFE! 

Lowering her to the carpet before the fireplace, Holmes continued to stare at her bossom. And though still cold, he did receive a first blush from her cold cheeks. 

‘Sir..’ She gulped, realizing just a touch too late why he was staring. Her blush became even more fierce, mouth falling open in a shocked little expression. ‘Oh..!’ 

‘You read?’ Holmes asked dumbfound. 

Minnie’s shivering worsened despite the warm room. ‘I- I. Oh sir please. I just wanted to..’ She doubled over before his feet, hands reaching up the book she had kept close. 

The Fairytale rendition his mother had once read to him. 

Sherlock frowned. ‘You wanted to ..what, Minnie?’ 

She swallowed harshly and looked up, tears now billowing down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry sir.’ 

‘No no no, none of that.’ Sherlock settled down before her, lowering himself to her haunched over figure. ‘I’m intrigued. Do. You. Read. Minnie?’ 

She blinked at him, thin eyebrows knitting together in confusion. ‘You are not mad sir?’ 

Sherlock carefully studied her a moment longer before he let his gaze return to the fire. Suddenly her female-ness became overwhelming with all the tears and blushing cheeks and..good awful dwellings up above he should STOP looking at her chest. 

Clearing his throat he dryly shook his head. ‘No, no. Not mad.’ 

‘Disappointed then? Sir?’ Minnie followed his gaze into the fireplace, curious what he was staring at with such thoughtful focus. 

‘You taught yourself?’ He finally asked, returning his gaze to her, then the book. 

Her shivering lip curled in a little smile. ‘Sir, not really. I mean. I wish to. I---’ She bit her lip and opened the book. With a tentative finger she stroked one of the richly adorned illustrations. Next up her finger moved to the text. With stunted focus she recited a few of the words she recognised. 

‘Ah.’ Sherlock sighed, nodding in understanding. He let Minnie struggle on for a few words more, turning his head ever so slightly so he could read along. The darling woman relaxed a little now repercussions didn’t seem evident. With more excitement she let her finger slide over the words. 

‘Then...s-a-i--d..said..the!..ehhh’ She frowned at the long word that followed. 

Sherlock puffed up his cheeks and tapped her hand. Minnie blinked at him. 

‘Sir are you alright?’

With still puffed up cheeks Sherlock nodded, then puffed up his broad shoulders as well, arms rounding like he was enormous. 

‘Grand?’ 

Sherlock released his puff and smiled. ‘Yes, yes.. And then..’ He made sure she paid attention to his right hand, which he stroked reverently over his belly. 

‘Hungry?’ 

Sherlock chuckled. ‘In a fact yes. But, no.’ 

‘Yes, but no?’ Minnie looked at him with confusion. 

‘That’ll come later. First “grand”.’ He pointed that part of the word out on the page. Minnie nodded. 

‘Then..’ He slid his finger over the next part of the word, before he tried again, this time using both hands to cradle an invisible child in his arms. 

‘Child?’ 

Sherlock chuckled. ‘Almost..but..’ He pointed his finger at himself before craddling his arms again. 

‘Mother!’ 

Sherlock beamed with joy. ‘Perfection!’

Minnie sniffled and blushed again. ‘Sir..’ 

‘Minnie?’ He felt his smile melt away as he noticed how her facial expression changed. This one, he could not quite read. Her pupils dilated, her lips parted and for a moment her gaze flickered to his lips. 

‘Sir.’ Her voice became more stern and with a swift move she raised back to her feet. ‘I’m so terribly sorry for intruding on your night. I’ll...’ 

He caught her hand before she could storm off. So small! 

With large eyes Minnie watched at the way his large hand encapsulated hers. Even now by the fire, his hand was still warmer than hers. Without words their eyes met. 

‘I can --ehh.. teach?’ Sherlock tried. 

Again they just stared for a moment longer. And though probably inappropriate, Sherlock held onto her hand without hesitation. 

Minnie sighed. ‘Perhaps some food first, sir? You said you were hungry?’ 

Sherlock released her hand. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. 

‘For books...’ He looked up and had to catch himself as his gaze drifted back to her now book-free chest. ‘..always.’

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @hell1129-blog @agniavateira @tillthelandslide @elinesama @maddyreads14 @aletheladyinred @moonlacebeam​ @kebabgirl67​

[justabstractthings]

“With hard work” | Todoroki x F!Reader

Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x Female! Reader

Warnings: None! 

A/N: Honestly, I was having soft domestic feels all day and this is the product. I honestly need more domestic Todoroki in my life. Should I start a domestic series? Maybe? Most likely? I just love domestic fics so much!!! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy!!!! I forgot to add! Todoroki and reader are aged up because yeah!

Word Count: 1.9k

When you told Todoroki you were pregnant, his reaction was… Todoroki. 

You weren’t surprised at all. You’ve known your husband for years. You knew about his unfortunate childhood. The abusive father. The broken mother. The lost brother. It left him emotionally stunted. Understandably so, but he was healing. 

He was still the confident, arrogant, observant, and caring man that you fell in love with. But when it came to huge milestones such as the pregnancy announcement of his first child, he reacted as Todoroki would. 

Blank stare. Quick nod. Pat on the head. 

You found out you were pregnant a few minutes ago. A few days of feeling nauseous and the constant teasing of your sister-in-law caused you to go to the convenience store and purchase a pregnancy test. Which is where you found yourself sitting across your husband during breakfast with the test right in front of him.

You watched with a smile on your face. Todoroki was in the middle of eating breakfast, mouth wide open and a spoonful of rice hanging in the air. It was quite humorous. You rested your cheek on your knuckle as you patiently waited for your husband. 

In succession, Todoroki robotically closed his mouth, placed the spoon down, pushed his chair away from the table, got up from his seat, walked to you, patted you on the head, and walked out of the door.

You weren’t surprised at all.You could have planned a big, grand gesture and his reaction would be the same either way. You expected this. Were you upset? Maybe a bit. You’ve been buzzing with excitement all morning. But you also knew, it would take a while for your husband to digest the big news. He would come talk to you when he was ready. 

However, there were other people that you wanted to share the news with too. Particularly, your in-laws. You called Fuyumi and planned a girls’ day with her and Rei. This was the kind of family that constantly needed good news. Especially the biggest good news of all.

You met the Todoroki ladies at a small tea shop that you’ve frequented with them when you and Todoroki started dating. It was a small, cozy corner shop with such a calming atmosphere. You thought it would be the perfect spot to tell your mother- and sister-in-law. 

While you were sitting at the back of the shop with your chamomile tea, you could feel your pulse racing. You were more nervous about telling your mother- and sister-in-law than your husband. Maybe you should have gotten a different kind of tea with a stronger calming effect. Chamomile tea was not doing it for you.

When you heard the light ring of the door opening, your head shot up. In walked the most graceful women you had the pleasure of knowing. You stood up from your seat and met Fuyumi and Rei in the middle of the shop.

“Fuyumi, Rei. It’s so nice to see you again.” You welcomed their hugs and ushered them to your table at the back of the store.

After the Todoroki ladies settled in and gave their orders, Fuyumi didn’t hesitate to ask you. “So, little sister, any reason why you wanted to see mother and I today?” Even if she tried, Fuyumi could not hide the mischievous grin on her face. She always did have a sixth sense for family matters especially since she grew up with brothers. 

You took a sip of your tea and cleared your throat. “Well… um… how do I say this?” You nervously tapped your finger on your cup. You focused on the golden brown tea nestled between your hands.

Rei softly smiled at you and placed a reassuring hand on your own to stop your nervous jitter. “You can tell us, sweetie.”

You took a deep breath and slowly let it out before looking up at the Todoroki women. Matching gray eyes looked at you expectantly. “I’m pregnant,” you said bluntly.

If it were any other situation, you would have laughed until tea shot out of your nose. Now you know where Todoroki got his speechless stare. Rei and Fuyumi gave you the same blank stare as your husband gave you this morning. It was uncanny. But it was a little unnerving considering this was your mother- and sister-in-law.

Fuyumi was the first to break the silence. She jumped up from her seat and threw her arms around you. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!” You joined in her laughter as you returned her hug. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

“I-I’m going to be a grandmother?” Rei hesitantly asked. When Fuyumi released you, you smiled softly at Rei and nodded your head.

The first time you saw Rei’s beautiful and radiant smile was on the day of your wedding. Now you’re seeing it for the second time as she wiped a few tears from her eyes. You got up from your seat and pulled Rei into a hug. 

“You’re going to be a grandmother.”

Rei’s arms tightened around you as she joyfully said how happy she was for you and her son and how excited she was to have a new baby in the family. 

After sharing the big announcement, the Todoroki ladies decided on a quick shopping trip. For baby stuff, of course. You tried to convince them but it was too early, but you could never say no to Rei when she flashed her sad eyes. So, you spent the rest of the day going from one store to the next and letting the ladies buy everything that they wanted for the baby. In moderation, of course. 

As much as you loved buying baby stuff with your in-laws, you wanted to have that experience with your husband too. You were definitely looking forward to his blunt statements as you both learned about the early stages of parenthood together. 

It was almost sunset when you returned to the home you shared with Todoroki. You had four shopping bags full of baby and pregnancy stuff that Rei and Fuyumi swear that you need. 

Before you could unlock the door, it swung open to reveal your handsome husband staring down at you. He gave you a soft smile and leaned down for a quick kiss as he simultaneously grabbed the bags out of your hands.

“How was your day, Sho?” you asked as you took your shoes off and followed your husband into the living room. You smiled as you happily plopped down on the couch. Do pregnant women get this tired after a day of shopping? 

Todoroki joined you on the couch and immediately pulled you into his lap. “It was good. I was busy the whole day.”

You hummed as Todoroki began to leave butterfly kisses along your face and neck. You giggled when he focused his kisses on your cheeks and wrapped his arms around your waist. You reluctantly pulled away from your husband’s kisses to grab his cheeks and pull him into a deep kiss.

The butterflies never stopped even after years of dating and marriage. Todoroki never failed to make your heart skip every time he gave you a hot searing kiss. You swear you always get lightheaded after kissing your husband. It really didn’t help when his hands started roaming around your body in all the right places. 

You buried your head under Todoroki’s chin. You always felt so relaxed when you breath in Todoroki’s minty aftershave and felt the coolness of his right side. It especially helped when Todoroki ran his fingers through your hair. Just like he was doing now.

“So, you’re pregnant?” Todoroki asked as he placed a light kiss on your head.

You hummed in agreement. “You’re going to be a dad.”

Todoroki’s fingers stopped for just a second until you felt his arms wrap around you in a tight hug. You smiled as you felt your husband’s steady heart. Strong and true, just like him. Even with your face buried in his chest, Todoroki didn’t stop placing kisses on your head and declaring how happy he was and how much he loved you. 

After a few minutes of holding each other, Todoroki pulled away from you and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.”

You left the comfort of your husband’s lap as he softly grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the hallway. “Close your eyes.” You immediately shut your eyes as Todoroki carefully guided you through your shared home.

You could hear him open the door and flinched when his hot and cold hands covered your eyes. You felt his strong chest against your back as he guided you into the room (you guessed it was a room).

“Are you ready, love?” Todoroki whispered into your ear. It sent a shiver up your spine, but you nodded nonetheless.

When Todoroki pulled his hands away from your eyes, you had to blink a few times for your eyes to adjust to the lighting. But when it did, you gasped. You covered your mouth in shock while you tried to keep yourself from crying right in front of your husband. 

What was once an empty room had been transformed into the perfect baby room for the future Todoroki. The walls were painted a soft gray color. One of the walls had white stars painted on them. Soft floor mats crunched under your feet as you explored the nursery room. You smiled as you ran your hand along the baby crib and noticed the blanket that Rei bought for you this afternoon placed neatly on it. You couldn’t hide the grin on your face when you recognized the few soft toys that were placed neatly against the shelf. There was Shoto, Deku, Uravity, Ingenium, and even Ground Zero. 

Every little detail was perfect. Your heart soared as you imagined raising a baby in this very room with the loving husband that was smiling softly at you from the doorway.

“How did you do this in just one day?”

Todoroki gave you another blank stare. 

“With hard work.” 

Todoroki smiled as he listened to your melodic laughter fill the room. He watched as you looked at every little detail in the room. All the while he looked at your still flat stomach, already imagining the little life that is growing inside you. 

When he found out this morning, he didn’t know what to say or do. He was not trained to be a father. He also didn’t have much of a role model to begin with. So, Todoroki decided that he needed to think. He needed to think about what to say to you. He needed to think about what all of this meant. He needed to think about what kind of a father we would be.

After walking aimlessly, he found himself in a store full of baby items. He immediately set out to work and bought everything he needed. Like he said, he worked hard while you were away for the day in order to surprise you. 

While Todoroki may not be the best with words, he felt that his actions would be conveyed the loudest. You always understood that. You were always patient with him. Todoroki would be damned if he can’t show you how excited he was to be a father.

Todoroki strided into the room and pulled you into another deep kiss. He had to keep a strong arm around your waist to keep you from falling back. He could feel you wrap your arms around his neck as you pulled him even deeper, if that was possible. 

You pulled away with a gasp and stared lovingly into your husband’s eyes. “We’re going to be parents,” you grinned at him.

Todoroki hummed in agreement. “We’re going to be parents.”

[brandyllyn]

War makes thieves, and peace hangs them (pt7)

Told from POV of Triple Frontier characters and while it’s an OFC she is never described. Her “name” is a radio handle. So it could be you…

Chapter 7: Pope and Wildcat are both pissed off at each other. There are probably better ways to deal with that than they choose.

(Santiago Garcia x Reader)

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 2600. Read it on AO3.

Rating: NC-17 (Hella Explicit) violence. fighting kink. probably BDSM to be honest. bondage again. use of safe words. PiV sex.

"What do you mean we can’t sell them?"

Santi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were crowded into Ben’s room again, computer open on the bed by his hip with the plans they had stolen. Frankie was nursing a black eye and refusing to talk to anyone about what happened. Thus far, Santi has been too pissed off to push.

"Don’t be a dumbass Benny," Wildcat’s voice. He studiously avoids looking at her. "Do you know how much diamonds are actually worth?"

"When I was looking at rings for my last girl I know they cost a shitload," Ben bites back. "And you even said that was fifty kay worth."

"To the right buyer, yeah. Do you happen to have an in on the diamond market?" Ben doesn’t answer and she goes on. "Ironhead? Fish? Po- No one? Then yeah, these are basically worthless for cash." She picks a few up and he can see her hand move in the corner of his vision. "The only person I know of might offer about ten grand for the bunch. If we’re lucky." She sighs and lets them fall back to the bed in a shower of sparkles. "We’re better off dividing them up and y’all making jewelry for your moms. Wives. Whatever."

He glances her way at that but she’s as studiously avoiding looking at him as he is at her.

"Fuck," Ben mutters.

"That’s not the problem," Santi breaks in to the conversation. "The problem is that was a shitshow back there. What the fuck happened. Fish?"

Frankie looks up and lowers the icepack from his eye. "Some pendejo wanted to start a fight with me. Caught me right as we were wrapping up. I had a crowd, couldn’t get away."

"Why the fuck was someone starting a fight with you?" This from Will, another person Santi had been avoiding looking at.

Frankie hesitates then raises the icepack up again. "I don’t fucking know man. Didn’t like my face?"

"And you two?" Santi turns his gaze on Will who meets his eyes from beneath lowered brows. "What happened to the revised extraction? You fucking went off-book."

Will points at Wildcat and Santi can hear her sigh before she says, "There were two pain points. One I saw in the house, the other on the street. I improvised."

"You improvised?" He turns on her now.

"Yeah, I improvised." She crosses her arms and doesn’t break eye contact with him. "Your intel on the house was off, there was no way I was getting into the safe room and out without someone knowing so I left a trail. Took some stones. They needed a reason and I gave them one."

"And that stunt on the street?" he keeps his voice level. Calm.

"If the mark realized he didn’t have his keys it would have also blown it. So I put them back when I snatched his watch."

He narrows his eyes, thinking. Then he nods. "I don’t like it. It’s too messy. But we’ll have to wait and see if it worked." She nods back and the tension in the room seems to go down a notch. "Now about after…"

"Whoa," Will raises a hand up, pushing off from the wall with the other. "Look, we got away. We didn’t get shot. And we got the data. I think we can call that a win and be done for tonight. I’m getting a beer. Ben?"

Ben shoots a glance among them and then nods following Will from the room, Frankie follows close behind. Wildcat tails them and then raises a questioning eyebrow back at him.

Santi shuts the computer, coming to his feet. "You," he points at her, "with me."

He’s halfway down the hall before it occurs to him that maybe his hotel room isn’t the best place for this conversation. But he’s too keyed up to think of another, his anger roiling just below the surface.

"Are you going to talk to me?" She asks from over his shoulder and he doesn’t turn around, just lets his long stride eat up the ground to his door.

"I’ll talk to you in fucking private."

"You’re pissed at me?" She sounds incredulous. "I don’t believe this. You’re pissed at me."

"You’re goddamn right I am," he turns on her, sees her take a step back. "You planning on just fucking your way through my team? Benny’s the only one left, but then again you already know each other don’t you?"

If he’d been even the tiniest bit less mad he’d have seen it coming. That’s what he tells himself anyway. He would have seen her move before she was on him, digging her fingers into the pressure point under his arm and forcing him back against the wall with her other hand digging into his carotid artery.

"Listen to me you son of a bitch," she bites every word off, fingers pushing upwards until he’s on tiptoe to get away from it. "For the last time, I never fucked Frankie. And I didn’t fuck Will. And I don’t really have any interest in fucking Benny to be honest. But if I wanted to you’d have no right to stop me. Or to be a fucking ass about it."

She releases him and steps back in one motion, brushing her hair away from her face. She’s pissed. He can tell that much. Her chest heaving, her jaw tense. Her nostrils are flared and he’d bet fifty grand in diamonds that her heartbeat was well over a hundred beats per minute. He doesn’t even think. Just reaches out and grabs her by the shirtfront, searching behind him for the door handle with his other hand. Hauling her to him until their mouths clash together and he pulls her back into his room, kicking the door shut.

Her nails rake down his neck and he flinches, pulling away from her and grabbing her hand with one of his. Holding her wrist in a too-tight grip. Her arm flexes, curves, and then she’s digging her fingers into the muscles of his bicep and he grimaces at the pain but refuses to move where she pushes. He takes her by the throat instead, pushing her to the wall and kissing her again. Feels her tongue move against his. The soft choke of her breath when he presses her windpipe. She doesn’t release his muscle, just skims her other hand into his hair and pulls hard. The full body shiver that induces nearly makes his knees give out.

It’s the work of a moment to kick her feet apart, to shove his knee between her thighs. She bites at him and he groans at the sharp sting of it. The hand on his bicep moves up to his shoulder and she hoists herself upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. He drops one hand under her ass to hold her steady, keeping the other pressed to her throat.

"You don’t want Frankie to fuck you," he growls into her mouth. "And you don’t want Will to fuck you, or Benny." His teeth catch her lower lip and he pulls, feeling the flesh stretch and slide before releasing. He presses harder to her neck, "Just who do you want to fuck you?"

It was his fault, really, for thinking he was in control. For thinking that there was any part of this where he had the upper hand. She reaches up and grips his forearm, using it for leverage as she twists her body and the next thing he knows she’s upside down with her thighs around his head and he’s flipping forward into the air. He lands on his back with a heavy thud, air rushing out of him in a whoosh. He’d have been worried about head trauma but she still has her thighs wrapped tight around him and he’s not sure he’s getting enough oxygen to worry about a concussion. He wrenches a hand between his neck and her thigh, giving himself a gasp of air before she tightens her hold and he sees stars.

"You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that Pope?" she’s growling, holding one of his hands above his head and bending it an angle he’s not particularly fond of. "I offer myself to you on a fucking silver platter and this is what I get? Petty jealousy? Some big man feelings? Grow the fuck up." She pulls on his arm again and Santi is done.

She’s not in it to kill him, he’s counting on that. So when he flips his legs up and over he relies on the fact that she’ll release his head rather than risk breaking his neck. Thankfully he’s right and she does. His knee lands on her chest, knocking the air out of her. He feels a little bad about it but the quick kidney punch she gives him drives any apology straight out of his head. She wraps one arm around his thigh but he’s faster - has the advantage of knowing what he’s going to do in advance and he shifts his weight to his other knee and flips her over.

Now he’s got a knee on the center of her back, jerking her arms behind her and holding them up by her shoulder blades. It is not a comfortable position, he can see her trying to bow her back to relieve the pressure on her arms, but he presses more of his weight down.

"Now listen to me kitten-" His words are cut off and his vision goes white for a second. She fucking kicked him in the back of the head. How the hell had she done that? How fucking flexible was this woman? He ducks to the side just in time, her boots closing uselessly on the air where his neck had been. He shifts to the side, one knee still on her back, the other on her wrists. Where he can keep an eye on her legs. He puts his full weight on her, only letting up when he can hear her straining to breathe.

"Now," he runs one hand through his hair, catching his breath, "let’s talk about this silver platter."

"Fuck you," she wheezes.

"I am really hoping for that, yes," he replies good-naturedly, staring down at her body. He glances around the room. His flexi-cuffs are on the other side of the bed with the rest of his gear. Belt it is again then.

It’s a lot harder when she’s not cooperating, nor does it help that the belt doesn’t want to stay taut. He holds it with one hand as he moves off of her, using his grip to steady her and supporting under her elbow with the other. He brings her to her knees first, then raises her to her feet. "Alright kitten," he starts but she turns on him. Reflexively his hand tightens on the belt and he can see the flash of pain cross her face as her shoulders are pulled. But then she fucking head-butts him and all bets are off.

He kicks one of her feet out from under her, tossing her to the bed when she loses her balance and following her down, knee once again pressed to her back. He jerks at her pants with his free hand, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees, then past them to pool around her ankles. Reaching between her thighs he groans at how slick and wet she is, pushing two fingers roughly inside her.

"Do you remember my name?" It’s the only check-in he’s going to give her. He presses his fingers up inside her. Feels her clench, her body shudder. "What’s my name?"

"Santiago," she groans and he pulls her up to her knees.

"Anything else?"

"Just. Fucking. Santiago."

It’s enough. He holds his belt in one hand, twisting the leather so it’s tight on her wrists and releasing his cock with his other hand. A condom from his pocket which he awkwardly puts on and then he pushes himself inside her and doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed to her ass. He doesn’t give her time to think, time to get used to him. Just pulls out and thrusts back into her. Setting a brutal pace that makes his toes curl.

But it must be doing something for her because she’s crying out, face twisted somewhere between pain and pleasure. She’s trying to adjust her position and he leans forward, over her back, capturing her bound hands between their bodies. Now he can press one fist to the comforter by her face, slide his other around her body and search through her slick folds until he finds her clit. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stroke it gently. Just pinches it and rolls it between two fingers and she fucking comes instantly.

He can barely keep fucking her through it. Her body is so tight as she fights for her own pleasure. He can feel the roaring in his ears, the way his balls draw up and then he’s cursing, pulling out and jerking the condom off so he can come on her. Watch it pool against the exposed skin of her lower back, the pattern of it against her shirt, the sticky ropes that go all the way down to drip off her fingertips. He’s shaking, cock in his hand, still leaning over her, trying to catch his breath. He can see a bead of sweat drop from his brow to her shoulder.

She shudders and he sees the flash of pain on her face. The twist of her shoulder and he curses, reaching for the belt on her wrists and releasing it, massaging her arms as she slowly lowers them down to the bed. She gathers them under her, using them for leverage to hoist her body forward until she’s flat on her stomach. Her pants are still around her ankles, her shirt rucked up and his cum slowly drying on her skin and fuck if it’s not the sexiest goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

He twists off the bed, staggering a little as his legs fight to support him. He’s getting fucking old. He drags himself into the bathroom, taking care of the condom and washing his hands before wetting a washcloth. He catches sight of himself in the mirror - can see a bruise forming on his chin from where she head-butted him. Well, that will be a fun story to tell tomorrow.

He walks back out and has to bite back a smile. She hasn’t moved so much as an inch. Doesn’t even when the bed dips down and he slowly wipes his cum off her ass, reaching up under her shirt to wipe her down and then gently pulling her arms from under her one by one to clean each finger meticulously.

"Are we ever going to figure out how to fuck like normal people?" The words are more rhetorical than anything and he doesn’t really expect her to answer.

She does anyway of course, mumbling into the pillow, "Seems overrated."

He laughs, tossing the washcloth into a corner. "Pants on or off?"

"Am I staying?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "Yes. Pants on or off?"

"Off."

He pulls her boots off, then her pants, sliding her panties back up at her direction. He loans her one of his shirts and she manages to sit up long enough to trade her cum-stained one for his. He strips down to his briefs and slides under the sheets, holding them up with one arm out, beckoning her into his embrace. He can see her reticence but he just cocks and eyebrow and she rolls her eyes as she slides in next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t willing to break your neck," she mumbles.

He chuckles, stroking one hand down her arm. Her pillow talk needed some work but he could help with that.

Pt8

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, warnings, and notes here!

chapter three: psycellic consentia

psycellic consentia: psycellium (or psycelium) is a psychic nervous system that allows sensates to connect with one another. sensates have a solitary "above" existence, and are connected "below" via the psycelium. consentia, latin: knowledge shared with others, being in the know or privy to, joint knowledge; complicity; knowledge within oneself, consciousness, feeling.

ROMAN

It hasn’t even been five minutes since Sasha left to grab dinner, but Roman’s already feeling strangely jittery.

A nap would be a fruitless venture, he’s realized, so he’s gotten up to pace around the room, reciting the lines of the scene he’s meant to be filming tomorrow. He knows them all by heart, naturally, but it’ll be an odd scene to shoot anyways. His character, Pablo, would be escaping from the grasp of his friend-turned-betrayer (who would turn out to have been bluffing and truly Pablo’s friend all along by the end of the movie) by sprinting through the forest, making his getaway by leaping into a river and swimming away.

This stunt he doesn’t get to do; he’s already technically filmed the scenes when he’s in the water, and a stunt double will be “jumping off the cliff.” So tomorrow is going to be entirely on-location, acting then sprinting through the forest.

So Roman chants his lines to himself, pacing in his room with his eyes closed, trying his hardest to sink into Pablo’s mindset. And, after a few minutes of running his lines over in his head, it’s like he’s actually walking in the forest; the snap of a twig under his feet, the smell of leaves and dirt, the cooing of various birds.

Roman’s jaw drops, because—because no way. No way.

No fucking way is his brother standing there, with a bundle of twigs tucked up under his arms, staring at Roman the way a kid would stare at a particularly adventurous snail journeying along the ground.

Well, the way Remus would look at an adventurous snail, as a kid. Roman would have probably just fled the snail in favor of playing with wooden swords and rescuing imaginary damsels.

"Aw, c’mon, man, what the fuck," Remus grumbles, looking skyward as if asking for some kind of divine intervention, though Roman knows that's never been the case, much to their chronically Catholic abuela’s dismay.

She probably would have been pleased if Roman tacked on a God rest her soul there, but considering her abysmal reaction when her grandson decided to be an actor and an even worse reaction when her other grandson informed them all that he was, in fact, a grandson, he's never really wanted to please her anyway.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Remus says tightly, dropping his bundle of twigs. 

Remus. Remus is here. Or Roman is there? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, there he is. That’s Roman’s brother.

“What, are you trying to lure me in for the police to catch me? Because it’s not going to fucking work, Roman.” 

God, he’s alive, he doesn’t look hurt, he’s—well, actually, Roman has no idea if he’s safe or not. He just kind of looks like he’s dirty, with scraggly hair and smudges on his face. This alone isn’t entirely unusual for Remus, but the amount of it is. But—he’s here. He’s alive. He has some form of shelter, he’s probably been eating, he’s okay—

“Or are you just here to—”

Roman staggers forward and flings his arms around Remus’ neck, hugging him as tight as he can, almost as if he can feel what Remus feels, the arms wrapping around his neck and the arms wrapping around his torso in kind, feeling echoes of what he does, and what Remus does, bouncing between like a seismic shock.

Across the world, Janus smiles in his sleep; Emile wiggles happily in his chair while waiting for his next therapy session; Patton grins at a wall about nothing in particular; Logan touches his own shoulders, blinking rapidly in surprise at the weight of phantom arms holding him close.

REMY

Remy is used to experiencing emotions that aren’t his.

When he feels a near-violent joy sprouting up in his chest, he pauses briefly in pouring a customer a cup of coffee to put a hand on his chest and smile to himself.

He’ll ask Emile what’s got him so happy later. He’s just happy that Emile is happy.

REMUS

Remus blinks at Roman after Roman pulls back from the hug, hands on his shoulders, still beaming at him.

“—For a while I thought that you were coming to stay at my apartment with me, but then you never showed, and I was worried sick wondering where you were all this time. I’ve been reading all about the case—oh, that doesn’t matter now, we’re together! Now you can come here to the city, and I can post your bail so you can stay with me, and I can get you a really good lawyer, and—!”

“You’ve been reading about the case?” Remus says, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

Roman blinks at him. “Yeah?” There’s an unspoken duh in his tone.

“So you know that I’m the main suspect,” Remus prompts.

“Yeah…”

“So, you,” Remus says, “acting sweetheart of the nation with your dear fake girlfriend—you want to bring in a dirty gremlin accused of murder? The sibling the whole country doesn’t even know you have?” 

Roman looks suddenly anxious, as if expecting Remus to blow up and yell at him.

“Do you even think I’m innocent?” Remus continues, only faking his bluster a little.

“I mean,” Roman says. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Does what matter?” Remus says. The bluster is much more faked this time.

“I mean, you’re my brother,” Roman says. “I don’t really care if you killed him or not.” 

Remus bursts out laughing.

Roman gawks at him, caught off guard, and Remus doesn’t know if it’s just from seeing Roman again, or the fact that he’s been on the run for over a week now and has only been eating the plants a hallucination taught him about, or what, but the expression on his face is just too good.

Roman! Who regularly gets caught in the tabloids! Getting a snapshot of him escorting a man wanted for murder into his warm, loving home! The mental image of the shocked expression on any pap’s face is just—oh, it would be so perfect.

“And your ‘girlfriend?’” Remus says, using air quotes. “Does she know about me?”

“No, but,” Roman says, still with that stupidly heroic, determined look on his face. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her tonight, even. She’ll understand.”

Right. If anyone else was as much of a media darling, it was Roman’s fake girlfriend, with her big, brown, innocent eyes and absolute inability to seem like she’s used to being famous.

“Oh, that’s too good,” Remus chortles. “Yeah, Roman. Okay. Sure. You go ahead and tell her.”

“I’m gonna!”

“Sure, fine,” Remus says, waving him off. “Make arrangements to bring your murderous brother home. I’ll catch a bus or something, I’m sure no cop is gonna see me and arrest me on the way to your apartment.” 

“I will,” Roman says, firm and resolute, and Remus just shakes his head, grinning still.

Of the pair of them, people seemed to think Remus was the crazy one when it was clear that Roman was absolutely bonkers. But at least he’d grown a pretty good sense of humor since Remus had been accused of killing someone.

JANUS

“Fucking finally, Jazza.”

Janus considers getting up and walking right back out, but unfortunately, his stomach is already set on fish and chips with the made-in-house sauce here. He wearily begins to weigh the costs of putting up with Key and the nickname “Jazza” against the benefits of sriracha aioli. 

And money. The money ends up winning out every time.

Three more jobs, Janus tells himself. Just three more jobs, and then you don’t have to put up with the risk anymore. Two, if one of them has a bigger compensation than average, and for the quality of my work...

It’s a lie, of course. Janus has been telling himself three more jobs ever since he clawed his way onto the bar standards board, years ago.

“What’s been going on with you, anyway?” Key says around a mouthful of chips, which garbles his speech beyond recognition. Unfortunately, Janus has known Key long enough that he can translate it with ease.

“Chew with your mouth closed and clean up your face,” Janus says, unable to stop himself. Habits are difficult to kill, Janus supposes.

Key rolls his eyes but obligingly blots at his face with a napkin. “D’you got it?”

Janus offers a small box wrapped like a present in answer. Inside is a hard drive containing the information their client had requested.

Key takes it, grinning, and stuffs it into his hoodie pocket.

“Be careful with that,” Janus scolds.

“You say that every time,” Key says. “Have I ever lost one of your—”

Janus glares at him.

“—one of the fruits of your labor?” Key says, quickly back-pedaling, realizing they’re in a public setting and a waitress is fast approaching with Janus's order.

“This smells amazing.”

Janus tries his best not to startle, but even with two days to process what the man in his mirror had told him, it’s still bizarre.

The actor beside him looks briefly embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Janus glances over at him—a member of his cluster, what an unappealing word—and sees a glimpse of a cramped little trailer. On a movie set, probably? He’s wearing leather pants and a leopard-print shirt that Janus has the feeling he’d never wear in real life.

Janus also feels the grumbling in Roman’s stomach. Janus sighs to himself.

“And another basket of chips with extras of that same sauce, please.”

“You got it, lovey,” she says, turning to go.

“Extra hungry, then?” Key says.

“Something like that,” Janus says neutrally. Without asking for Janus's permission—maybe knowing Janus was about to offer anyway—Roman reaches out and gulps deeply from Janus's Ribena.

“How’s,” Janus says, briefly casts about in his mind for the name of the latest love of Key’s life, and lands on, “Francesca?”

Key snorts. “Ancient history, mate.”

Not exactly surprising. Key’s always fancied himself a romantic, but he’s never been able to follow through on his commitment to anything ever.

“M’goin’ on a date with a bird tonight, though,” he says around a mouthful of chips.

“For God’s sake, Key, could you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a barn?” Janus snips at him, even as he’s dunking his own chips into the aioli.

Key grins at him, and Janus wrinkles his nose. He can tell Roman is doing the same beside him. They share the same sentiment at the moment, but it’s Roman’s “that’s disgusting” that falls out of his mouth.

He realizes why Key’s brow furrows a moment too late.

“Uh, bless you?” Key says; the closest he’s ever been to the Mexican vernacular of Spanish is ordering a fajita at a local Tex-Mex restaurant.

“Oops,” Roman says, not particularly apologetically. He grabs another handful of chips.

“I’m studying in my spare time,” he says and fixes Key with a look. “A hobby you could choose to emulate.”

“What’d I need more school for?” He scoffs. “Ten years was well enough.”

“To aspire for more for yourself—”

“Oh, here we go,” Key snaps, tossing down the piece of battered cod he was about to eat, splattering sauce on the wood table. “I am so sick of your “high and mighty” act.”

He mimics Janus's accent at high and mighty; Janus grits his teeth, and very purposefully enunciates his next few sentences.

“This cannot last forever, you understand.”

“No, just so long as you get rich off it, eh?”

“Um,” Roman says. “I’d offer to go and leave you two to duke this one out in private, but I’m not really sure how to stop this weird astral projection thing—”

Janus ignores him.

“Oh, as if being a lawyer doesn’t pay enough. Put your brain to some use and think, why is it that I keep helping you?!” Janus snaps, leaning across the table and softening his voice. “Why on earth do you think I continue with this?!”

“Spare me,” Key scoffs. 

“The only reason I keep doing this is because you keep doing this,” Janus hisses. “The only reason I became a lawyer was because of you getting us into trouble.”

“Don’t—” Key says, his face twisting up.

“It is because of me we are not rotting in jail, Quirinus. I’m sure it’s such a burden I want more for you.”

“It’s Key,” he grumbles before he rolls his eyes at Janus and tilts his baseball cap at him in farewell. “And since you have aspired to more for yourself, and since being a big fancy lawyer does pay so much, and since you saved me,” this is said with heavy sarcasm, “you fucking prat, you can get the bill. Much obliged, big brother.”

As he walks off, he tosses a “wanker” over his shoulder for good measure, jamming his orange cap onto his head.

Janus pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply.

There’s a pause. 

Then: the slurping of someone draining his Ribena.

Janus opens his eyes and turns his head to Roman, who’s chasing the last drops of Ribena about the glass with a straw.

“So, he’s probably not finishing that, right?” Roman says. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs a handful of chips and shoves them into his mouth. “‘Cause I’ve been waiting for Sasha to come back with dinner for like an hour now and I’m starving,” he says loudly while chewing.

Janus's jaw is slightly unhinged.

“You are a pestilence upon my life,” he says at last.

Roman smirks at him, mercifully close-mouthed, and swallows down the food that Janus supposes he’ll be paying for. Janus is certain that Roman is doing this to annoy him.

“Wait ‘till you have to deal with my brother.” He dunks the cod into the sauce. “Also, how much do you know about what’s going on here, anyway? Why do random people keep popping into my life?” 

Janus lowers his voice so they aren’t heard by any random passerby.

“Allegedly, we are known as sensates. I assume you’ve been seeing other people—we’re stuck seeing them psychically for the rest of our lives, as well as sharing specific skills, languages, emotions…”

Roman reaches for Key’s Ribena and drains that too.

“Tastes,” Janus adds pointedly. “That the other is paying for.”

“Yeah, exactly, you’re paying for it,” Roman says, and grabs another piece of cod. “It won’t go to waste now.”

“You won’t even get the nutritional benefits of eating food,” Janus says. “You’ll just get the taste of it.”

“Still, you’re getting your money’s worth. I’m helping.”

“Aren’t you rich?” Janus says. “Being an actor and all.”

“Aren’t you?” Roman counters. “Being a lawyer and all.”

Roman jams the cod into the ramekin of sauce.

“Either way, this place sure won’t take pesos, and it’s not like I can psychically transfer you money. Hey, how much do you know about Mexican law, anyways?” He takes a massive bite.

Janus puts his face into his hands for a few moments, before he reaches into his messenger pad and pulls out a legal pad and pen.

“Enough,” he says grudgingly—truthfully, not quite as much as English law. However, with this whole connection thing, they do share knowledge, so he certainly knows more now than he did before. He gestures at the waitress for another couple of Ribenas. “Why don’t you refresh me on the details of your brother’s case?”

PATTON

Patton frowns, tapping his pen against his chin as his kindergartners are all sprawled out on their mats for their post-lunch nap. He usually takes advantage of this time to catch up on marking (normally, just putting “good job!” stickers on their papers, they’re five) but right now he’s staring at something he’d written down out of the blue and trying to understand it.

He knows that he’s technically a sensate now, but does that mean his kindergartners are going to have to put up with scrawlings about Mexican flora when Patton had meant to be writing down the activities of the day?

“Aw, jeez,” someone grumbles, and Patton turns to look over his shoulder.

He grins sheepishly at the sight of an academic article plastered over with shiny star stickers. “Oops.”

The man is familiar and yet not; Patton doesn’t think he’s seen this one outside of briefly popping in and out. 

The man sighs, turning the paper over and then looking back at Patton.

“At least they’re purple,” he grumbles, and within a heartbeat, he’s gone. Patton returns his attention to his marking.

Oh, yay, he did end up putting stickers on the kiddos’ papers!

LOGAN

Not many people were particularly aware of this, especially considering the average population was generally unaware of the space research in Antarctica, but the cafeterias here are actually excellent.

In the history of Antarctic explorers and researchers, it had gone quite differently—Ernest Shackleton and Tom Crean ate seal, dog meat, and biscuits mixed with melted snow during the Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914—but chefs now seem to view it as an intriguing challenge, a way to sharpen their skills. 

Logan is an adequate enough cook, to the point where he can feed himself at home, but the food here is on another level. He’s finishing off his dessert, a lovely chocolate tart when a chef sits across from him at the dinner table, the same one that had served him his tray tonight.

He doesn’t know her well, so he hopes he’s disguised her squint at her nametag under the guise of adjusting his glasses.

“Very well done, Dot,” he says, lifting his fork to his mouth.

“Oh, good, you are one of us,” she says, with a level of relief that seems odd for hearing a compliment about her cooking. “I was wondering, Casimire gave me the oddest look when I told him to head off early so I could make eye contact with you.”

“What are you—?” Logan says, eyes narrowed, before his eyes flash to the kitchen, automatically looking for Casimire, the chef he’s most used to seeing.

True enough, Casimire isn’t there.

But Dot is here.

Dot is here twice.

Dot is sitting at the table with him. But Dot is smiling and chatting with one of the marine biology research team members, ten feet away. But—

“Oh, I can hear that brain working,” Dot says. She reaches out to pat his hand; it feels as warm and real as a hand can feel.

“What is this,” Logan forces through numb lips, appetite gone, chocolate tart entirely forgotten. “What are you—what is happening—?”

“Shh, shh, not too loud,” Dot says in a hushed voice. “To everyone else, it looks like you’re sitting alone. Here—you’ve got your bag with you, did you pack your earpiece?”

Logan nods.

“Put that in.”

He does as she says. What else is there to do?

The Dot in the kitchen turns to wink and smile at him reassuringly. He isn’t sure how to tell the Dot before him that there is absolutely nothing in this situation that could comfort him, and pointing out that there are two of her and that he is seeing things is not a particularly good way to go about it regardless.

He fumbles with the earpiece a few times, but he puts it in and clicks it on.

“There,” she says in satisfaction. “Now it’ll look like you’re talking over Bluetooth. Neat little trick, isn’t it? Keeps us from looking,” and she circles her ear with her finger and gives a two-note whistle, the universal sign for off your rocker. “I’m surprised your parent hasn’t taught you yet, but I suppose you are very new. Has your migraine stopped yet?”

Logan gawks at her. “How did you know I have a—?”

“Because I had one too when it all started,” she says. “All of us do. Let me tell you, I really wasn’t expecting to see a sensate down here, but I guess when you come to a place like this nothing should surprise you, right? That’s what my Larry said. But this’ll be handy, he was hoping I could meet a nice scientist to connect to the Archipelago! You’re an astronomer, right? That’s a very brainy subject.”

“Wait, go back,” Logan says. “How did you know I have a migraine? Why are you talking about my mother? Why should she have taught me about using Bluetooth? What does a group of islands have to do with anything, and what’s a sensate?”

The smile on Dot’s face slips.

“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear, you don’t know anything at all, do you?”

Logan gives her an offended look before he can really stop himself.

“Well,” Dot says thoughtfully. “A scientist. I bet you’d be really interested in the opportunity to send a question around the world within seconds, wouldn’t you?”

“Google exists,” Logan points out.

Dot smiles at him. “Where do you think they got the idea? Sapiens invented it in the 1990s; we’ve had it since the Neolithic.”

Against his better judgment to stop listening to what is most likely to be a hallucination, Logan finds himself very intrigued.

VIRGIL

Virgil is elbow-deep in papers about abrus precatorius, sorting them into piles for useful information or irrelevant when there’s the sound of someone hitting their knees beside him.

Virgil jumps, startled, and looks into the stunning blue eyes of Logan, the handsome Pole in Antarctica. His eyes are bright, eager, excited, and there’s a wide smile on his face.

“We’re not hallucinating,” he declares and spreads out an armful of his own notes; hastily taken, from the look of it, and he presses his fingers against an earpiece that’s blinking blue light. “Oh, and get one of these, by the way, technology has apparently made things much better for us, Dot said we’d get burned during the witch trials because we’d be talking to people who weren’t there and knowing things we shouldn’t know, but I think that’s an exaggeration. I wish there was a more central written history, but I suppose we’ve evolved in a way that word-of-mouth knowledge is the most efficient, haven’t we?”

There’s a lot of thoughts whirling around Virgil’s head—what do you mean, how do you know, why are we talking about witch burnings and evolution—but what comes out, a bit stupidly, is “You look good.”

Logan’s rambling stops in his tracks as he stares at Virgil, bemused, mouth slightly ajar.

“Um, I mean,” Virgil says. He coughs. “You look… less worried than last time. Which is. Good!” 

Logan keeps staring. With his lips parted like that, it’s all too easy to see that Logan must have licked them, recently; the sheen of it catches Virgil’s eye. He stares at Logan’s mouth. He stares at Logan.

Stop it stop it stop it he’ll think you’re weird, something in his brain shrieks, and that breaks the spell.

“So, uh, you’ve figured out what’s happening to us?” Virgil prompts.

Logan shakes himself, before he spreads out his papers, picking up one in particular. Virgil takes it, examining it; it’s two sketches of a brain. He’s familiar enough with biology by virtue of having doctors for parents to know that the sketch on the right side of the paper is not right. 

There’s something wrong with this brain.

“This,” Logan says, tapping the leftmost brain with his finger, “is the typical human brain.”

“Right, yeah,” Virgil says, frowning, and points to the rightmost brain. Their hands almost touch. “There’s something wrong with this one—something about the hemispheres, I think? It’s like there’s a growth.”

Logan moves to point to the rightmost brain, and this time, their hands do brush. But, before Virgil can think anything about it other than his hands are soft and he feels a little cold—

“This is what our brains are becoming.”

Virgil immediately panics.

“But it’s okay!” Logan says quickly as if he’s able to tell. Maybe he can—Virgil isn’t sure how clear it reads on his face. Or maybe, the way he’s been laughing at nothing or frowning at thin air, Logan can feel it. “It’s okay, it’s totally natural for us. For homo sapiens, no, but for homo sensorium—”

“Homo sensorium?” Virgil repeats, brow furrowed.

“It’s what we are,” Logan says. “Scientific name homo sensorium, colloquial name sensate.”

Sensate. Virgil hears the word, and something slips in place in his mind—it’s as if he’s heard that term before. It feels like breathing in a whiff of air and catching the scent of a sweet that sends your memory careening back to a time when you were seven and elbow-deep in dough with your grandmother. But it’s like he can’t quite fully grasp the memory. Something niggles just at the edge of it. It’s like his brain is trapped on the grandparent metaphor because he cannot stop thinking about his mother’s mother.

He sets the memory aside, for now; he’ll have time to think of it later.

Because, as Logan explains everything he’s learned so far, Virgil has absolutely zero chance of thinking about anything else. 

They spend most of the night talking about it. Even with all the bizarre aspects of what this new information brings, it’s easy to talk to Logan in a way that isn’t typical of Virgil speaking with other people. Virgil isn’t sure if that’s because they share this psychic connection, or if they’re both doctors, or if it’s some other connection.

“The way it was phrased is that we’re different types of human, but I don’t think we’re so different that it sets us apart from other people. From what I understand, the growth of our population is primarily due to epigenetic factors…”

Okay, so, primarily due to how behaviors and environments affect his genes. But what epigenetic factor triggered this in Virgil? Was this a dormant thing that could be triggered by ingesting some sort of chemical, or was it due to the way Virgil behaved? Had he done something in his life to cause all of this?

“A lot of the science is conjecture,” Logan warns, “and there was apparently some big corporation intent on doing medical experimentation on us ten or so years ago, but that’s mostly handled, you just have to be more careful about making eye contact with strangers in public…”

Oh, great, scientists hunted them down for medical experimentation so now he had to closely guard himself in any hospital! What a thrilling thing to hear for the son of two doctors!

“I’ve gathered that we can “share” certain skills or memories and that these things will become easier with practice. That’s why I could speak Xhosa and you Polish when we first met, it was the skill-sharing attribute, which could certainly come in handy for several reasons, but I also understand that we can visit each other at various times. There’s apparently a medicine you can take to block it, but it’s rather rare to come by, so unless you know a pharmacist willing to do some work under the table…”

That would almost definitely come to bite one of them in the ass at some point. What about privacy? Was he just doomed to have people from all over the world pop in on him while he’s in the shower or something?

“Dot said that she met her husband Larry through the connection, which drove off into a whole side-tangent. Apparently, romantic partners in clusters—that’s the widely accepted term, ‘cluster.’” 

Virgil pulls a face.

“I know, they could have picked literally any other more appealing word for it, couldn’t they? Bunch, group, flock, clique, assemblance—Anyways, romantic partnerships within clusters are somewhat common, and most of the sensate community finds it quite normal. I think our parent is in one, or at least that’s what Dot said.”

Logan clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Apparently some of the old-fashioned sensates think it’s like—what was it Dot’s parent said?—”the worst sort of narcissism.” Apparently, her parent was very displeased to be a parent and wanted nothing to do with creating bonds. I personally think that’s a rather backwards—humanity survives and thrives due to its ability to create bonds and care for each other—but I suppose I tend to think that way about a lot of old-fashioned things.”

“I guess I do, too,” Virgil muses aloud.

They sit quietly, for a while, so quietly that Virgil doesn’t notice when Logan slips away; the only thing that does bring him back from his swirling thoughts is when a voice breaks Virgil’s silence. It sends the emotions of knowing what’s happening to him shattering to the ground.

“Who on earth are you talking to?”

[purplehairedwonder]

Inside a Broken Dream Chapter 3

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen, briefest hint of Lawlu that you can ignore Words: 3325 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Penguin, Jean Bart, Donquixote Doflamingo, Smoker, Tashigi Note: Story title comes from the Vertical Horizon song “Shackled.” Character and relationship tags reflect the current chapter. Obviously this is canon-divergent ;)

Summary: Two years after Wano, peace on the Grand Line is fragile. Trafalgar Law and the Heart Pirates are doing their best to help maintain the peace, but the return of a figure from Law’s past might shatter the balance of power entirely.

Previous chapters: 1 | 2

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

“White Chase-ya?”

Smoker’s eyes flicked in Law’s direction, and his lips thinned into a line. “Law.”

Law frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Smoker grimaced and leaned back against the wall of his cell. The Seastone shackles around his wrists clanked with his movements. “Somehow, I keep getting caught up in your shit with Joker.”

Law snorted despite himself. He supposed it was a bit of déjà vu, calling back to being locked up on Punk Hazard. Too bad Law was restrained with actual Seastone this time.

Penguin was looking between Law and Smoker, confused, but he clearly knew he wouldn’t get an explanation so instead asked, “Did Akainu really let Doflamingo out of Impel Down and give him a ship to go after Captain?”

Smoker grunted. “Is that what he said?”

Jean Bart nodded. “He also said he wasn’t interested in running errands for Akainu.”

“That much is true, anyway,” Smoker replied. His tone made it eminently clear that he was unhappy to be having this conversation with three pirates—but he answered anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“Sakazuki did want to go after Law,” he said, nodding in Law’s direction. “And after Dressrosa, he thought he could use Doflamingo to do it.”

Had Law had the energy, he would have straightened at that. As it was, he narrowed his eyes. “What does he know about Dressrosa?”

Law knew Penguin and Jean Bart were watching him—he’d been intentionally vague about what had gone on there and why, though Penguin knew far more than most of the Heart Pirates about Law’s history with the former Warlord, and he’d rarely mentioned it since. At the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The last thing he wanted was his history with Doflamingo to become common knowledge. Sengoku knew because of his connection to Cora-san, but Law got the impression the man was content in his retirement to let things lie in his adopted son’s memory. Akainu, though… The less that son of a bitch knew about Law, the better.

Smoker appraised him from his cell before speaking. “Whatever Fujitora reported, I assume.”

Of course. Though he wouldn’t know the details of the backstory, Fujitora had witnessed enough to know there was a history there—one that was intensely personal on both sides. That could have been enough for Akainu.

Law let out a breath. “Right.”

“Captain?” Penguin asked quietly, but Law shook his head. Penguin frowned but nodded.

“Why the sudden interest in the Captain?” Jean Bart asked. “He’s been an Emperor for two years now.”

Smoker shifted, seemingly looking for a more comfortable position. “It’s not sudden. Sakazuki’s had it in for you since you saved Straw Hat Luffy at Marineford,” he replied, addressing Law directly. “He took that as a personal insult. And then you pulled that stunt to become a Warlord and made an alliance with the rubber idiot before proceeding to completely upend the status quo on the Grand Line.” He raised an eyebrow. “Need I go on?”

“I broke the gears,” Law had said when he’d destroyed the SAD production on Punk Hazard. And the effects had certainly avalanched after that, though Law hadn’t necessarily expected to see it.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled the alliance hasn’t ended either,” Law muttered.

Law had known that he was in this alliance for the long haul the morning after Doflamingo’s fall. Law had been sitting, his body broken and spirit afloat, among the drooping sunflowers as the sun rose over the toy soldier’s cabin. Luffy, who Law thought had been sleeping off his injuries, had sat down next to him with a murmured “Torao” and had gently entwined their fingers. Law had leaned into him in silent response. Thank you. Why am I alive? What do I do now? all running through his mind. Luffy had tightened his grip on Law’s hand, anchoring him.

“He knew targeting you would draw Straw Hat’s attention,” Smoker confirmed. “He was counting on it.”

“Is he trying to start a war?” Penguin demanded, aghast.

“The closer Straw Hat comes to finding Laugh Tale, the more anxious he gets. He’ll take any chance to stop that from happening.” Smoker shrugged. “Though it’s moot now; Doflamingo screwed Sakazuki over.”

“Which brings us back to the Captain’s original question: How do you figure into this, Smoker?” Jean Bart asked, crossing his arms. Law belatedly noticed that Jean Bart had shackles around his wrists as well, though they were of the regular sort since he wasn’t a Fruit user. A quick glance confirmed Penguin did too.

“I was assigned to lead the mission. Doflamingo was chained with so much Seastone I could barely get near him, and he was guarded by multiple soldiers at all times. He was supposed to be an asset, nothing more.”

Law raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You were coming to take me on, White Chase-ya?” Their last fight hadn’t gone particularly well for Smoker, though he had saved Law’s life by recovering his heart from Vergo. Law would always hate the Marines after what had happened to Flevance, but Smoker was one he grudgingly respected. Still. “Should I be offended that I didn’t even warrant an admiral’s attention?”

Smoker replied with an unimpressed look. “The admirals have been spread thin over the last two years, and you know it.” It was true; since Doflamingo’s fall and the end of his underworld empire, the dissolution of the Warlords, and Kaido’s defeat, the admirals had had their work cut out for them keeping the peace.

“Even so, attacking an Emperor without an admiral—” Jean Bart began.

“And with a former Warlord on board,” Penguin added helpfully.

“—seems like a mission that should be led by an admiral,” Jean Bart finished.

Law found himself wondering if Akainu sent Smoker because he had history with Law… and Straw Hat-ya.

Smoker sighed. “Like I said, its moot now anyway.”

“Because Doflamingo escaped,” Law supplied.

“Once we approached your territory, he was released from the strongest Seastone restraints with the understanding he’d be shot on the spot with a Seastone bullet if he pulled anything.”

Law grimaced. Idiots.

“Oh, so it’s your fault Captain got shot,” Penguin snapped. “Always so competent, you Marines.”

Smoker startled, turning to examine Law. Law gestured weakly at his wound, his shackles clinking. “Seastone bullet lodged in my shoulder.” His lips curled. “Thanks for that.”

“That explains a lot,” Smoker mumbled before raising his voice. “You’re right.” He said it as if it took a great amount of effort to make the concession. It probably did. “He took control of the ship almost immediately. He overwhelmed us, and he forced my men to cuff me, knowing I wouldn’t fight them.” His voice tightened as he spoke, barely containing his fury at the memory.

Something was still bothering Law. “Where’s your number two? The swordswoman.”

Smoker’s expression darkened. “He’s got her on guard duty. She was watching me when he attacked you.”

That explained why Law hadn’t seen either of them earlier; Doflamingo likely hadn’t wanted to risk losing any measure of control of the situation by putting familiar faces in the battle.

“Has Doflamingo said what he wants?” Jean Bart asked after a quiet moment, eyes flicking to Law before returning to Smoker.

Smoker shook his head before landing his stare flatly on Law. “He just called it Family business.”

-----

Law jerked into full consciousness, hissing as his shoulder flared and blinking as the brig door opened and light once more flooded the dim room. After the conversation with Smoker, the four men had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Law had felt drained—and by more than just the excessive amounts of Seastone he was being exposed to.

At some point, night had fallen—the Heart Pirates’ confrontation with Doflamingo had happened near dusk, and Law had apparently been out for several hours after that—though the darkened brig gave little indication of the time of day. Law had slumped back against the wall in the least painful position he could manage and had drifted in and out of wakefulness, familiar dreams of gunshots, black feathers, blood, and laughter never far from the back of his eyelids.

Two Marines entered the brig and stopped in front of Law’s cell. Law watched as they opened the door and stepped inside toward him. Despite the movements Doflamingo’s strings were forcing them to make, they looked back toward Smoker.

“V-vice Admiral,” the second Marine muttered. “We can’t—”

“I know,” Smoker gritted out. “Don’t blame yourselves. Focus on staying alive now to fight back later.”

“Yessir,” both men agreed before returning their attention to Law.

Law inhaled sharply and his vision spun as the Marines hauled him to his feet.

“Captain!” Penguin called as the Marines pushed Law out of his cell and toward the door. Law didn’t resist; he didn’t have the strength to with the Seastone still in his shoulder. “Where are you taking him?”

They all knew the answer to that question. “Doflamingo wants to see him,” the first Marine said in unneeded confirmation.

“It’s fine, Penguin,” Law said over his shoulder. “He wants me alive.” For how long, Law didn’t know. But he could use this chance to do some reconnaissance—anything was better than just sitting in that cell helplessly.

“But—”

“Penguin.” That was Jean Bart. Law was, not for the first time since Sabaody, thankful for the former captain’s calm and presence of mind; it had made him an instantly popular presence on the Polar Tang, and Law had always taken his counsel, when offered, seriously. “He knows.”

As the brig door swung shut, Law caught a glimpse of Penguin’s worried look and Jean Bart’s level, if somber, stare.

Law was surprised when the Marines steered him up some stairs then into a bathroom. “He told us to tell you to clean yourself up,” the second Marine said, nodding to the small bathroom. The Marines left Law alone in the bathroom, waiting outside.

For a moment, irritation at being underestimated flooded through Law’s veins, but it quickly diminished as he realized there wasn’t much he could do from here—the Seastone was suppressing his powers and draining his strength, and the small window wasn’t big enough for Law to fit through; and even if he could have fit through the window, where would he go? They were on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and Law was an anchor. Not to mention, two of Law’s men were still prisoners in the brig, and he wouldn’t leave without them.

Law took the opportunity to relieve himself then checked his pockets—an awkward task with his restraints. He sighed in relief when he found his surgical kit; the Marines must not have gone through his pockets once he was taken captive—or Doflamingo hadn’t made them do so. His mistake. With this, Law could remove the Seastone bullet from his shoulder and alleviate its worst effects. Or Penguin could. He hoped.

Returning the kit to his pocket, Law turned on the faucet and splashed some water in his face. He dared a glance into the mirror and winced. His features were (unsurprisingly) more drawn than usual, and though his navy shirt was dark enough to disguise much of the blood, there was still an obvious dark stain on the shoulder. He wet one of the towels then gently pulled the cloth of his shirt away from the skin, wincing when the dried blood caused it to stick. Once he’d separated the fabric from his skin, he took the damp towel and gently cleaned off as much of the blood as he could. It was awkward with his restricted wrists, but he managed as best he could. As the blood came away, the purpling of the skin became obvious around the bullet wound. He prodded around the wound with his fingers, grimacing at its tenderness.

There was a knock at the door. “All right, Trafalgar. Let’s go.”

With a weary sigh, Law splashed another handful of water in his face then dried off with a clean towel. He opened the door and allowed the Marines to push him forward down the hall again. He knew when to pick his battles, and this was not one of those times. Law did his best to make a mental map of the ship and number of Marines he saw, though his foggy mind wasn’t making that an easy task.

Eventually, Law was directed onto the ship’s deck. Law squinted at the morning sunlight, which was a stark contrast to the dim brig. He stumbled slightly, and the Marines shoved him forward. Law pressed his lips into a thin line but said nothing. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw he was been directed toward a small table with two chairs—one predictably occupied by Doflamingo. He was eating breakfast as Smoker’s number two was forced to stand behind him as a bodyguard. Law could practically feel the anger radiating off her, which he knew Doflamingo was basking in.

As Law approached, Doflamingo looked up and smirked. He gestured toward the empty chair across from him, and, when Law was too slow in taking it, twitched his fingers so Law’s Marine escorts pushed him down by the shoulders. Law ground his teeth against the jolt of fresh pain that radiated down his arm and through his chest but refused to give the other man the satisfaction of making a sound. Doflamingo’s smirk widened anyway. After dismissing the Marines with the wave of a hand, Doflamingo turned his full attention to Law.

“You know Captain Tashigi, don’t you, Law?” he said, nodding to the woman behind him. Her eyes flicked to Law and softened slightly before hardening again.

“We’ve met.”

“Hm. On Punk Hazard, wasn’t it?”

Doflamingo knew full well that was the case, so Law didn’t dignify the question with a response.

“Still delightful company, I see,” Doflamingo said, raising an eyebrow. “Some things never change, eh, Law?”

“My apologies,” Law drawled. “The Seastone bullet in my shoulder seems to be suppressing my manners as well as my Fruit.”

Doflamingo’s lips turned upward, apparently pleased at the response. “Fufufu. You must be hungry. Eat,” he directed, nodding toward the food on the table. No bread, Law noted idly.

Law didn’t move. Doflamingo sighed dramatically. “If I were going to kill you, Law, I wouldn’t have only shot you in the shoulder yesterday.” A twitch of the lips. “Besides, is poison really my style?”

Fine.

Still, Law raised his shackled wrists wordlessly, indicating how awkward it would be to eat with the restraints on.

Amused, Doflamingo twitched his fingers, and one of the Marine guards from earlier came forward. He brandished a key and unlocked the shackle on Law’s right wrist. Law let out a relieved breath before he could stop himself, but the relief was short-lived as he realized the Marine was locking the free shackle to the chair; Law’s left arm—the unwounded one—was essentially useless. If he was going to eat, he’d have to use his wounded arm.

Law clenched his jaw, biting down on the words he’d like to spit at the other man, as Doflamingo chuckled. “Fufufu. You knew it wasn’t going to be that easy, Law. Now eat.”

Doing his best to ignore the intent gaze of the other man, Law resorted to serving himself from the dishes closest to him so he wouldn’t need to move his arm too much. He ended up with some eggs and fruit. He blinked in surprise when another Marine poured coffee into the mug in front of him. Doing his best to control the trembling in his arm, he gripped the mug and took a tentative sip to test the heat of the drink. It was tolerable, so he took a larger sip. Blessed caffeine. It helped clear the fog in his mind the tiniest bit.

Law picked, one-handed, at the food on his plate and took sips of coffee as he waited for Doflamingo to get to whatever it was that he wanted. He’d just popped a strawberry in his mouth when the other man finally spoke.

“I told you once that I would have been happy to settle things between us over drinks,” Doflamingo said. “Do you remember?”

Law paused, then swallowed the food. He looked up at Doflamingo, who had steepled his fingers and was staring at Law over them. Despite everything that had happened—despite how much stronger Law was now—that gaze still made Law feel ten years old.

“As I recall,” Law replied coolly, “Fujitora was holding me down with his gravity force after you’d shot me with your bullet strings.” He inclined his head. “But yes, I do remember.”

“I meant it, you know. You’re Family. We all were waiting for you to return to your rightful place.”

Law snorted derisively, memories of waking up chained to the Heart Throne after being shot with lead bullets bouncing around the back of his mind. “Is that what we’re doing here? Making up for lost time?” His eyes narrowed. “It’s hard to take you seriously when—” Law found himself suddenly without words as he thought about the previous day—about finding the smoldering wreck of Shachi’s ship and fighting to stop Shachi’s internal bleeding as he operated on his friend, about that damn gun—so just gestured at his shoulder with his free hand. He could feel sharp, fiery anger coursing under his skin, but the numbing effect of the Seastone doused it almost as quickly as it came on, leaving Law feeling cold and hollow.

“You know what kind of Family we are.”

Law distantly noted the use of the present tense but didn’t dwell on it. “And that’s why I never came back.”

Doflamingo was uncharacteristically silent for several moments before he finally spoke. “There’s been something I’ve been wondering since you came to Dressrosa, Law.”

Law inclined his head, waited.

“Where were you that night? Coraz- Rosinante said you were out of the Birdcage. But you weren’t, were you?”

Law blinked, startled by the question—and by Doflamingo’s use of his brother’s name. Whatever he’d been expecting the other man to say, that wasn’t it. He couldn’t read the look on Doflamingo’s face either. Law took a breath, collecting himself—what did it matter if he told him now?

“No, I wasn’t.” He could still feel snowflakes on his eyelashes and the walls of the treasure chest pressing in on him… “Cora-san put me in one of the treasure chests.” His lips twisted into an expression he knew was ugly. “I heard everything.”

Including Doflamingo declaring Law would be taught to die for him. It had haunted Law for years that, had he not heard those words and had the Family recovered him, he probably would have died for Doflamingo. Happily. For all the hatred Law carried for the man in front of him, he’d loved him once, too. The Family had called him a traitor when he put his vengeance plan into motion, but Law had been the one betrayed on Minion Island. He still woke up shaking and nauseated from nightmares in which he performed the Eternal Youth Operation, dying with a smile on his face for the man who’d murdered his savior.

Doflamingo stared at him for a long, tense moment as though placing Law into his memories of that night. It was… disconcerting. Then he nodded. “We never checked the chests.”

“No,” Law agreed.

Silence fell once more. Doflamingo continued to study Law across the table while Law tried not to think about getting out of the chest and walking away from the Family, sobbing soundlessly until he wasn’t.

Finally, Doflamingo seemed to shake himself out of whatever he was thinking and turned back to his involuntary bodyguard. “Take him back to the brig, would you, Captain Tashigi?”

[thoughtfulpaperback]

Charmed 02x17 SPOILERS!!!!!

Okay yall havent had time to do one of these in a while. But I had time to do a rewatch and so I am ready.

Non-spoilery part of this . . . I give the episode a 9/10. The writing (on its own and I'll get into it later) was better than many episodes this season so far. I have mentioned it multiple times this season that episodes 1 to 3 of this season had a different style and scope and (imo) writing pace than the rest of the season except for some of the most recent episodes. While I did have some favorite episodes later on everything pretty much after three didnt feel as grand as far as style went. These last few episodes the writing and style just got turned up. Which is actually great and super frustrating. The writers seem to have the same problem they had last season that is proper plot development/management. We shouldnt be getting all the interesting stuff at the beginning dragging everything out and making no plot progression, then theoughing in all the interesting stuff at the end to get us to stick around. We should have gotten the more plot development throughout the season not just big info bombs ever so often with little devoplement everywhere else.

Here is the truth and I hate it, we had more meaningful screen time and character development with Mel and Abby this one episode than in the entire season. Which is a no-no in my book. The episode on it's own is solid, interesting, and I argue well written, but it should have happened earlier. The things that were good about this episode should have been implemented this entire season. I mean not show will have an A + episode everytime. There will be filler. But it has honestly felt like the writers didnt know what they were doing with certain characters development until last minute. I don't know if that's true, it is just how it has come off to me. So I can understand the frustrations people have felt with this season and its writing. I have them but this episode had me invested and on the edge of my seat. I am excited for more. Which honestly hasnt been the case for many of the episodes this season. I dont mind the last minute overused troupe. I love fanfiction and so I do not easily tire of them, but again pulling it towards the end of the season when many plotlines have been subpar or are least handled in a subpar manner . . .

But on to the spoilers. I am going to go back to the standard likes, dislikes, and episode highlights

1. Abigael character development

Like yall it wasnt much, but like it was more than this entire season so far. I still have no idea what they are doing with Abby-and for me personally it is a little too late to salvage the damage-but the development was actually welcomed. It should have happened sooner. The writers need to pick a lane at this point and just reveal what they want us to think about her (you know like they do with plot bombs) because after some of the stuff and little character development some of us have just soured to Abby. I dont actually dislike the character I just am fustrated with the poor development overall. But I mean had they been doing these little moments across the season rather than setting her up in that weird, poorly handled, and now seemingly dropped love shape with her Harry and Macy (they completely didnt need to have her in there they could have introduced julian earlier on rather than put Macy in a relationship with him after she seemed to realize she had feelings for Harry and then it wouldnt have seemed like she was using julian as much).

2. Mel and Abby moments

The plot was interesting, the development of both characters was better. I mean seriously yall Mel admitting her mom wasnt perfect!!! Given the basic Marisol worship mel had last season and the lack so far of acknowledgement that Marisol made mistakes (regarding thier lives and Marisols marriage). Honestly if they had dropped the Abby Harry crap and had more mel and abby or abby Macy (considering I felt mads and poppy had some great on screen chemistry in the beginning and played well off each other even though it was antagonistic after episode 2) moments like these I feel not only would we know the character better but wed have had better plotlines overall.

Although I think Mel is too quick to overlook all of Abby's past behavior . . . She killed innocent witches and wants to be a demon overlord (or wanted, we dont know what she wants now). But Mel recognizing her mother's flaws and being open to th possibility of being wrong (something she has struggles with both seasons and only gets slightly addressed, if it gets addressed, when it happens) I mean I am here for it.

3. Jordan

I think what has been missing this season is the wittiness of last season and also the genuine fluff. I mean Jordan's comment about kissing Aunt Viv. 10 stars clever (true and revealing about inequity in punishment and treatment of men of color when it comes to sexual assult and harrassment) His excitement over magic. I mean in a lot of ways Jordan is what Galvin should have been/tried to be, but the writers can't seem to do relationship drama and good character development at the same time so....

Jordan is the best and I hope the writers dont mess it up.

4. Julian

So I like the reveal, because I think there is still room to wonder what exactly Julian does and doesnt know. What I understood from this episode is that Julian is behind the experiments in that he started them but the the creatures with those healing powers so that he can take those and use them to heal other. My guess is through creating "more" whitelighters or maybe they og thought they'd just figure out how to raise the dead. Julian at his core (so far) wants to help as many people as possible. Does he know that the creatures die in the process? Is he utilitarian and thinks it is justified? Or is aunt Viv the head person of the actual goings on and Julian is far enough removed from all of it he can emotionally detached from that. Like how for some people it is easier to hear about death than it is to witness it. I think most people are like this but I wont generalize.

Will he change his mind or will we see a different more sinister side of Julian. Like I am interested in getting to know more about his character now, because he has sort of been there as a plot prop more than an interesting character with development. Which is on the writers, the actor is killing it.

5. Hacy

Yall dont get me wrong I think after all the bad writing and angst that the writers did for most of this season, to pull a stunt like that basically at the end of the season was soo wrong.

But I feel that on it's own these moments of Macy confronting and admitting her feelings, the confession, and the little moments (like that face caress and holding him when they get him out of the cointainer) were precious.

That's the stuff we needed more of. Instead of the passive aggressiveness. I know some people hate the amnesia troupe but I prefer it to what they did with the abigael kiss and the jealousy love shape stuff.

Dislikes

1. Middle finger to season 1 and Galvin

Like dont get me wrong, emotional issues dont disappear from one moment to the other and some trauma takes years to overcome if it ever is overcome. But like wasnt Macy admitting she was lonely her whole life and it affected her ability to attach to people and recognize when she wanted someone the basic plot of season 1. I mean she straight up says in the last season that she was so concerned about whether someone wanted her that she never considered what she wanted. And then she says she wants Galvin and now she is saying she never realized when she wanted someone

I think a lot of season 1 has in some ways been "redone" this season. I dont like it because we came here from season 1. We recognized it was flawed. But we still invested time into it. I didnt mind a lot of it, in the beginning to be honest (maybe because I felt it was mostly scenery and vibe than actual erasing plot) but particularly in this episode it felt they were basically saying, "let's pretend it never happened" about the whole first season....okay harry.

In some ways I liked the sort of do over of some character types. I like Jordan as the "mortal in the know" more so than Galvin. I just dont think Galvin was well developed and handled last season. They are doing better with Jordan which is good because if they had messed up the writing for him too I would have been casting my "yall coming off as racist again, do better" look. My biggest fear is that they will mess up Jordan especially if they progress his relationship with Maggie. The writers seem unable to write good/healthy relationships and character development and still give good plotlines at the same time.

Episode highlights.

Macy rehearsing her break up with her sisters

Aunt Viv really trying it with Jordan

"Even white men can't do that anymore."

Abby bringing her bags the the house

[sabineelectricheart]

The Only Absolute Truth About Love

Summary: Sylvain felt blessed when he came to find out the only absolute truth about love. It was a heavenly punishment, rather than a gift.

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 2100

Notes: I really wonder what my dearest readers think about the choices made on this fic. Do leave a comment, I’m a little slow (in time and in rational thought), but I really do appreciate it.

In all of his too many years of existence, forged through pain, war and loneliness, Sylvain, the heir to the great Gautier name, felt blessed when he came to find out the only absolute truth about love.

It was a heavenly punishment, rather than a gift.

The feeling of love immediately and inescapably equates to regret. All lovers eventually come to regret their folly, and it is a catch-28, as one often regrets not only in loving a person, but also in not being able or brave enough to actually express it.

It was a silly feeling, really, a feeling Sylvain would never admit to having even if had left him unable to sleep at night. Not the real kind of love, the one every man and woman he ever came across said he had never felt, instead of the courtly love he professed for every slightly striking beauty in the continent.

The redhead has no time for it, he tried to convince himself repeatedly, as life was much too short to care for monogamy, as people were inherently flawed and prone to hurt one another, as no one would ever care for him other than the blood that runs through his veins. However, the painful and suffocating clench he felt in his heart at the sight of his beloved in another man’s arms often gave pause to those thoughts.

He, then, wonders if he should have shed those fatalist convictions aside, if he should have taken a chance on them. He should have said something, anything, but whenever he opened his mouth, nothing good ever escaped. Only jokes, flirts and unfair comparisons.

The young lord swears on the Blue Sea Star that he wanted to become better, to pull himself together. He vowed it on the Goddess Tower, after all, and those promises are not to be forsaken. He thought he had time, he thought she would wait, but it turns out he was wrong.

He never meant for it to go this far, for him to catch feelings for his professor after Moons of shameless flirting. As far as he had noticed, the young woman was quite contented in the relationship they had, with the constant naughty whispers exchanged in public just to make the other feel flustered, to calling each other ‘dear’ just to tease.

Sylvain never knew she wanted more. If he had, he would have provided for whatever she could need. If he had only asked, he would have been hers. He should have asked either way, because anything was better than this, being forced to haunt empty rooms and hallways, hoping to sneak a glance or a moment of her time.

This was a particularly pleasant night, the Great Tree Moon shone full above the monastery, as Byleth walked through the hollowed passages between the academy and her new apartments amongst the faculty.

A soft smile was playing on her lips at the delight she felt after returning to the classroom, after so much tragedy of war. Pedagogy was the first and only thing she really found herself in, and she was glad for the sentiment of normalcy settling over Garreg Mach, as a new batch of students came along from all three corners of Fódlan.

Alas, regardless of her personal feelings about her chosen profession, it was still hard work, and the former mercenary wanted nothing more than a spot of relaxing tea and the close, warm embrace of her soft bed.

She turned into another hallway, a tapping sound echoing in the emptiness with each step she took on her leather boots, when a hand suddenly gripped her forearm, tugging her into an empty classroom. She tried to steady herself, scowling as she heard the door slam behind her. Instinctively, her hand snatched her dagger from her robes, pointing it towards the perpetrator before she could even see them.

To the woman’s great surprise, he who stood in front of her was Sylvain Gautier, a solemn expression on his moonlit face as he watched her. She felt her lips fall into a frown, unimpressed that the person she considered one of her closest friends before he forcefully distanced himself had decided to pull this kind of stunt now.

“I swear to you that if this is some kind of sick joke, Gautier…” She snapped impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest and leaving the threat hanging between them. They both knew who was stronger between them.

“It’s not!” He rushed out, approaching her, only for her to step back again. “I just...”

“I do not have all night, you know.” Her eyes burned into his, annoyance bubbling into her stomach the longer it took for him to say something. “Sylvain, I…”

“Leave him.” He blurted out before she could even utter another word.

Byleth scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Aegir.” Sylvain amended his statement, becoming clear about whom and what he wanted to converse, his amber eyes looking back at the woman almost pleadingly. “Leave him.”

The professor released a cold laugh, disbelief running through her system at how stupid his request was. She was tired, to say the least, not enough energy running through her system to engage in an argument, so she turned to leave.

His strong, calloused hand grasped her arm again, keeping her in place, only for her to pull it back as if his touch had stung her.

“Please, Byleth.” He uncharacteristically pleaded with her. “I just want to talk to you.”

“There was a time I wanted to talk to you, too, Sylvain. Six Moons ago, to be more precise.” She sneered at him, eyes still glaring. “However, you were so adamant on ignoring my letters and visits, so I decided to let it go. I ought to you the same curtesy.”

“I never wanted any of this to happen!”

“When you say ‘this’, do you mean giving me in the healthy, committed relationship you could never bother to provide?” Her deceivingly soft hands made their way to her slender hips, to punctuate her dissatisfaction. “Let us be completely candid, Sylvain. Should you have not seen me with Ferdinand, should you have not heard of our engagement, you would not have bothered with me and whomever I choose to spend my time with.”

“Certainly not, I…!” He tried to interject.

“I find it so very convenient for you to admit that when I am in a loving relationship, no?” Byleth bit back sarcastically, cutting him off. “Are you unable, in some capacity, to stomach the fact that you cannot have everything you want? You cannot have me and all other womankind, and I would bet you merely want me to return to the position of your lover, if not just so anyone else cannot play what was once yours.”

It was absolutely jarring for them both to witness the usually stoic, soft-spoken Byleth to be so bitterly emotional, but the woman has held onto these frustrations and pains for much too long and it was time to let it out.

“Stop it, Byleth! You very well know it is not like that!” He growled, his features hardening as he tried to hold himself back.

“Then tell me what you want, Sylvain Gautier!” She exclaimed in anger.

“I want you!” He shouts, and then repeats with a softer voice. “I want you. I want to be with you and you alone.”

The professor turned silent once again at his confession, her harsh and judgemental glare softening at the words she would have liked to hear from him many Moons ago. Alas, things are different now. Now, she is in a relationship with Ferdinand von Aegir. Now, all the feelings she had for Sylvain were gone, replaced by anger and betrayal over the fact that he had led her on, only to force himself into her life when he realized she had gotten over him.

“You are so selfish.” Was all she thought to say. “I am tired, Sylvain. I am tired of loss and loneliness and fighting, and I was only more alone whenever I was in your company. You made me feel like I was worth nothing to you, and now you come forcing yourself back into my life as if you are completely blameless in the whole situation? I wasted so much time on you, Sylvain…”

“And I understand I am not worth it.”

“No, you were not.” She breathed out. “But it was freely given. Not anymore, though.”

Their eyes met again, his still pleading ones meeting the exhausted ones of hers. She has been wanting to talk about this for months, approaching him every opportunity she managed to weasel, but he brushed her off, always making excuses about being busy or away, when she would see him flirting and sneaking around with village girls as soon as she turns her head.

“I know you are at your best now. I can tell.” He mumbled after a few minutes, too soft that she almost did not hear. “And… And yes, I know how selfish I am being. I know how selfish it is to say that I hate it. I hate seeing you with him, flirting with him the way you used to do to me. I hate seeing you look at him as if he held the world in his hands. I hate… I hate the fact that you replaced me with him!”

“I did not replace you! Ferdinand is not some kind of substitute to you. He is his own man, and I am perfectly aware of the differences and similarities.” She took a deep breath in, calming herself. “Ferdinand... Unlike you, he has been a blessing on my life. He never made me doubt my relationship with him because he made sure to spend every second of the day assuring me that I am the only one for him, that I am not just some girl he would fuck around with for fun then leave eventually the same way you did.”

She grew self-conscious underneath his studying gaze, but she continued. “He made me realize that love is not supposed to hurt. That love could be both grand gestures and courtly affections and the small, everyday grind of life. I love his sunny disposition, his positive outlook on things, his delicacy and mannerisms. I even love his flaws. I love what he does for me and I love who I am when I love him back.”

“Anything Aegir does, I can do, too, Byleth.” The redhead petulantly pointed out.

“No, Sylvain” The woman sighed as she approached him, placing her hands on his shoulders so she could look him directly in the eye. “Love is not a matter of being able to serve and do things for the other person, it is not about the uncertainty of being servile enough that you feel entitled to it. I hope you will come to realize it when she find the same kind of love that I did.”

She pulled away, turning to leave, when she heard his all-to-familiar nickname for her leave his mouth. “Dear?”

Goddess above, did she hate the fact that her muscle memory had reacted, turning to him immediately at the name she had reserved only for each other over the years. The frown on her face told him she did not appreciate it when he called her that anymore, but he continued anyway.

“Please do not use this name on him.” There was a sad smile on his face, all traces of hopefulness gone. He has given up. “I can stand seeing both of you together, seeing you kiss as if you thought no one was looking, but I do not think I could stand hearing your voice call him the way you used to call me.”

There was silence in the air again, because how does one go about responding to a request such as that?

“I will make sure to keep that in mind until you are ready to let go, Sylvain.” She offered her own smile.

Leaning up, she leaves a lingering kiss on his cheek, his eyes fluttering close knowing it was a bid farewell.

Not waiting for an answer, Byleth left, eyes shutting as guilt filled her stomach the moment when she heard his pained sob echo through the lonely room as she shut the door behind her.

As the morning came, the Gautier heir had left the monastery and returned to his territory to the north. He would be wed before the season went out, hoping to find out what “getting over” love even means.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

[carriagelamp]

April 2020 Book Review - Quarantine Brain Fry Edition

This month of quarantine was much more challenging for me that last March... I suppose because we’re really in the throws of it, and the “extended spring break” feel has worn off. Between general World Anxieties and the incredible challenges of trying to adapt my work into an online setting, my brain has been absolute mush -- and I have a feeling I’m not the only one. Most of my books this month are either very easy reads (comics and children’s novels) or rereads or both! Honestly, I’ve been playing a lot more Animal Crossing than I have been reading...

So the theme for this month of reading? Treat your brain to a rest, and go reread that favourite comic or picture book or graphic novel from when you were a kid. We don’t have libraries or book stores at the moment, so dig deep into your shelf for something you love that you haven’t touched in a while. Here’s what I read:

Ghost Hunters Adventure Club and the Mystery of the Grande Chateau

I’m going to start with best and most unexpected book that I read this month (although this is actually a New Book and not a reread, so maybe it’s a bad start). It’s a Hardy Boys parody novel, and yes it’s by the Game Grumps. The only reason I even found out it existed was because my brother heard about it and we decided that this would be our next Sibling Read Aloud. It made a great read aloud. I was rather skeptical at first, but it was genuinely very clever and very, very funny. There characters were fucking delightful, as they bumbled their way through the mystery, and we ended up accidentally reading almost half the book in one sitting because we couldn’t put it down once we got to endgame. If you like satire and Classic Youth Mystery then do yourself a favour and give this a go. I am desperate for a sequel.

ISHI: Simple Tips from a Solid Friend

A picture book that was recommended to some of the local elementary children who are dealing with isolation from school and their friends. Its beauty is in its simplicity. It shows Ishi, a very simple white stone, experience challenges that it must then find ways to cope with. Things like loneliness, feeling empty or scared, being sad... all things children (and adults, I very much appreciated this little story) may be experiencing. This is definitely a picture book, not a self-help book, but it’s still very encouraging and makes me want to go and create my own Ishi. There’s a reading of it is online, and if you’re feeling like having a solid stone friend reassure you, I would recommend going to listen to it!

Bone 1-5

So, the first in my long list of books that I reread: I’ve started rereading the Bone series for the first time in years. Hands down one of my all time favourite graphic novel series. If you haven’t read Bone, it’s a classic and one of the best example of American graphic novels imho. It’s about Fone Bone and his cousins who, after being driven out of Boneville by Phoney Bone’s money-grubbling stunts, have found themselves across a desert and in a strange, fantastical valley where nothing makes sense. The three of them get drawn into the strange mysteries and adventures of Thorn, her grandmother, and the village of Barrelhaven. Such a perfect blend of beautiful art, comedy and off-the-wall cartoon-level hijinks, as well as really intense, dark adventure and tension as the story unfolds.

Also created this sequence, which may be the funniest two panels ever drawn in a comic

Here Is Greenwood v1

A charming ‘90s manga from my stash that I decided to reread. Honestly one of my favourite feel-good mangas, because it’s such a simple, pure, good-hearted slice of life without some of the gimmicks that other manga use. It’s about Kazuya starting at an all-boys school partway into the year, and moving into the school’s dorms. The entire book is just about him being constantly pestered by the well-meaning characters that share the dorm with him. It’s just goofy and fun, and has the fantastic aesthetic of a good ‘90s manga. Also, it was one of those books that, while technically not ~queer~ was also ~queer enough~ for my deprived teenage soul.

Blood Of Elves

The fourth book of the Witcher series that I’ve finished. I’ll be honest, not my favourite. I really enjoyed the beginning, the whole espionage thing with Dandelion, and then Ciri with Geralt, the Kaer Morhen witchers, and Triss. That was all really fun. It felt like it dragged a lot more though after Ciri joined Yennefer... And yet I love Yennefer as a character, she is hilariously snide and clever and really sweet with Ciri. But it felt like a scene that could have been done in a couple chapters took up half the book. Maybe that’s just because, as I said, my brain was mush and I couldn’t deal with it. I have the next book and as soon as my brain doesn’t look like chicken noodle soup anymore I will be starting it!

The Mouse and the Motorcycle

You know I love a good animal adventure story, and this is one that I adored as a child. The story of Ralph, a young mouse living with his family in a rundown motel, and how he and a young human boy discover that they can understand each other through a shared passion for vehicles... in particular a red toy motorcycle. There’s just something heartwarming about Ralph racing around a motel on a tiny toy motorcycle that runs when he makes motorcycles noises. I’ll have to find the second one as soon as libraries are open again.

Kit: The Adventures of a Raccoon

Another animal adventure story from my childhood, although this one is more of a chapter book than a true novel. This is a book that I’ve been lowkey hunting for years and finally came across in a school library. It’s a more realistic look at what a raccoon’s life is like, from birth to adulthood. Rereading it, it’s not a particularly exciting book and wouldn’t have otherwise stood out to me, but there’s still something that calls to me. It’s very gentle and makes this raccoon’s growing and learning feel very soft and compassionate, even if there are tragedies and death.

A quick edit because it was only just now that I realized that this is a Canadian lit book! Always exciting to discover that a favourite is Canadian!

Calvin and Hobbes: Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat

Calvin and Hobbes, yet one more bullet to add to the list of Comfort Comics that I’ve pulled out to keep my mind entertained while I can’t quite process Proper Novels. I doubt there’s anything I can say about Calvin and Hobbes that hasn’t already been said. You’ve either read these books already, and are nodding along with  me, or you haven’t and therefore are not a human being I can relate to.

Spy vs Spy

I dug out some of the old Spy vs Spy comics we had as kids. They’re basically falling to pieces, but it was fun -- like so many other books on this list -- to revisit something so familiar but which I haven’t looked at in years. These were a very odd experience to reread, because on one hand Spy vs Spy comics have such a simple, goofy premise it’s hard not to just grin and laugh while you read them, but also like... yup they sure are old and kinda ~problematique~ eh? Whatcha gonna do.

The Twisted Ones

The read aloud my brother and I did before Ghost Hunters, although we technically finished reading it at the very end of March, but too late for it to make that book roundup post. Look, I’m not going to defend myself here. Yes, I’ve read an obscene number of Five Nights at Freddy’s books. The first one of this series The Silver Eyes was honestly better than I would have expected. This sequel was not as good, unsurprisingly, but the main character is still so fucking bizarre, so different than the sort of protagonist I would normally expect from a series like this, that I can’t quite bring myself to stop reading them. And when I had a moment of Realization, about what might be in store for the third book, I genuinely screamed at my brother who was reading at the time. So yes. Somehow this youth horror is better than it has any right to be -- not good but better than it should be -- and yes I will be reading the third the second the libraries open again.

The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh

Another reread! This was a book I got as a birthday present when I was in... probably preschool? It’s a cross between a large picture book and a chapter book. It’s essentially a “novelization” of the original Disney movie, and it has such cute art to go along with it. Winnie the Pooh has always been a favourite of mine, and reading this old book was like a warm hug. Makes me want to see if I can get my VCR set up so I can watch that old movie again...

Frog and Toad Together

A friend found someone reading this book in a very asmr-style on youtube and recommended I listen because they found it super chill. And they were right! It is ridiculously chill. I’ve never read a Frog and Toad story before, but it’s really just a very cute old book that immediately launches you right back into grade one.

The BFG

This is my first time reading the BFG and it has all of Dahl’s usual charm and quirkiness. A young girl gets plucked out of an abusive orphanage by the Big Friendly Giant, who brings her to the terrifying Land Of Giants... all of which are bigger and crueller than the BFG, and who have an appetite for human flesh. It was quick and fun, and it’s always hard not to fall in love with Dahl’s sweet characters, especially this big eared, dream-catching giant.

[n00dl3gal]

Baking and Entering (McCree x OC Commission)

Another commission for @junko-brewer, again featuring their OC Bunny! I was happy to revisit this pairing for a more action packed story.

Commission info: https://n00dl3gal.tumblr.com/post/188373806787/writing-commissions-open

It was supposed to be a routine heist. Get in, get out, enjoy the payday. Nothing to it. But Ashe had to get greedy, B.O.B. had to be a bit too creaky, and Jesse… 

Jesse had to see the prettiest girl on the planet. 

She had to be around his age, maybe a bit younger, eyes wider than a semi-truck. Her hair was tucked into a messy bun, dirty blonde strands flying in every direction. Her lips were full, crooked at the edges from smiling too much. The kind of girl any man would be honored to bring back home and introduce the parents to. Provided that man wasn’t part of a notorious gang infamous for robbing most of Southwestern and Midwestern America. The kind of girl who’d never go for a guy like Jesse McCree. 

Honestly, that just made her cuter in Jesse’s opinion.

They hadn’t even spoken. He just noticed her crossing the street when he was supposed to be on lookout duty. He got a bit distracted, didn’t notice the guards, who then heard BOB. And it was BOB’s job to keep Ashe from plundering too much from their target. A symphony of errors, or something. Oh well. 

He held his finger over the trigger, eyes glancing back and forth like a metronome. He hadn’t gotten hit, thankfully, but he heard something ricochet off of BOB just a few seconds ago. The guards were still firing, and the last thing Jesse wanted- 

Something grazed past his arm, then his leg, he let out a yelp when they hit his shoulder. 

 -was to get caught in the crossfire. 

He rolled under a bench or table of some sort, using his free hand to find the wound. The bullet hadn’t lodged itself in, thankfully, but it took a chunk of flesh with it when it hit. Jesse pulled the bandana off from around his neck and wrapped it around his shoulder. Not ideal, especially when he was bleeding in multiple places, but he had to attend to the most important wound first. 

He poked his head out and looked around, gun close to his chest. If he spotted someone, he’d shoot. Unless it was another Deadlocke member; he’d made that mistake before and he was certain Ashe wasn’t going to take too kindly to him pulling that same stunt again. But the only person he saw was a larger guy in a white suit. Deadlocke didn’t wear white suits. He was turned away, but Jesse could tell he was the one who shot him. 

If the man was a professional, Jesse would only have one shot before he’d be killed. Time to be clever. He fumbled through his pockets, looking for anything that might prove useful. All he had was a bunched up receipt from dinner the night before. It would have to do. Jesse did an underhand toss, beaning the receipt against a painting. The painting shook and clattered against the wall. As the guard turned around to investigate, Jesse rolled out from underneath his hiding spot. A quick Flashbang to the face and two shots from his gun, and the guard’s suit was rapidly changing red. Jesse placed two of his fingers against the man’s neck. No pulse. He was tempted to take his hat off in respect, but there wasn’t any time. He had to leave before another guard found him. 

Maybe he should stay to make sure Ashe was alright, but then again, she had B.O.B. Jesse was on his own. 

Clutching his shoulder, he sprinted out of the room. With his luck, he was probably leaving a blood trail, but there was no time to patch up. As soon as someone realized the dead guard was… well, dead, more would arrive. Jesse was a good shot only when he wasn’t handicapped. At least his dominant hand had been spared, but the pain was still going to affect him.

He found himself in a foyer, opulent and pristine, except for the broken vases and overturned chairs. The front door was a no-go. He’d have to go out the back. So he backtracked, back through the library and into a kitchen and finally a grand backyard. Damn rich people. 

Jesse took a second to rest in one of the perfectly-manicured bushes. His whole left side was injured. Better than his right side, but still less than ideal. His appearance was going to be a dead giveaway to his affiliations. He needed to find someplace quiet he could lay low in until the fuzz were gone. His mind went back to what Ashe had said before the stakeout. “There’s an apartment complex ‘bout two blocks from here. Nothin’ fancy, and not all of ‘em are inhabited, so head there if things go sour.” 

With his destination in mind, he set off again. 

. . . 

Bunny was prepared for a quiet evening of baking. She had gone to the store earlier that day, buying the few things she didn’t have to try out this new cupcake recipe. Of course, she had scolded herself for her negligence. What kind of self-respecting baker didn’t have a supply of butterscotch chips? 

Nevertheless, she tied an apron around her waist, humming to herself. It was a cool evening, the last breeze of spring ushering in summer, so she left the screen door open. The fresh air would also keep her small menagerie content while she worked. All seemed well, and Bunny set about preheating the oven. 

And then the screen door slid open. 

Bunny nearly screeched, but held her tongue. It was the wind, right? It had to be. Except she turned around and found herself staring at a man in dark clothes and an honest-to-God cowboy hat. They both stared at each other, just for a moment, and Bunny finally let out a scream. 

The stranger had crossed the kitchen in an instant, holding a gloved hand against her mouth. “Shh! Ya tryin’ to get us killed?” he snapped. 

She bit on his hand, hard enough to feel even through the leather of the gloves. He flinched away, yelping like a kicked puppy. “Killed? You just broke into my-” “I know, an’ I’m sorry, miss, but if ya’d let me explain-” “What good reason is there for anybody to be breaking and entering- you’re hurt,” she realized, reaching to touch his shoulder. 

He winced and hissed in pain. “I almost forgot about that.” 

“How do you almost forget about- that’s a gunshot wound, sir, we need to call an ambulance-” Bunny fretted. “Please don’t,” the stranger insisted. “I-I’m on the run from some folks, ya see, an’ I thought yer apartment would be a safe hidin’ place- it’s a long story, but they ain’t good people.” 

A fugitive? Or a victim? Bunny didn’t know. But this handsome stranger- yes, he was quite handsome- was still responsible for ruining her evening. Yet she was never one to deny help to those in need. She sighed. “I-If you know what you’re doing, I m-might be able to help?” she offered weakly, hoping he’d turn her down and decide that proper medical attention was better after all. 

Of course, he smiled like he just sold her the moon. It was an endearing smile, even under the circumstances. “I’d owe ya big time, darlin’,” he drawled, tipping his hat. Bunny flushed. Just who was this man? “My name’s Jesse, and I promise you, if ya do me this favor I will repay you.” 

“Y-you can call me Bunny,” Bunny said shakily, reaching to turn off the oven. “It m-might be better to do this in the bathroom, follow me.” He obliged, clutching his shoulder to prevent it from bleeding onto the floor. At least he was considerate. “Is- do you think the whatever-” “There’s no bullet left, if that’s what yer tryin’ to ask. Ripped right through. An’ I won’t ask you fer stitches, least not in the shoulder,” Jesse answered. “But a couple grazed my ankle and forearm, so if you could patch those up…” 

Bunny nodded, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. “And what about your shoulder? We can’t just leave it like that, it could get infected. Or there could be blood loss, or-” Did she say we? When did it become we? She barely knew him! 

But Jesse smiled. “Ah, I guess I should get a doc to see that. I’ll walk you through bandagin’ up for now and once the coast is clear, I’ll go to a hospital.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Bunny had a suspicion he was lying, but she also didn’t want to get involved in any sort of crime. (As if she wasn’t already involved, if this man really was a fugitive.) So she nodded and found her first aid kit. 

To his credit, Jesse spoke with experience and gently guided her through the process. She stitched up the shallower wounds and packed gauze into his shoulder after disinfecting it. Not once did he cry out, tell her she was doing poorly, or wince away. He actually tried to make conversation, asking about her apron and why the oven was on. “Bit late to be havin’ dinner, but I ain’t one to judge.” 

“Oh! I was going to bake, actually,” she explained, placing a band-aid over one of the stitches. “I had a new recipe to try out. But I guess I’ll be doing that tomorrow night.” 

“You bake? What’s your specialty?” Jesse asked, moving his leg to make sure the stitches were tight. 

“Cupcakes, although I’ll bake anything,” Bunny told him. “I was going to try out cinnascotch cupcakes- vanilla cupcakes with butterscotch chips, topped with cinnamon icing.” 

Jesse’s stomach growled. “Well, if that ain’t the tastiest sounding snack I’ve ever heard.” 

Bunny laughed. “I would offer you some, but it’s a bit late to start them. I could, however, offer some chocolate chip cookies I made a couple days ago?” Offering strangers cookies? Bunny, what are you doing? 

Said stranger stood, using the toilet as a balance. “If you’re offerin’. I’d hate to make you go to any extra trouble, Miss Bunny. You’ve already done me a great service.” 

“I-it’s not a problem, really!” she insisted, helping him up. “But let’s do it in the kitchen? As wonderful as my bathroom is, it’s not the ideal place for a meal…” 

He nodded, following her back to where he first entered. As he did, he caught sight of a housecat. The cat spotted him in return, let out a loud mewl, and ran in the opposite direction. “I’m guessin’ your pet doesn’t take kindly to newcomers,” he said. “Phil is… skittish, particularly around men,” Bunny said. “Please don’t take it personally. But once he warms up to you, he’s the sweetest companion you could imagine.” 

“Pretty fitting for a woman as sweet as you,” Jesse replied glibly. Bunny stumbled, neck turning red. “I mean no offense, and I’m sorry if I took it a bit far, but few people would be willing to help out a stranger like that.” 

Bunny swallowed. Since when was her kitchen so warm- did she leave the oven on after all? “Especially if said stranger was also guilty of breaking and entering,” she answered slowly. Jesse laughed, and her shoulders eased. At least he had a sense of humor about it. 

“Ha ha, ya got a point! It takes a special kind of-” 

Knock, knock. 

Bunny turned to look at the door. Jesse was already paling, sidling up against a wall. “I ain’t here,” he whispered to her. Bunny glanced between both him and the entrance- another kock- before nodding. 

Two men stood beyond the front door. One was wearing a white suit. The once pristine fabric was speckled with red, and Bunny had a sinking suspicion it wasn’t paint. The other was a police officer. “Good evening, ma’am. We are wondering if you could answer a couple questions.” 

“Is something the matter?” she asked, putting on her most innocent voice. 

The police officer nodded. “The Darby estate not far from here was robbed by a group known as the Deadlock Gang. All of their members are now on the run, and we’re curious to know if you’ve seen any of them.” The man in white bowed his head. “They killed one of my colleagues, another bodyguard for Mister Darby. It would mean a great deal if we could find the killer.” 

Bunny’s throat felt dry. Was Jesse- he was injured, and clearly not above breaking the law, and on the run- but. But. She couldn’t just turn him in. There was no proof that he was the murderer, anyway, or even involved. “I’m terribly sorry about your friend,” she said slowly, “but I’m afraid I’ve been in my apartment baking all evening.” 

The police officer’s eyes trailed down to her apron. Her gaze followed, and she was horrified to see blood smeared on it. But she kept from crying out. “Seems as though you’ve had an accident.” She smiled at them, batting her eyelashes. “Oh, I’m a wee bit clumsy, is all…” Neither looked entirely convinced. She couldn’t blame them. She had no fresh wounds, no signs of an injury. “Hmm… mind if we have a look around?” the guard asked. 

“Don’t you need a warrant to do that?” she asked, twisting a strand around her finger.

The cop studied her but eventually nodded again. “Yes. We’re sorry to bother you, ma’am… if you hear or see anything, however, please call the police.” “Will do! Take care! Have a wonderful evening!” she said quickly, waiting until they had walked down the hall before shutting the door. She turned on her heel and stomped towards Jesse. “Do you mind kindly explaining why the people you are hiding from are the police?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly. “It’s a bit of a doozy, but I’ll give you the quick version…” 

And he did. He explained the Deadlock Gang, the reasons for robbing the Darby estate, and why the heist went sour in the first place. “Truth is,” he said bashfully, “I saw a woman walkin’ home and the sight just about knocked me out. Wouldn’t say it’s the whole reason the operation went sour, but it certainly didn’t help.” He took his hat off. “That was you, ma’am. I had no idea this was your apartment. But please, don’t feel guilty. My own fault for gettin’ so swept up in your beauty.” 

Bunny lowered herself into the kitchen chair. “You… I’m holding a fugitive. This is all-all a lot to digest. But… somehow, I believe all of it. And you’re sure that woman was me?” She pointed to herself in disbelief. Jesse nodded. She exhaled quickly, leaning back. She was no stranger to compliments, but they were usually about her cooking. To hear her own appearance described like that- to hear that she was disarming enough to bring a carefully laid plan to ruins… it was an odd rush she got. A happy one, a flattering one, but an odd one nonetheless. “Holy crap… Jesse?” Bunny looked at him with sad eyes. 

He sighed through his nose. “I know. I should go. And I promise to go to a hospital.” 

Bunny nodded, but gnawed at her lower lip. “Or-or your gang’s medic, or- whatever. But… but I want you to make me another promise.” She stood and walked across the kitchen to a drawer, rummaging through it for a moment. She found something and hunched over it, returning to Jesse with a scrap of paper. “Promise me that next time you’re in the area, you’ll give me a call… or a visit.” 

He took the paper with a shaky hand. “You’re positive?” 

Bunny smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “As long as you use the front door next time… yes.” 

(It was a promise he kept. Even throughout Blackwatch, his time guarding Dr. Liao and Echo, even his time on the run from his bounty. His visits were regular, and eventually became a bit more friendly… but that’s another story.)

[farplane]

liberty or death

septembre 2019: morgana arroway, castrum oriens, and a family’s past; a direct continuation of the taste of defeat. ffxiv patch 3.56 & minor 4.0 spoilers. 18+ nsfw. 16,136 words. (read on ao3)

When the smoke cleared, Morgana was alone.

Alliance soldiers swarmed the Wall under orders to ‘secure’ the castrum—some magitek stragglers and little else, after the Griffin’s stunt, but the arrogance had to be expected of the Grand Companies. The survivors from the Resistance were so few that their involvement may have seemed like a particularly vicious nightmare, if not for the bodies of her comrades lying dead everywhere she looked. Her whole unit decimated; dozens of friends fallen not upon imperial swords, but the mad plans of one of their own.

She would have spat on Ilberd Feare’s corpse, if not for the cowardice of such an act when she had not taken his life herself; if not for the fact that there was nothing of him left in the primal’s wake. She would have done a lot of things, if she’d had enough sense to be angry.

Rage was easy; rage had kept her warm all these years when her belly was filled only by gnawing hunger that dragged an unshakeable chill into her bones. But everything around her was senseless, and there was none of it in her mind and in her heart, either. Sense would have taken her back to Little Ala Mhigo, back to what remained of the Resistance on their side of the Wall—and thinking of the wrong side as theirs made her want to choke on the very word—while the Alliance took hold of the castrum. The only thing that had made sense for the last twenty years was acting for the Resistance, for Ala Mhigo; to survive long enough that she may see her homeland freed, and give her life when it mattered if she must.

Now, she could hardly even conceive of leaving the castrum at all; there was no clarity in her mind.

Her son was nowhere to be found.

She’d sent him off, naïve and barely trained, to face a man twice his years—a madman and a fanatic, but a man with more skill than any boy could have ever worked up from almost nothing in a matter of moons. She’d sent him off as an ally, but would that have mattered, to the Griffin? All those who had followed him were lambs for a slaughter, wood on a pyre. If Sairsel was gone, then—

She couldn’t bear the thought of it. The Griffin cutting him down, the primal consuming his body until he was nothing but one voice lost in a current of prayers and dying cries. Every waking hour, her mind worked up some new version of the horrors; every night that passed buried the knowledge, deep into her bones, that she had brought this on him. 

Anything, she’d said, and twenty years of rage had made her believe it. Morgana would have done most anything, for Ala Mhigo, but not this. Not giving her son’s life away like it was some cheap coin—and certainly not to summon a primal. She should have seen through Ilberd; she should have seen through the mask of familiarity and recognition in the losses they shared and found how far beyond the realm of the acceptable his plans lay, but she’d been blind, and Sairsel…

She could not let him go. The Alliance settled in around her, making a proper occupation of the castrum, and every day Morgana joined the soldiers on the Wall who gathered the bodies, sifting through familiar faces and those of strangers looking for her son’s. Every day she asked the soldiers who shared this duty with her if they had found him. 

My boy. My only boy.

As those days passed, she no longer knew what she could stomach. Would it be better, to find his body as she had found Gotwin’s—something cold and still over which to weep? Or should she be made to mourn him, halfway between grief and the foolish hope that he might have lived, as she had mourned Mathias and Havisa and every last person she had left behind in Ala Mhigo?

Even as the castrum was cleared, she never found an answer. It left her feeling as empty as those corpses, walking as though between worlds. I have survived everything that tried to kill me, she thought when the realm of the living pulled at her. I will survive this, too.

Would Sairsel want her to survive him? 

Not even that found an answer in her mind, and it was the emptiness that cut deepest. She did not know what he wanted, what he believed. She barely even knew who he was.

So she lived, for the time being. She hadn’t been able to step outside of the castrum and into East End, not on her own—she could not set foot on Gyr Abanian soil again with no one by her side, not when she had left it with the family she was running to protect. But she looked at it. She sat at the edge of the wall with a bottle in her hand and she watched the sun kiss the mountain peaks and she waited for something that she knew could not come.

Most of the Resistance survivors worked below, deployed to make contact with their brothers and sisters in Rhalgr’s Reach, and the Alliance soldiers rarely spoke to her. Likely a number of them thought her mad. The heavy footfalls on the metal were of no concern to her; they always passed.

But not these. They came near, and they slowed, and they stopped. A silent presence, undeniable. And then her name, spoken in a voice deeper and rougher than she remembered—worn by twenty years and all the hardships that came with them. Her own voice had suffered the same.

“Morgana.”

She turned her head—not fully, her chin only brushing her shoulder, but she hardly needed more. There were too few men like him that she could not recognize even a glimpse of him: the Bull of Ala Mhigo, as fierce and proud as he had been on the bloodsands. His skin bronze in the waning daylight behind him, brighter than in the lights of the arena. He was stronger, wearing more scars, and Morgana was the same; they had both always been the same, and somehow, twenty years had not changed that.

The irony of the same man having taken so much from the both of them was not lost on her, even before she opened her mouth to speak to him.

“Been a while,” she said, sand scraping against her throat. “Have you come to arrest me, General?”

Raubahn took a careful step closer, then another. When Morgana didn’t stiffen or pull a knife on him, he lowered himself to sit beside her. “Not today.”

“You didn’t have to wait until we were both in the Shroud to pay a social call. Little Ala Mhigo was just next door; your little Ul’dahn soldiers knew the way well enough.”

The words were too sharp; they lingered like thorns on her tongue, so she attempted a bitter smile and presented him with the neck of the bottle in a silent offering. If Raubahn remembered her well enough, he had to know she was only abrasive because she no longer knew how to be anything else. I never was all that pleasant back home, either, if I’m honest, she’d said to him once. Some of us are just born bastards, I suppose. It’s only fitting that I had one of my own.

“I’ve been told you were looking for your son.”

“A fool’s errand; he was primal fodder. I need to accept it.”

“He may yet live,” Raubahn said. Morgana didn’t know whether it was a platitude, or something he truly believed. Both seemed unlike him. “He would not be the first to survive being thought dead.”

“And who would that predecessor be? Ilberd?” she asked, snorting derisively.

“So you knew him.”

“Aye, I knew him. Threw in my lot with him.” She shook her head. “I’ve always been a shite gambler.”

Raubahn smiled, melancholy and reserved, as he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. “I still have never seen anyone lose at dice as many times as I have you.”

“I’m sorry to report it hasn’t gotten better.” Morgana sniffed, drawing her eyes across the rising peaks on the horizon. “I’m still not certain what it is I said that made him take off that mask, but he did. Told me his name and what he’d done. He asked me if I cared, and I said no; I told him it wasn’t turning against a brother when he turned against you.”

To that, Raubahn said nothing, and Morgana did not search his face for the unspoken. The mountains were silent, too, but they did not see her the way he did.

“And now, where do I stand? On the graves of all the brothers and sisters he betrayed, my son among them.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think I do. The last thing I told him was to go to the bastard. Why else wouldn’t he be here, if not for Ilberd personally making a sacrifice of him? I ordered him—” she repeated, and her voice shook and died in her throat. She snatched the bottle from Raubahn’s hand, drank, and steadied herself, grasping onto bitterness in lieu of sorrow.

That was easier. She watched the mountains still as she poured a few sips’ worth of the alcohol over the edge of the platform, toasting no one.

“It is never easy to command one’s own child in battle,” Raubahn said. “But we give the orders that we think we must, and they fight with their own strength.”

“Right—you have a son, now, too,” Morgana said, mustering half of a smile. It was worth very little.

“I do. Pipin. I came into his life late, but…”

Morgana shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I bore mine in my own womb and you’ve spent more of your life with yours than I did.”

“You didn’t go back to him? After the Coliseum?”

“I couldn’t. When they killed Gotwin, I—I was sure they’d come for me. I couldn’t lead them back to him. And after that, in the Resistance… I saw no point in going back to a child who would be without a mother either way,” she said slowly. That wasn’t the whole of it; she’d done it for herself, too, because leaving him the first time had been so painful she couldn’t bear repeating it. After a time, it simply became easier to be alone, leaving him to a better life than she could have given him.

“Did I ever tell you his name?”

“No,” Raubahn said, keeping his voice gentle.

“Sairsel. His father named him,” she said, wishing that he’d only ever needed this name, and not hers. It might have saved him from being led back to her. “Sairsel Arroway.”

“A good name.”

Morgana could bear to say nothing else, and Raubahn did not dare. He had to know she’d hate it, but he was still gentle and careful in the way he raised his hand to rest upon her shoulder. For as long as his touch remained, she thought of blindly reaching up and taking it, even if she couldn’t even look at him; her hands were heavy in her lap, gripping the bottle so tightly she thought she might break it. Her chest shook from the sobs that she wouldn’t allow to take breath.

Ever so slowly, she shifted towards him, like a quiet tide creeping towards the shore. She drew closer until her knee was against his and she could bury her face in his neck, a fist curling at his thigh. She did not weep, but she shook with sorrow and with rage and with shame, and he moved his hand to her back and said nothing.

“They don’t like us,” said Gotwin.

“Of course they don’t like us,” Morgana replied without looking up from her sword. She swept the whetstone one last time across the blade, blew, and lifted it up. “These gladiators, they’re just show chocobos, and they know it. Their whole purpose is just to fight and die on the bloodsands, and we show up, and we know real battle. Makes them look bad.”

Ul’dahns had been content enough to accept Ala Mhigan refugees within their borders, at first; the coin-lords saw profit to be made on their backs through cheap labour and desperate trade, but the veneer was beginning to wear thin for everyone else not benefitting as the moons turned. The gladiators themselves were, for the most part, most certainly not benefitting from the Ala Mhigans stealing their victories without, as Morgana had heard one of them put it, ‘paying their dues in training.’

She’d almost knocked his teeth out. Had they not paid their dues fighting for their lives when soldiers and magitek flooded their streets, looking to cut down any caught fleeing or resisting the Empire? Had they not paid their dues rising up against a mad king who had already spilled too much blood? Gotwin and Morgana had been raised with swords in their hands. They had paid their dues a hundred, a thousand times over.

“And maybe that sort of talk isn’t helping us all that much,” Gotwin said, his nonchalant irony making Morgana roll her eyes.

“You here to make friends, then? Because I’m not.”

“Not at this rate.” Gotwin threw a cursory look around the training grounds as he stretched, motioning with his head towards the man across the field who seemed hells-bent on decimating the striking dummy making a pitiful stand before him. “What about him, you think?”

“What, the Bull? Doesn’t look like the sort who likes anyone. And they like him even less than they do us.”

Morgana shrugged as she stood, rolling her wrist to spin her sword once. As far as she was concerned, the one they called the Bull of Ala Mhigo had a few damned good reasons to have that air about him. The first being that he was Ala Mhigan; that would be enough on its own, and Morgana figured that she would be just as wild and angry if not for the family that kept her sane. The Bull’s second good reason was that he’d been dragged to the Coliseum in chains to be executed upon the bloodsands—and lived long enough to free himself, but freedom was a strange thing to have without a home.

It was comforting, Morgana supposed, to know that at the very least, she and Gotwin had come to risk their lives on those sands by choice.

She bent to retrieve her shield and tapped the flat of her sword against it, catching Gotwin’s attention. Her body settled into the ease of a battle stance. “Come on, you lazy sod. You can make doe eyes at the Bull after we survive our next bout, and maybe I won’t steal your wife.”

Gotwin was ill.

With a healer for a wife, it meant his life was in no danger, but Havisa had a will of steel, and no amount of miserable begging on his part could convince her to force his body to bring itself back together enough that he could step onto the bloodsands. It also meant that Morgana was to be alone in the arena that night, and that the First Sword of the gladiator’s guild had a scowl on his face.

“I’m going to have half this town up my arse, Arroway,” he said, rubbing at his forehead. His attention was half on her, half on the bright-haired girl—no older than seven summers, by Morgana’s estimate—working on her form two feet away. Mostly on the girl. “Mylla, Thal’s balls, your stance is too narrow. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

“Her stance is just fine.” Morgana made a fist below her navel. “Women have lower root centers. She won’t be balanced right if she widens it,” she said, then put both hands on her hips. “Your arse is going to be fine.”

“You Ala Mhigans don’t understand how I make money. What do you think all these fine people will think, when I announce the Griffin’s Talons and give them a fucking one-legged chicken?”

“I’d say it’s going to be very hard for them to understand a word of your announcing because the little chicken ripped out your tongue,” Morgana said flatly. She clucked for good measure, holding his gaze with a withering stare.

He closed his eyes with a sigh. “Twelve, woman. Do you ever make anything easy?”

“No, man.”

“I’ve a bout set up for a pair and only one fighter. You can count far enough to understand my issue, yes?”

It was Morgana’s turn to sigh, a long and measured exhale. “My brother will fight when he’s well enough, and not a moment before. It isn’t like I’ve come to beg you to pay him regardless of his presence—I’m informing you that I’m here, and he’s not, and I trust your clever sense for profit to make this work like you would with anyone else.”

The guildmaster leveled a cynically tortured expression at her, but Morgana maintained her refusal to offer any semblance of sympathy for a man who made a living training men and women to die in an arena. There was honour in the training of warriors, and no Ala Mhigan would dispute that—and Morgana was under no illusion that she held any moral ground as a gladiator—but she was growing weary of the manner with which he always seemed to want to make it into some sort of great plight.

His gaze drifted to the girl as his mind worked. Morgana snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“I’ve got as much claws on my own as I do with Gotwin. You’ll have a show whether he’s here or not.”

“Aye,” the guildmaster said, a solution forming in his mind. “And gil will flow.”

When Morgana saw the bout rosters an hour later, she swore, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found to hear her complaints. Another hour later, she stood inside the tunnels with the crowd roaring beyond the gate at a skinny Miqo’te in a desperate bout with a coeurl. In the tunnels on the other end of the arena, five prisoners with crude weapons awaited the battle that would cost them their lives, hoping for freedom in the blood of their would-be executioners.

She could have been their sole executioner, and it wouldn’t have made a difference, but the guildmaster—and the coin-lords who sank their gil into the Coliseum, and the people who gambled for a piece of their fortune—had wanted his show.

The Bull of Ala Mhigo stood beside her, silent as a monument.

“Is there anything I should know?” Morgana asked as the Miqo’te avoided a sweep of the coeurl’s claws with a somersault where his hands did not even touch the ground. “Or would you rather keep all your old injuries and blind spots to yourself so that I don’t know your weaknesses if we ever have to face each other in there?”

“I can already tell you yours. I’ll cover them.”

She snorted. “Is that so?”

“You can’t turn your head fully to the left; your brother compensates by staying near your flank. He’s left-handed, so you favour back-handed—and underhand—strikes more than the average warrior. It makes you unpredictable, but your momentum tends to be more rooted than mobile.”

Morgana didn’t know whether she was irritated or impressed; her meager smirk seemed to be reaching for the latter.

“All right, so the quiet one is good at watching.”

“I rely overmuch on charges, you might have noticed from the name,” he said, a tinge of self-derision to his voice. “It is a gamble; I’m left open as I recover. My heavy strikes are slower. Also, I took a Garlean arrow to the knee on the Ilsabard border,” he said, tapping his right leg. “I still can’t pivot quite well enough.”

“You might pivot better if you didn’t rely on kicking anything and anyone that gets close,” Morgana said, her mood alleviating.

“So you do watch, too.”

“I see. There’s a difference.”

Rather than countering the statement with a request for clarification, the Bull nodded as though she made a fair point. He moved a hand, palm face-up, in front of Morgana. “Raubahn.”

His hand was far larger than hers, but Morgana always kept her grip heavy. When they shook, it was as equals. Out in the arena, the coeurl fell limp, and the Miqo’te dropped to his knees with the relief as the crowd cheered for him.

“Morgana.”

The gates opened, and the light swept in. The Bull and the Talons of Ala Mhigo stepped onto the sands as equals, and left the arena bloodied—and as comrades.

“How did it go?” Gotwin asked, propping himself up in bed with some degree of misery. Two summers ago—perhaps even less—Morgana would have joked and called it his deathbed, but now, the words seemed violently out of place.

“Well, as you can see, I’m still standing with all my limbs and all my innards where they should be.”

Gotwin managed a pitiful little smirk. If he’d voiced his concerns, it would have earned him Morgana’s ire, but she knew as well as he did that sending her off to fight on her own when they always fought at each other’s side had worried him. He didn’t have to speak to show his relief; placatingly, Morgana gave his cheek a pat, and that was that.

“I know you’re just fine; if I still haven’t figured out how to kill you, no one else will,” he said. “I meant the bout.”

“There’s not much to be said of it. Our wise and respectable master wouldn’t let me fight it on my own, so I didn’t,” Morgana said, giving a resigned shrug. “The other one didn’t die, so maybe he’s just going to replace you, now.”

Gotwin wrinkled his nose; Morgana thought that he was about to sneeze and took a gratuitous step back. “Who’d he saddle you with? He better not have used the Griffin name on an Ul’dahn, that slimy—”

“Don’t get yourself all worked up; Havisa is going to skin me alive. It’s fine. I was the Griffin’s Talons on my own. Our good friend the Bull of Ala Mhigo already has a good enough name for himself.”

“The Bull?” Gotwin said, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose it makes sense. How does he measure as a partner?”

“The man’s seen his fair share of battles, that’s for certain. Mhigan through and through. I was surprised; he’s watched us fight enough that he knew where to stand with me. Crowd seemed to like it.”

Gotwin nodded. Before he could manage even one other word, Havisa appeared behind Morgana as though she’d stood there the entire time. “It is far too late for you to be up chatting,” she said, pointing a threatening finger at her husband. “And you should know better than to encourage him.”

“He looks like the very image of health. Only slightly green,” Morgana said, almost at the same time as her brother spoke.

“I’ve been confined to this bed and to sleep all day, my love. Surely—”

Havisa’s tone cut without mercy. “Surely you can yet rest through the night.”

“Tomorrow,” Morgana assured Gotwin, relenting. “I can tell you both about the match then.” Around Havisa, she softened; her smile was easy as she glanced down at her, pressing an affectionate kiss to her sister-in-law’s cheek and drifting towards the doorway. “Do as your wife says and get better, Gotwin, or I’ll end up getting paired with a bull for the rest of my fighting days.”

Morgana had spent too long in the woods; every night in Ul’dah made that abundantly clear. The way the stones drank the warmth of the sun to carry it through the cold desert night choked her, and the starry sky above appeared only to be a patch of something that she knew to be greater, endless—and there was irony in that. Under a canopy of trees, the Shroud only lived up to its name, the sky veiled by branches and leaves as far as the eye could see; how could it ever compare to the endless expanse that arceed over the Gyr Abanian mountains from one side of the horizon to the other?

Thanalan was more open than the forest could ever be, but she still felt trapped. Through the worst nights, a voice inside Morgana urged her desperately to go, to leave, to move, even if no part of her knew where. She had enough of running; her family had enough of running. There was nowhere else she could—not should—be, and she laboured to write those words into every fibre of her being.

The nights laboured to erase them: they swept over those certainties as though she had traced letters in sand, and replaced them with the voice of a babe. How many times since parting with him had she been woken by her own imaginings of Sairsel’s fragile whimpers? They had no place here, but she still found herself, far too often, on her feet in the darkness of her cell before she was even fully awake—only then realizing, as her skin touched the cold stone, that the voice she heard only screamed within the confines of her own mind.

She ached for him, for those searching eyes, for his tiny little mouth and his primly pointed ears. She missed the smiles that he had begun to form. Being without him was an emptiness worse than even the losses that sundered her time and again since the fall of Ala Mhigo, a weakness she’d never known to endure; how could she have? Most of her life, she’d scarcely ever imagined herself as a mother, and even less so a mother without a home whose son belonged neither quite in the Wood or at all in Ul’dah.

The emptiness, she usually shook away through keeping awake under that night sky, with a sword in hand as though it might serve to slice her a larger few patches of black velvet and shining stars. A practice sword, but a sword nonetheless.

As she crossed over from the gladiator barracks to the training grounds, Morgana found that she was not the only one to have had the idea: the rhythm of repeated strikes against a striking post echoed through the night’s silence long before she was even inside the practice arena. Hesitation bound her for two faltering footsteps—she had no particular desire to share the space with an Ul’dahn from whom she kept as much distance as they did from her—but she pressed forward, more desperate to wear herself to sleep than she was for complete solitude.

It should have come as no surprise that it was her countryman, rather than any other gladiator, going about thrashing the striking post. Morgana could have pretended that it was exceptional Ala Mhigan discipline, that it did not go as deep as it did—but she knew better than that. Not one of his moves took shape in the manner of real training; there was no pursuit of betterment in the way he unleashed his ferocity upon the post. A man who trained was sharp, focused. He was lost in it.

Morgana watched him for ten moves. At first, she studied his stance: narrower than when he truly fought, his torso angled nearer to the post than it needed to be. In a real bout, an opponent might exploit the change in his balance, use his momentum to topple him over—but this served him to unleash the full weight of his titanic frame, and the striking post shook in its foundations from every blow. Despite the chill that fell over the city at night, he’d elected to train bare-footed and shirtless; the low torchlight turned his sweat-slick skin to gleaming bronze, shadows shifting across the lines and curves of his muscles. As the tenth blow fell, she regarded the tense set of his jaw, the stiffness in his grip, and decided to step forward.

“You fight two bouts in one evening and it still isn’t enough to sate your appetite?” she asked, leaning against a pillar and crossing her arms over her chest. “Rhalgr himself couldn’t find a more eager pupil.”

Raubahn met her lofty tone with an exhale that could have been a scoff as much as a sigh, glancing fleetingly at her—down, up, away—before directing his attention back onto the striking post. “I do not sleep,” he said, his voice clipped by the effort of his next blow. “Not as long as there is any fight left in me.”

The weight of the unspoken weaved between his words could have choked a man. Morgana understood, and he knew without looking—without knowing her outside of the intimacies of shared battle—that she did. Those truths hung in the air, silent but for the thunderous rumble of his blows.

“It’s a marvel you haven’t exhausted yourself into an early grave.”

He grunted, spinning on his heel to deliver a backhanded strike. “Early, timely; I no longer know.”

“Don’t wonder. It’s a waste of energy better spent on surviving.”

“And you?” Raubahn asked, finally falling still. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Morgana said. She pushed herself off of the pillar, crossed the length of the arena until she was standing with a hand against the striking post he was abusing, eyes steady on him. “So maybe you could wear yourself down on something that will actually hit back.”

Raubahn considered her, his gaze trailing down again; this time, it caught on the pink scars at her throat, and there was something strangely disarming in that. She preferred the brief new flashes of interest that he now allowed himself, looking away before crossing the border into impropriety.

“Fists or swords?”

Morgana smirked and turned on her heel, going to a basket full of training staves and tossing Raubahn one. “The Mhigan way,” she said as she took up a staff of her own. She spun it in one hand, tossed it to the other, and clasped both hands around it behind her back to stretch. “It’s how my mother taught me to fight.”

“See, I learned with pitchforks. One of my friends did not have very good aim,” Raubahn said, pointing to three small, puckered scars just above his hip bone. Morgana grimaced. “It was real swords and the military after that.”

They both gravitated towards the center of the training grounds, walking onto the square: a mat fashioned with supple leather and filled with enough straw to feed every chocobo in Ul’dah upon which the gladiators fought and wrestled, replicating the unsteady ground of the bloodsands without the mess. Morgana angled her body away from Raubahn’s and widened her stance, knees bent, whipping out the staff at her side in a perfect line that followed the length of her arm. She said nothing else to him; battle spoke more clearly than any of her skill with words ever could.

“Let’s dance, then,” Raubahn said as he fell into his own battle stance.

It had nothing of a dance, even before the first strike: they circled each other as predators might a prey, and grace was forgotten when Raubahn charged forward. 

His staff cracked against Morgana’s as she blocked with both hands, the force of the blow reverberating through her arms like coursing lightning. She pushed back against him and snapped her right hand up to strike the side of his jaw with the end of her staff. Startling, but not meant to injure; it was only enough to make Raubahn shake his head, blinking against the surprise. Morgana smirked, but the Bull of Ala Mhigo was not stunned for long.

What ground she’d gained on him, negating the advantage of his reach, he took in driving her back with three heavy thrusts. She parried the first two, and the third struck her shoulder with a burst of pain. A few strides were enough for him to push her nearer to the edge of the mat, but her back heel was firm against it, and his next move was familiar: the gamble of a charge, the sheer mass of him a weakness as much as it was a strength. It could have sent Morgana stumbling out of the square, but she bent at the waist to dodge and snapped her staff across his back, twirling away as he grunted.

Her breath rose quicker in her lungs, the thrill singing in her veins. They traded harsh blows, more evenly matched than she’d expected, both blocking and parrying and striking back with such efficiency that the clapping of staff against staff echoed in an erratic rhythm through the arena like a fall of rain. Pushing in, pulling back; driving each other away only to come charging back in.

Morgana had Raubahn down on one knee after a series of quick thrusts that allowed her to get close and rob him of his balance when he tried to kick her back. His staff rose to block her two-handed cleave, and he jabbed a fist into her gut, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Precious seconds flew from her hands as her shoulders drew in, even as she did her best to mitigate her body’s instinct to curl in on herself; she tightened her core expecting another punch that didn’t come. Instead, Raubahn knocked her staff up and away from his, then swept it under her feet.

She landed on her left shoulder with a groan, breathing hard. Raubahn was back on his feet; his towering frame moved towards her, but his staff did not meet Morgana’s throat yet. Curling in on herself, legs swinging, she rolled away and got up on her feet in a low stance, one steady leg extended for balance. When Raubahn made to strike her again, she shot up to stand and snapped away his staff, bearing down—he blocked—then spinning away with a flourish to deliver a backhanded blow, her body sideways, arm extended—

It didn’t land. Raubahn was closer than she’d judged, and he caught her arm under his left, pinning her by the sheer force of his body. Morgana felt the proximity of bare skin on skin like the crack of a whip, or that coursing lightning, looking up into his face as she tried to wrench herself free. He had her firmly trapped, her grip tight on her staff but useless; she panted and watched his parted lips, felt the rise and fall of his chest against her.

Perhaps he expected her to surrender then. He raised his staff, aiming for her throat, but Morgana raised her empty left hand to catch his wrist, fingers as hard as claws. She held firm even as he pushed against it.

“Did you think you had me?” she asked.

“I have you,” Raubahn said, low in his chest. His gaze moved down to her mouth, too, and for a moment it seemed like he might say something else.

Morgana had no intention of turning this into a conversation. She tipped her chin up and her head back—carefully measuring the angle, prudent enough to remember that this was only a spar—and smashed her forehead into Raubahn’s nose. This time, he didn’t just grunt; he swore.

He might have stumbled back, if not for how closely they were locked together, but his grip faltered, and that was enough. Morgana ripped his staff from his hand and her own arm back from his hold, moving away from him and tapping the two staves together with a smug, satisfied look. The rush coursed along her spine as Raubahn stared at her, a hand covering his nose, and smirked in astonished delight.

“Bleeding?” Morgana asked.

Raubahn sniffed, wiping his knuckles underneath his nose and glancing down at his hand. “No.”

“Probably not broken, then,” Morgana said, nodding her head to one side. Her time in the Coliseum was turning her into more of a performer than she’d ever been: she twirled both staves in her hands, sweeping one arm up around her head while the other curled around her torso, and fell into a low stance with both staves poised like twin swords after one last spin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Pleasantly resigned, Raubahn readied himself with his fingers curled into loose fists and, this time, waited for Morgana’s first move.

She had no intention of fighting him with both staves—they were far too long for dual wielding without some degree of encumbrance, and putting him at a disadvantage could only end up boring her—but she delighted in seeing him take a defensive position. He displayed surprising agility, for a man his size: he met the new onslaught of her blows with quick, careful dodges, bending back and deflecting Morgana’s staff with the palm of his hand. His breath came sharp when she struck his side, muscles tensing.

It was a good show, for a matter of seconds, but Morgana found that she wanted to fight him up close again. She tossed his staff up with another spin, caught it in her sword hand, and discarded both staves together off the side of the mat.

They shared a grin—sharp and wild—and met each other with hard, unforgiving blows. Morgana punched and kicked, avoiding a jab at her flank at the cost of taking a hit against her chin that snapped her head back. The surprise destabilized her, and she was forced to crouch to avoid a sweep of Raubahn’s arm meant to grapple her. She sidestepped, moving in a sharp line towards his back, and kicked the side of her foot to the back of his knee.

He didn’t even bend long enough to touch the mat, but it was enough, lowering him closer to Morgana’s own height: she wrapped an arm around his neck to keep him in a tight headlock against the side of her chest. It forced him to bend forward, one arm falling around her waist to try and grab her elbow and break the hold, his other hand closing around her wrist—Morgana was relentless.

“Thinking of surrendering yet?” she asked breathlessly, a smirk growing on her lips. “Or shall I put you to sleep?”

Raubahn growled without anger, the rumble of his voice spreading through Morgana’s arm. Her legs were beginning to tire and shake from keeping herself so firmly grounded, but she held firm against his thrashing—pointless, she thought, and then everything escaped her as she felt the stunning blow of his fist against her head. It was little more than a tap, far from the ferocity with which he might strike in a fight to the death, but her hold weakened on him, and he was quick to seize the advantage.

Before Morgana could act, Raubahn pressed himself against her back and seized her in a stranglehold, strong arm tight against her throat as he lifted the other hand to the back of her head, locking her tight. Morgana struggled, at first, thrashing as he had against her, hands grasping his forearm. She elbowed blindly, meeting only hard muscle, as her lungs burned and her breath came less and less.

All she had to do was tap his arm, she knew, lift two fingers in his eyeline to show her surrender, but bowing to her own obstinacy was something she still hadn’t learned to do. Her fingers tightened against Raubahn’s arms, and she did all she could to shift her balance and throw him to the ground. His feet barely even shifted on the mat.

Morgana dropped to one knee, then the other; Raubahn followed her, lowering himself—she felt his stance shift, his feet widen behind her. Was he in reach? She let her hands fall from his arm, and breath returned to her by an inch as he loosened his grip for an instant, thinking her defeated.

She could move, if barely. Blindly, she reached a hand back, fingers meeting Raubahn’s ankle: opportunity. All at once, Morgana shifted all her weight to the side, pushing back against him, and moved her shoulder behind Raubahn’s leg. She wrapped an arm around it and pulled.

The beginning of his fall tugged her back, but he let go before slamming down onto the mat. Morgana twisted and took hold of his leg, lifting his lower body, smiling even as she took desperate, gasping gulps of air. His back arching up, Raubahn tapped his hand twice on the mat, and Morgana relented. He stared at her as he lay still on his back, breathless, and she burned.

Not for the fight. She thought she ached for more of it, more of that thrill, more of this exchange, but she realized as she stared at his mouth that it was more of him that she wanted, the warm and hard press of his body. It didn’t have to feel like a war—not against him, not with herself.

She had been fighting for so long that she no longer knew how else to be, but she tired of it. So she chose not to fight; not this time. She moved before she could hesitate—from where she knelt on the ground by Raubahn’s feet, she drew nearer, swinging a leg up over him to straddle his hips, and leaned down to crush her mouth against his.

Raubahn lay stunned for one heartbeat too long, as though he’d had his head smashed into something far harder than the mat; Morgana was moments from surrendering and pulling away when he tangled his fingers in her hair, his hand a steady weight against the back of her head. In this, they both cultivated little grace, too—too weary to delve into the art of it, too fiercely animated by the thrill of battle. Morgana was harsher in her kisses than she was in a friendly bout of sparring, and Raubahn matched her ferocity in a way no one else had.

They met in the bruising of that kiss as sharply as their staves had. Morgana slid her tongue against Raubahn’s as though she could still taste the fight on him, fire spreading down her throat even as she breathed through her nose. When she pulled back, her breath nearly hissed.

“All right?” Raubahn asked, concern flashing over his face as he propped himself up on an elbow to lift a hand to her neck. For all his strength, the touch of his fingers was delicate against her throat, not daring to brush against her scars. “Did I go too far?”

Morgana smiled, sharp-edged. “I’m fine. Don’t patronize me.”

She laid her hand over Raubahn’s, then slid it over his wrist, grazing the taut skin of his forearm with blunt nails. He shivered; his fingers trailed down the expanse of her neck, down the hollow of her throat, down her chest. His grey gaze burned hot on her—every inch of skin, of muscle, of the shadows falling over her scars—and she found that, for once, she delighted in the flames.

When she kissed him again, there was no surprise: he met her lips open-mouthed, breathless and wanting. Her hands ran down his bare chest; his slid up under the thin fabric of her tunic, thumb running along the bottom of her ribcage. Finally, Morgana shivered, too.

Raubahn pulled back to look at her again, meeting her eyes before letting his gaze fall, unreserved in its trajectory and its hunger. He kissed her neck, and Morgana almost expected him to bite, to at least graze his teeth—that would come later—when his lips parted, soft and warm alongside the scratching of his stubble.

She rocked her hips down against his—and, Twelve, she could feel him, almost as well as her own arousal, slick and hot between her parted thighs. Her fingers, bent like claws, slid ever down Raubahn’s chest as she rolled her hips and drew a moan from him, rumbling low in his chest and against her neck. One of his hands fell to her thigh, holding her as an anchor, and Morgana decided that she’d had quite enough of the fleeting touches. How did he seem to know so well how to make her want?

When she shoved his shoulder down onto the mat, it was almost as though they were yet fighting, but Raubahn did not resist it. He kept on touching her, hands roaming torturously, eyes watching her as she moved. Morgana sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep herself from keening as he pressed a thumb between her legs, tugged at the laces of her trousers so roughly she half expected to snap them, and shifted her weight forward on her knees. Courteously, Raubahn helped her push the fabric down as far as it would go while she unlaced his trousers.

He stroked his thumb against her while she wrapped her fingers around his cock and pulled it free, her breath fluttering in her belly. And, gods—he almost smiled when she swatted his hand away, head bowed, one hand coming to steady herself against his chest.

“I won,” Morgana breathed, rocking her hips down and along his length, still held in her hand. It made him heave a shuddering breath. “I get to have you how I want.”

Raubahn’s eyes briefly moved to the sky, letting out a sharp sigh, before his mind could grasp at the words again. His voice was low and rocky with want. “Is that how it works, then?”

He tried to push himself up again, and she kept a heavy hand on his shoulder, keeping him against the mat. The same unspoken rules had carried over from their spar: he had only tap against her arm, against the mat, and she would end it. But he didn’t. He only drank her in as she spoke. 

“Tonight, it does.”

Morgana held Raubahn’s gaze as she moved a hand down between her legs and pressed two fingers inside herself, only dipping in—though she stole one greedy second of pleasure in curling her fingers up. Her fingers came away slick, even more so than she thought. And she was glad for it; she wanted to waste no more time. 

Morgana took him in her hand again, flicking her wrist for two slow strokes that spread her wetness from her fingers. Raubahn’s fluttering breaths made his chest shift under her other palm; she spread her fingers wide over the hard planes of muscle as she leaned forward onto her knees and guided him inside her and lowered herself onto him, ignoring the shaking of her thighs. Her fingers curled in against his skin. 

After how their fight had ended, Morgana’s breath still burned on its way through her throat. The rest of her was afire, too, with her muscles trembling and her skin burning everywhere Raubahn touched, even in the cool night air. And she ached with want, ached from the fullness and the pressure and the pleasure, and her mind spun as she took in all of him. It stopped her thinking; there was only Raubahn, strong and hot and just as lost as she was, and the same urgency with which they had fought. She didn’t need to catch her breath. She only needed to move.

One of Raubahn’s hands slid up her torso as she began to rock her hips, trailing over the now-fading white lines on her belly, feather-light along her ribs, and up to cup her breast. Morgana pressed her own hand over his, fingers tight, and sighed as she bowed her head. He breathed hard, too—quiet, at first, thrusting up shallowly in time with her rhythm, until she grabbed his wrists and leaned forward to pin them to the mat. Her heavy kiss muffled his moan, and she tightened her thighs around his hips and kept on holding him down. When her fingers slipped between his, linking their hands, she drew back and rose up again.

She steadied herself with her palms on his chest and rode him hard, losing herself in the sensation. When Raubahn shifted his hips as she pushed up, her body jerked, and her voice cut through the air with something that was half a gasp and half a moan; he drew that sound out again, pleasure rippling through her in waves.

That was when he pushed himself up so that he was almost sitting, one hand coming to Morgana’s lower back to hold her close as he stole a kiss from her lips and rocked along with her quickening pace. She hadn’t expected—or wanted—the closeness, but now she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and her chest brushed against his and—gods, she only needed a little more. 

Morgana brought her other hand down to where they were connected, feeling him move in and out of her against the tips of her fingers as she rubbed tight circles over herself, familiar and sure, building up until all her pleasure crashed over her—and she moaned and dug her nails into Raubahn’s shoulder as she let the tide wash over her, jerking and clenching around him. He groaned against her throat.

“Morgana,” he breathed, taut, as her rocking slowed. His fingers tapped twice against the side of her thigh—surrender. 

She lifted herself up shakily and reached back, fingers touching his wrist as he quickly finished himself off, his moan muffled against her shoulder.

They fell still for a while, panting and trying to catch their breath, sweat cooling on their flushed skin. Morgana felt the echoes of her pleasure still coursing through her, slow and tingling—it was a pleasant enough sensation, but she was wearier than she’d expected, and she was now simply aching all over.

She considered kissing Raubahn again, didn’t, and readjusted her trousers as she pushed herself up to stand. She was a wet mess, and she appreciated his courtesy of warning her before he could make it worse.

“Do you need a rag?” she asked.

“I’ll, ah, manage,” Raubahn said as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

Morgana didn’t look at him or linger long; the last time she had, she’d grown too fond, and ended up with a bastard in her belly for her trouble. She busied herself with getting the staves back with the rest of the training supplies as Raubahn got to his feet, just as worn in his every movement as she was. When Morgana glanced his way, he seemed to want to speak.

“Should have no problem sleeping now,” she said before he could.

Raubahn chuckled, weary and bashful. “Aye. It was a good fight.”

“It was,” Morgana agreed, soft enough to smile. She made no more ceremony of it, and went on her way back towards the barracks, putting a hand on a pillar to spin back around to face him again. “Maybe some other time I can let you have a chance at winning.”

They were too evenly matched, and they both know it; it never was about chances. It wasn’t about the fight, either, but the exchange—clearer in battle for the both of them than it could ever be in words. Still, Raubahn smirked; it was the last thing she saw before she showed him her back again.

“I’ll not let you get bored of me,” he said as she left.

Morgana slammed her hand down on the table so hard that it rattled and shook the dice. “Bugger me to the seven bloody seas!”

As though to taunt her, the pale die—the one that looked like whitewashed bone, the greatest pain in her arse—tumbled off the edge and fell to the floor on the exact number she had needed to win.

“Has anyone checked whether she’s got a knife?” someone asked from behind, through the drunken gathering of gladiators watching the game and waiting for their turn.

Before she could think that that was a splendid idea, the brute force of Gotwin’s arms wrapped around her middle and dragged her up from the box upon which she sat as though she weighed nothing—and she was pound upon pound of drunken muscle. 

“Come on, now, Mora. Time for a bit of water, hey?”

“I ain’t paying you a single gil,” Morgana shouted over her brother’s shoulder as he steered her away from the table, “you mousy little shite!”

Gotwin patted the side of her head. “All right, all right; ‘s’all just dice. Keep that anger for the sands.”

In one last act of petty frustration, Morgana stiffened her body and clenched her fists before slumping like a ragdoll. Gotwin laughed quietly and set her down. Morgana hadn’t drunk so much that it changed her speech or made it hard to stand, but it slowed her senses enough that she didn’t see the oncoming blow when she turned to face her brother: he flicked her nose the way he did when they were children. She grimaced and swatted at his hand.

“Stop antagonizing everyone here. We have children to feed and it won’t help us if the whole barracks hate us.”

Morgana’s already foul mood soured even further. “Children,” she scoffed, shoving a hand without much force against Gotwin’s chest and lifting the other to her forehead. “A child, you mean.”

“Mora—”

“No. Let’s not. I hear you, loud and clear. I’ll endeavour to make friends,” she said, like chewing up a particularly bitter plant.

Gotwin crossed one arm over his chest and scratched the thumb of his other hand under his chin, considering; he had an air she didn’t trust. “And here I thought riding the Bull was making you—well, I wouldn’t dare use the word ‘happy.’ Less prone to bouts of unsanctioned violence?”

Morgana's fist connected with Gotwin’s shoulder harder and quicker than she could think to deny it. “Don’t you ever say those words to me again,” she said as he rubbed his shoulder. Then she stopped, took a breath, and didn’t look him in the eye. “How did you bloody know?”

“Maybe I’m a fate-walker. You don’t know.”

“You’re too thick to be a fate-walker.”

“Well, now you’ve hurt my feelings,” Gotwin said, then smiled as he nudged her shoulder. “Look—I only want to know that my little sister is doing all right. This happening for the right reasons?”

“The right reasons?” Morgana asked, grimacing; trying to keep her temper from jumping straight to insult. Usually, it was easier with Gotwin than most, but tonight everything gnawed at her. “I’ll thank you to stay worried about the things that do concern you. Gods, really—we have no home, the woman I loved is living under the fucking imperials’ heel and I’ve no way of knowing whether she’s dead or suffering, and my son is being raised in the forest by strangers. Should I be singing and dancing just because of cock?”

Gotwin coughed awkwardly, his gaze catching on something behind Morgana and growing uncharacteristically furtive. “You’re right; things are… difficult. I’m sorry. I, ah—I should go check on Mathias.”

It wasn’t like her brother to try and shuffle away, but the way he raised his hand, only half-up in a cursory greeting, gave her a fair idea of the source of Gotwin’s discomfort even before she turned and saw Raubahn. She didn’t know how to read his expression—amused? curious? offended?

No. He wasn’t the type. And neither was Morgana the sort to play coy, to ask how much he’d heard and try to make her words less crude; especially not when she’d drunk enough to give even less of a damn than she usually did.

“It’s good cock, for what it’s worth. And everything else,” Morgana said, flat but genuine.

It made Raubahn laugh: that low, rumbling chuckle of his that she was finding she enjoyed more every time she heard it. “I am glad to hear that I please.”

Morgana smirked and began to walk alongside Raubahn, slowly and aimlessly, away from the common room; the rowdy revelry growing more distant with every step felt like a blessing, as did the cool breeze blowing in from outside.

“Not gambling with everyone else?” she asked.

“I won enough for tonight. I like to step away while the winds still blow in my favour.”

“Twelve, I wish I could say the same. About a lot more than dice, too,” Morgana said unenthusiastically. 

They ambled towards the training grounds without even noticing where their feet took them—somewhere they both felt a bit more right. Morgana leaned her shoulder against a pillar and crossed her arms, and Raubahn stood with his back against it next to her. “Did you have a woman, back home?” she asked. “Children?”

Raubahn shook his head. “No time for anything that lasted; not with the fighting. Between the mad king and the imperials, I never settled anywhere long enough after I left home.”

“Where?”

“Coldhearth,” Raubahn said, and Morgana gave a few slow nods. She saw the distance in his eyes, the pull of memory, of three words she didn’t hear—liberty or death—and then he found her again. “You had a woman and a child back home?”

Morgana forced her jaw not to tense. “A woman, aye. She stayed behind for her parents. I haven’t the faintest idea whether any of them is still alive, naturally,” she said, sighing. “But my son was born on this side of the Wall. He’s only seen a few moons.”

“Congratulations,” said Raubahn kindly.

“There’s not a day that I don’t regret bringing him into this world,” Morgana said like cold steel, the words coming unguarded. “I still think, some days, that I should have gotten rid of him while it was still time, but I couldn’t do it to his father. Kind man. Better father than I am a mother.”

Raubahn said nothing—without the dulling of the alcohol in her veins, she might have actually found some concern as to whether he reserved some judgement for her, but he was silent to listen. Half-drunk, she understood that.

“He’s Elezen, my boy’s father. I’m—I think I’m afraid that Ala Mhigo will mean nothing to him,” Morgana said, all in one breath. She felt like she was drowning in her own blood as she turned her head and looked at Raubahn. “Not the imperials’, or the mad king’s—our Ala Mhigo.”

“It is our duty, no? To keep it alive until we can set it free.”

Morgana breathed in once, then out. When they had first come to Ul’dah, she could almost fool herself into thinking that the cooling rock and sand in the evening air smelled the same as it did in the Lochs, but it faded away a little more with every passing day. Now, all she could taste was dust.

“I don’t think it exists anymore.” Morgana sniffed, then made to turn away. “Anyroad, you didn’t have to listen to me whinge. We all have better to do.”

Raubahn caught her wrist, his grip loose enough that she only needed slip her hand out to break free. She only stopped and looked down at his fingers, thick and strong and scarred. A hundred fights, a hundred battles, and there would always be more. 

“Would you rather we remain strangers?” he asked. “I want to know you. We have all lost too much not to gain something here.”

Morgana kept her gaze down as she shifted her hand to touch her fingertips to the inside of Raubahn’s wrist, and he let go; she trailed her fingers down into his palm and released her grip on her own guard. When next she let herself be tangled up in his arms, Raubahn kissed the scars on her belly as though she had taken them in battle—understanding that it was a battle all on its own.

Morgana did not like to be cornered, and even as a gladiator, she did not like games; not when she felt she was more a piece than a player. She also knew that any man who hid in hoods and shadows were not the sort with whom she would do business—but this was not business. It was, after all, a game.

The rules were that the pieces were not to think too strongly on the blades that gleamed at their backs. That they were to face forward, towards the wall of the dead end in that dirty alley near Pearl Lane—and not to think, either, of the blood they might have to shed if they touched their own swords. The rules were what the hooded man conjured out of thin air, weaved out of nothing but words. For now, Morgana decided to obey the rules, but it did not stop her skin from pricking, her senses to feel like a sharp edge cutting against the bonds of sense.

And Gotwin—Gotwin was so calm he seemed to be standing before a stall at market to haggle with the fishmonger. No—calmer by far; back home, haggling was a serious and fierce affair.

“My friends have taken quite a liking to you on the bloodsands,” said the hooded man after dispensing with the understatements that he only wanted to talk and that this was simply good business. He twirled a dagger in his hands, pressing the point against the pad of his forefinger so that it dipped into the flesh without piercing it. “The bravery. The ferocity. The, well, beauty—a little something for all inclinations, eh?”

Morgana bit down hard into her cheek; she’d heard some of the stories. Gladiators in the beds of the rich of powerful. Handsome rewards, surely enough, but not the sort of arrangement that could be broken after agreeing even only the once.

“You and your friends may gaze upon us as much as you’d like,” Gotwin said evenly, then, more pointed: “on the sands.”

“Ah, of course! And that, yes, that, we shall. We’re all quite excited for the next real bout, aren’t we, lads?” the hooded man asked the thugs behind Gotwin and Morgana, drawing their assent. “Only two more nights of waiting, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Waiting for what, exactly?” Morgana asked, too sharp. “For us to lose on purpose so that your ‘friends’ can win their bets, or else you start breaking fingers?”

The hooded man laughed an absurdly enthusiastic laugh that bounced off the stones of the alley. “Oh, no. No! Quite the opposite, of course; why would we ask you to lose when you give such a show? Thal’s balls! That would be a waste.”

Morgana glanced furtively at her brother; the wariness she saw in his eyes was the same she felt. “Out with it,” she said.

“So you want us to win?” Gotwin said.

“Precisely,” the hooded man said, snapping his fingers and pointing to Gotwin in the same motion. From inside his robes, he produced a fat-bellied pouch, heavy and clinking with coins as he held it gingerly in his palm. “It’s quite the fight, you see, the Griffin’s Claws butting heads with the Bull of Ala Mhigo.”

“Like two wild dogs from the same pack tearing at each other’s throats,” said one of the thugs—the one behind Morgana. Not two summers past, she might have tried her chance with breaking his foot; now, she did not move a muscle, taking the blow.

“Ha! Well said, my lad.”

“So it’s two against one,” Gotwin said. “We’re confident in our chances.”

“Quite. However, you see, there is a… well, calling it a complication makes it seem so unpleasant, you see. A mere bump in the road. This Bull—your rival, I’m sure—has been making quite the stir since he arrival. A great and inspiring start, coming in chains and fighting his way to freedom out of his own execution; depending how you look at it. But my friends, they look at it rather from the side of all the losses his triumphs have been causing. It’s not a fight to the death, this bout, is it?”

“Guildmaster wouldn’t risk some of his best gladiators on a weekly match,” Gotwin said. His calm was beginning to fray; Morgana could hear it in his voice, in the tension with which he spoke.

The hooded man clicked his tongue almost mournfully. “But it is quite an unfortunate profession, is it not? Even in fights that are not meant to lead to death. Swords are oh-so-dangerous. Injuries catch.”

Shaking his head, the hooded man opened the purse and showed Gotwin and Morgana its contents: a pile of gleaming coins with, sitting atop it like a crown, a small phial filled with clear liquid. Something flipped inside Morgana at the sight; for good or for ill, she did not know.

“You need not count for yourselves: there is enough to house and feed sweet, young Mathias for, oh, nigh on a year. In better conditions than that gaol of a gladiator barracks, that is for certain.”

Morgana took a step forward, stopped only by her brother’s outstretched arm. “Keep his name out of your filthy mouth.”

“I did not mean to offend,” said the hooded man, raising a hand. “Merely to place an offer. You take this purse—let us call it your advance winnings—and use the little bottle as you see fit. It’s so versatile; genius work. Coats a blade nicely, or causes muscle weakness when ingested. Use your creativity! So long as the Bull, ah, loses quite squarely.”

Silence was all that met his words, and then Gotwin and Morgana both spoke at the same time:

“Or what?” asked Gotwin.

“And then?” asked Morgana.

She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes ahead rather than face the weight of the shocked look Gotwin tossed her way, holding the hooded man’s gaze even though she couldn’t see it. In the shadows, she could see his smirk crack through the veil of secrecy as the purse disappeared from his hand with a flick of his wrist.

“And then it is done, you already have your coin, and we never have to speak to each other again. Simple, no?” The hooded man spread his hands, the palm of his empty hand held outward. It might have been more of a peaceable gesture, if not for the dagger he still held between his fingers. “We have come to do business, not to make threats.”

“Where I come from, drawn swords are a threat,” Gotwin said icily.

“This is not Ala Mhigo,” the hooded man said. “This is Ul’dah, a nation of honest word and prosperity. My lads protect me on behalf of my friends; nothing more, and nothing less. If I were to make threats, I would speak them.”

Morgana could not stop her eyes from searching for the purse. Something inside her was recoiling, so violently it seemed like a serpent’s bite spreading poison through her veins, but she had been a sellsword long before she ever became a gladiator. A sellsword knew to behead those doubts swiftly and permanently. Knew to listen to the loudest surety—and in this world broken by the imperials, she only let herself look upon one path.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll do it.”

“Morgana,” Gotwin hissed. “What has gotten into you?”

“I’m thinking of our family. Your son,” she hissed back.

The disdainful way with which her brother shook his head at her said more than words ever could. Watching Gotwin’s silent disagreement and the way Morgana stiffened, the hooded man clicked his tongue as though out of some misguided sense of pity.

“If I may—” he began loftily.

Gotwin cut in, his voice sharper than every blade between them. “You may not,” he said, taking hold of Morgana’s arm before she could think to reach for the pouch. “We will have nothing to do with this; find yourself another assassin. We are going.”

With that, Gotwin turned. His fingers found the hilt of his sword again, and he placed himself so that he and Morgana stood back to back, the way they so often did in the arena. Had she been more enthusiastic about their escape from the situation, she might have liked their chances; as it was, she thought her brother a noble fool.

“Now would be the time to make your threats with those pretty words of yours or let us be on our way,” Gotwin said to the hooded man without looking back. His voice was a rock, utterly immovable.

Morgana could only watch the hooded man and ready a riposte. With blades at their backs, disagreements—no matter how dire—always became secondary. Under her unforgiving gaze, the hooded man merely raised a hand to rub his jaw, lips pulled taut, and heaved a sigh.

“I cannot say I am without disappointment,” he said in that pale, milky voice of his, only thick with dishonesty, “but I have no threats to make. You are, of course, free to go.”

The thugs lowered their blades with the efficiency of automatons, and Gotwin reached a hand out to take Morgana’s wrist and guide her along with him so that she did not have to turn and show her back to the hooded man and his swordsmen until they were well out of reach. They picked up the pace and walked side by side, then, but they did not stop, and the breath did not seem to return to Morgana’s lungs until they were outside the city walls.

With that breath, she spat, “What in the seven hells is the matter with you?”

“With me?” Gotwin thundered back, his voice high on the wind. “Have you gone completely mad? Have we so wholly lost ourselves that we must play butchers for some rich shite’s convenience?”

“We are sellswords, Gotwin, I’ll remind you.”

“I have not forgotten. Not the way you clearly have forgotten that we still adhered to some gods-damned principle. The same rule since we were not even twenty: no job that does not sit right with even one of us.”

“You’ve gone blind with righteousness if you think we can afford to spit on a way to keep Mathias safe and fed for a year,” Morgana snapped.

“He is my son! I will not have him fed with blood. Not like this; not in his name.” Gotwin shook his head, his anger and disgust so bright in his eyes he seemed animated by the Destroyer himself. Still, he took a breath, and stepped closer to Morgana in the sand. He was no softer, but his voice had quieted. “Do you think I don’t see the way you look at Raubahn? How he looks at you?”

Morgana’s blood went cold. “Is that what this is about? Some bloody tryst?”

“It is about everything,” Gotwin said, low. “My concerns do not begin or end with him, but I can’t ignore it, either. You and I, we—”

“I am not weak,” Morgana said. She felt the rumble of her own voice low in her throat, raw with the disappointment of having to remind him, of all people.

“—swore to look after each other, and—” Gotwin’s voice trailed off, shock written into the lines of his face. His shifted a hundred ways in the space of a moment, through years and seasons, before it settled on understanding. “Mora. Caring for someone who isn’t your blood isn’t weakness.”

Morgana could only speak the way she lifted her shield to block the force of a blow. “It is a waste,” she said stiffly. “And we are fools if we let anyone get in the way of doing what is best for our family.”

“What is best for our family,” Gotwin began, breathing through his nose between the words as his anger took on an exasperated shape, the tension unyielding, “is that my son does not carry a legacy of cowardice and cruelty. I will endure every indignity the Coliseum holds for us, but I will not sully the name I’ve given him by stabbing a brother in the back for coin.”

He made to turn away, thinking he finally had the last word, but Morgana had never been content to let him have it. 

“They only need one of us to agree. I don’t need your help to slay a bull,” she said coldly.

Gotwin turned towards her, his eyes no longer a fury. All Morgana could see as he stepped close to her was disappointment and disdain; both cut deeper than a rage she could meet. His anger, she knew: for nearly a quarter of a century, through the days of peace and storms, she had coaxed it out of him, quelled it, matched and outmatched it. But this—seeing him look at her as though she were lesser by her own design, no longer his equal—she knew not how to endure.

“Mark me, sister—” he never called her sister; Mora, Mo, bo-turd, but never sister, “if you go through with this, you will lose this family. May these cursed fucking sands be my witness.”

Gotwin ground his foot in the sand, making a trace in the ever-shifting soil of Thanalan; it would fade away, covered by the wind and dust in due time, but the scraping sound of it seemed to have been made to last in Morgana’s ear. She could almost taste the salty air of the Lochs on her tongue, fresh against the way the desert winds burned in her nose. Her brother said nothing else; he simply walked away, back towards the city gates, his shoulders taut and his fists still clenched. Morgana’s own fists were curled tight, so badly that even her short nails dug half-moons into the flesh of her palms.

She stood shaking in the desert for a long while—as though her body knew that, within a matter of days, she would be kneeling in these very sands again, cradling Gotwin’s corpse in her arms as the jagged slash in his throat wept crimson.

“I’m glad he’s alive,” Gotwin had said the morning after their bout, smiling with relief even as he rolled his bruised shoulder gingerly. “Even if he thrashed us.”

“He shouldn’t have been able to,” Morgana had said. It was easy, how things always mended between them, as though it were Havisa’s magic knitting them back together like broken skin. It had always been so. After everything, Morgana had moved on to sullenness. “Two of us and one of him. And I know all his tells.”

“Like he knows all of yours?” Havisa had teased.

They hadn’t spoken of the hooded man’s offer; not the three of them together. Surely Gotwin had kept no part of it from his wife as he always did, but Havisa hadn’t let it change her demeanour. She had met Morgana with grace even in the aftermath, and sometimes that grace involved beaming as her sister-in-law snapped a bloodstained rag in her general vicinity.

“I don’t tumble like I fight,” Morgana had said, inaccurately.

“Regardless. You were fractured, you two. Could see that well enough. Any wall breaks easier when it is already cracked.”

Morgana had sighed. “How is it that someone as thick as you married someone as wise as her?” she’d asked Gotwin, and Havisa had blown her a kiss.

Now, Havisa’s hand was clutched in hers so tightly that the metal of her wedding band dug into Morgana’s very bones, and the absence of her smile left her face empty and ashen with loss. They moved as specters through the empty hallways of the barracks, without shape and without colour, death clinging to them and to their silent footsteps. 

It was like fleeing Ala Mhigo without the burning, without the screaming, without the violence; all of it was contained to the arena, where the ringing of blades was buried under the weight of hundreds of empty cheers. Hundreds of discordant voices calling for fabricated chaos.

Morgana had not understood quickly enough that it was the fabrication that was the deadliest—deadly, and unfeeling, and greedy enough to claim the life of a man who had survived too much to die like a beast. Everything was too empty without Gotwin, too stark. She walked with a hand on the hilt of her dagger because every part of her rejected that void, knew that something would fill it—and if it wasn’t Gotwin, it would be something to cut down in his stead. To protect his family. 

The quickest way was far from the arena, through the hallways at the edges that lay open at the sides to let the air in. Familiar paths twisted so in this new realm for her to inhabit that they had become unrecognizable, their shadows spreading further, the low moon shining pale as a sickness on the stone floor. Morgana should have known to see the training grounds with the eyes that had guided her to them so many times, should have known that this place would not be empty—that they were as haunted as Morgana felt.

The Bull of Ala Mhigo was meant to be nursing the trifling wounds he’d suffered against the Griffin’s Talons, but that did not mean there was no fight in him. He was alive, and so it burned within him, a flame that could dim but never fade. Alive. The very sight of him leaving the training grounds made Morgana’s blood boil, when she realized that it was Raubahn and not some shade of an assassin; by then, she already had him pinned to a pillar, her forearm like a metal bar across his shoulders as the point of her knife touched his throat.

Her blood boiled, but she barely felt it. She was cold all over.

“Morgana,” Raubahn said gently. Even in the dark, he saw the smear of blood on her cheek—she’d pressed her forehead to Gotwin’s, touched his throat, stained her fingers with his blood—and Havisa’s haggard visage, Mathias asleep in his mother’s arms with his cheek pressed against her shoulder. “What’s happened?”

Morgana wanted to growl and bite and scream her throat raw, but it was Havisa who spoke. “They killed him. They killed Gotwin,” she said, not meeting Raubahn’s gaze.

His shock shifted quickly into a frown, deep with anger. “Who?”

“The ones who want you dead,” Morgana said through gritted teeth, pressing harder against his shoulders. Twelve, she wanted to draw blood. “He denied them. You denied them. And now they’ve slit his throat to make him pay for it.”

“Morgana, I—”

“Do not say my name. Don’t say a fucking word.”

“Don’t go,” Raubahn said, fierce even when he was quiet. “Don’t leave it like this. We’ll fight—we’ll fight them together, and they will answer for Gotwin’s life with blood—”

Morgana’s anger echoed on the stone. “If I stay, one of us dies!” Her fingers curled in the fabric of Raubahn’s tunic, clenching tight. She looked into his eyes and spoke: low, this time, and cold. “I would have done it without a second thought. I would kill you a hundred times if it meant my family could be whole.”

She almost jumped when Havisa’s hand touched her arm, gently pulling her back. “Mora, please,” she said quietly. Morgana didn’t know whether it was urgency or kindness for their countryman; when Havisa looked at Raubahn, her expression was unchanged. “She took his remains to a man named Osferth in Little Ala Mhigo, for safeguarding. If you would—”

“I’ll see to it that his last rites are taken care of with dignity; I swear it,” Raubahn said gravely. His gaze shifted from Havisa to Morgana, always drawn to her even in anger and grief. “Where will you go?”

“Where we’ll be safe,” Morgana said. The gods still had many a lesson for her—the next that nowhere was safe, and especially not the Shroud. Not for them.

She reserved no more farewells for Raubahn, her only goodbye the lowering of her blade. Still, he reached for her, and the point of her dagger was at his ribs. 

“Watch your back, Aldynn. Stop making yourself weak. They won’t stop until they have a dead bull and my brother will have died for nothing.”

A great many deaths were for nothing. There would be no meaning in Havisa’s, either, and in what Morgana would believe was Mathias’.

The only meaning was for the living to find, and Morgana and Raubahn lived.

“One of your men addressed me as ‘Captain,’” said Morgana, forgoing the effort of a prior greeting.

Raubahn paused with his hand still in the bowl of water on the table before him, droplets of water falling silently from his chin. He looked at Morgana, straightened, and shook his hand out.

“I was told you’re a unit captain,” he pointed out.

“Aye, I was. But there’s no unit left. I was standing at their last rites—half of them without a corpse to recover—when it happened,” she said, then pushed out a bitter sigh as she realized that she sounded like she’d only come to complain. “I didn’t know the Immortal Flames of Ul’dah,” (and here Raubahn could only shake his head at her mockingly lofty tone, strangely fond), “recognized the ranks of the Ala Mhigan Resistance.”

“The Ala Mhigan Brigade does,” Raubahn said. 

That gave Morgana pause. “Oh.”

Even after twenty years, Raubahn looked at Morgana as though it were still habit giving him the expectant look on his face, as though he knew something else was coming. “So?” he asked after a moment. “Shall I tell my men not to show respect for your position?”

Morgana sighed again. “No,” she said, and moved closer—Twelve, she hated the sound of footsteps in the castrum; metal, always so cold, so high, the same way it had resonated when they were dozens running through Baelsar’s Wall—to splash her own face with water, dragging a hand down over her eyes and mouth. “I wanted to thank you. For letting us honour our dead our way.”

“I insisted.”

The ripples in the water distorted her reflection, but Morgana was still startled to realize, as she looked down, that she looked like half a corpse herself. She set both hands down on the table and bowed her head.

“I really thought the Alliance had come to put those of us the imperials or Ilberd didn’t finish off in chains,” she said, wiping the water from her nose as she looked back at Raubahn. Suddenly, standing still and empty-handed seemed like an imprisonment in itself. “Still find myself thinking maybe you ought to.”

This time, Raubahn’s silence wasn’t one of waiting for her to speak; neither was he meeting her hard edges with a smile. His usual gravity was tempered in something else, something that seemed to make his frown pull at the scars on his face; when he spoke, she realized it was the harshness of his own ghosts.

“Would it make you stomach any of it better if you were in chains?” he asked. “The guilt? The betrayal? The pain of knowing you’ve failed those you love?”

Morgana wanted to say yes, but the words wouldn’t come.

“It does not,” Raubahn said. “It makes the shame no less heavy to bear.”

His face was a silent storm, dark with a memory that was still too familiar, too fresh. In the quiet that fell from his words, Morgana’s eyes drifted down: down to his neck, to scars she didn’t know, so strikingly similar to her own; to his left shoulder, uncovered by the black cape which now lay draped over the back of a nearby chair. His gaze followed hers, but he said nothing.

“Ilberd was a bloody fool,” Morgana said stiffly. “Rip off a bull’s horn, and he may well gore you with the other.”

Raubahn managed a small smirk and an exhale, scraping the palm of his hand against the stubble at his jaw. “Would you believe me if I told you I’d come to hope I would not have to face him in battle again?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Morgana said. She moved closer to him and raised a hand—not to what remained of his left arm, but to his throat, fingers barely touching the old scars that, to her, were new. “Neither would I understand it.”

“Had it come to it, one of us would have died.” He held her stare, looking for familiarity, for understanding. “I did not wish to be the one to end his life.”

“You got your wish.”

“Some wish,” Raubahn said with a bittersweet smile, laying his hand over hers at his throat. When her gaze dropped, he bowed his head and touched his brow to hers.

They stood this way for long minutes, perhaps, or a mere few heartbeats. Morgana knew only that she was breathing, even though her lungs still seemed to fill with nothing true; that he touched her skin even when it seemed only like wind. She tilted up her chin and kissed him, and he wound his arm around her waist—and she felt not even half-whole, but at least she felt something that was not a bone-deep ache.

When they lay together—in those rare moments of peace that could be afforded in the routine chaos of Castrum Oriens—Morgana kept to Raubahn’s right side. She let him trail absentminded fingers up and down her spine, along scars both old and new; he had a favourite, she noticed, one that he always stroked even more slowly and delicately.

“I remember this one,” he said as Morgana lay on her front with her arms curled under the thin pillow of his cot. As general of the Immortal Flames, he had some privacy and comforts, but she still found it a minor miracle that they both could fit without being stacked on top of each other.

“You do?”

He spoke of the past because he understood that it stung less than the present. She still ached, bitterly so, but the old loss that she’d survived was more bearable than the sheer emptiness of looking upon Baelsar’s Wall and wondering how her only son’s blood had fed the primal born within those hard planes of steel.

“On the bloodsands. I was watching before my own bout; you miscalculated the reach of a woman half your size and took the tip of her spear, right there. Barely flinched.”

Morgana searched those distant memories, every night under the lights hazy but for a few. She could still remember the dark wormways under the arena, dark but for the drab afternoon light seeping in, the way they had looked on the day her brother had sealed his own fate.

“It was Gotwin,” she said after a moment, her voice strangely disconnected from the memory as it slowly returned to her. “He misjudged her reach and didn’t block when I expected him to. His wife gave him an earful about it while she was stitching me up.” She tilted her chin up on the pillow to look at Raubahn, frowning. “That was twenty years ago.”

That they should be able to even say those words was a blessing in itself. Twenty years of surviving every struggle, every indignity, every horror the fates thought to toss their way; there was beauty in that, in the new and myriad scars marring Raubahn’s hardened face. In him, she could see it, but in herself, it only felt hateful. Knowing that he remembered her in a time before the years had chipped most of her away embedded a deep sense of unease into her bones.

“Memory acts strangely,” Raubahn said, tracing his fingers down her spine. “I can scarcely remember my own mother’s face, but I still see you through the gate that night with the utmost clarity. I lost my bout right after.”

Morgana snorted weakly. “Because of me? Having a woman made you soft.”

“I was nursing an injury, if I’m not mistaken,” Raubahn said, mockingly defensive. When she said nothing, he slipped into a moment of thoughtful silence, then said: “Do you really still believe that attachment was a weakness?”

“Everything can be a weakness as much as strength. It’s in the clarity that it changes," Morgana said numbly. “If my brother had valued his attachment to his family over his precious morals, he might still be alive today, a father to his son and a husband to a living wife.”

Raubahn’s hand stilled on her back. “And I would be long dead,” he said, more of an observation than a judgement. Morgana only shrugged.

“You might have survived us. You survived everything else. I know they would not have stopped wanting you dead just because they’d gotten to slit my brother’s throat.”

The door to Raubahn’s quarters nearly shook from the urgency with which someone pounded its other side. “General,” said a muffled voice. Morgana rolled off the bed and began searching for her shirt—far harder to find than her sword belt among the mess of hers and Raubahn’s clothing and armour. “The Warrior of Light and the Scions have come.”

“Thank you. Tell them I will meet with them right away.”

Morgana raised her eyebrows at him as she waited for the footsteps to have receded to speak. “Making the Warrior of Light wait because you couldn’t keep your trousers on. Really. You’ve gotten sloppy in your advanced age.”

“I don’t wear trousers,” Raubahn said as he swung his legs over the cot and bent to pick up his tunic in one fluid motion.

Morgana was the first gust of wind to sweep out under the bright sky of East End, and Raubahn the second, taking his place at the war table with the other gathered Alliance commanders. The garish sunlight blinded Morgana, and it wasn’t only the result of being confined within the imperials’ cold steel walls; everything was too bright now, almost unbearably so. She already felt like half a corpse, some cursed spirit of resilience that wandered Castrum Oriens because the fates had bound her to it.

A part of her wanted to leave—perhaps she could find meaning in the fight again if she wandered out onto the lands to which her blood was bound. The members of the Resistance who had crossed over from Thanalan after the Griffin’s disaster were already moving back and forth to Rhalgr’s Reach, more familiar by the day; the Flames’ Ala Mhigan Brigade was moving with a vigour that, by Raubahn’s own admission, had never animated them before they had been able to return home. It could be so easy, not to be a ghost, but Morgana woke every night thinking that a blade was lodged between her ribs, as though telling her she had no place left in this life.

She was not the first to have lost; every Ala Mhigan fought because they had. Blood kin, lovers, friends, homes. They all went on living for the dead, but her loss tethered her to this place, to this empty in-between that stood with her old home on one side, occupied and bled dry, and the forest that had given her only child his first breaths, seen his first steps—the in-between where she could only believe he had breathed his last.

Nineteen years without him. Nineteen years without Gotwin, without Havisa, without Mathias. Could she live nineteen more, now that she had had her son within reach only to have him torn away so quickly? She had barely survived losing her family; now, without Sairsel, she thought that perhaps the fates had finally broken her—every piece scattered to Thanalan, to the Black Shroud, to the Fringes.

The worst of it was that she could not blame him the way she had blamed Gotwin; only herself. She had wanted to see Sairsel strong, to know that he could survive the Empire if he was truly so devoted to seeing Ala Mhigo back into the hands of their people. She had traced a bloody road for him in following the Griffin, foolish as she had been to believe in that man, and of course he had walked upon it—not because he was blind, but because she had been.

And now he was gone and there was nothing left of him but for a primal lost somewhere in Gyr Abania, made real by the suffering of hundreds like him.

He’d loved days like these: bright, with the sun golden in the trees and a quiet breeze that made the leaves sing. When Morgana thought it, she did not even ache. She only felt that emptiness, gnawing, filling her with a screaming void she only knew to quiet in those stolen moments with a man who, some twenty years ago, had felt her equal in battle and in loss.

She barely even had it in herself to want blood, the way she had then.

Then she heard his voice.

As quiet as that flutter of leaves, the way the wind whispered through life-filled branches—his laughter, of all things, weary but alive. She thought she was going mad until she ran forward and saw him among a handful of others, stiff under their grateful touches, leaning into the press of Leofric Snakesbane’s brow against his. She saw nothing else but him.

“Sairsel,” she breathed, the word burning on her tongue.

“Mother.”

He spoke so softly she barely heard him, his expression heavy with a hundred emotions that weighed upon her just the same, and reached for her as she did him. When she pulled her son into her arms, Morgana felt a quaking sob climb up her lungs, holding him so tightly she could feel his breath, too, shuddering as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“You’re alive,” she barely heard herself saying. It was strange, how long it took for her to realize that she was weeping. “Oh, my boy, you’re—you’re alive.”

Sairsel almost laughed. “Barely,” he said, sniffling.

She pulled away, taking his face between her hands—and she saw not Nimaurel in the dark evergreen of his eyes or the hawklike elegance of his nose, not Gotwin in the set of his jaw or his frowning mouth, but Sairsel. Her son. As she looked into his eyes, she smiled and pressed her forehead to his, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. He lay a hand over hers, old scars on his palms of which she knew too little hidden away under scraps of fabric and leather.

When she drew him into another sharp embrace, Sairsel flinched.

“Are you all right?”

“Getting better,” Sairsel said, fingers against his chest as he pulled away. He tugged at his scarf, at the laces of his shirt, and showed her a few inches of his bare chest: sun-kissed brown struck through by a thin, ragged line just shades paler than angry red. Morgana’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword as though it were an anchor, but Sairsel had only a weary smile for her. “Ilberd’s parting gift to me. I suppose the Griffin we knew had claws of his own, too.”

Morgana put a hand on his shoulder rather than touch the scar, her thumb against the side of his neck; she could almost feel his pulse. “You found out who he was?”

“When you sent me to him. I heard you say his name,” Sairsel said softly. “I was angry; wanted him to pay for my friend. So I fought him—tried to, at least.”

“Oh, you foolish boy,” Morgana whispered, briefly closing her eyes.

“I know. I don’t think I would be alive if not for her.” Sairsel glanced over to the Warrior of Light, her tall, glorious frame gleaming in her armour. The title suited her perfectly. “She carried me out, did what she could to heal me. I think some of the Scions helped, but I wasn’t—I don’t remember everything.

“You were with the Scions?” Morgana asked, eyebrows high. “All this time?”

“At first. Ahtynwyb took me back to the Sandsea.”

To little Ashelia Riot, the girl who played mother to her son. In another life, she could have been her daughter—resilient and willful and brave. Kinder than Morgana herself was; kinder than Little Ala Mhigo, than her own mother, and her father’s absence could have made her. With that kindness, she cared for those who meant something to her. For Sairsel.

Morgana had to speak as though around glass. “She kept you safe?”

“Aye,” Sairsel said, nodding. “Safe so that I could come here and fight. If they’ll still have me.”

Nothing needed to be said; Morgana did not need to tell him that the fight would always have someone like him. More blood, more swords, more bodies. She could still believe in it—could believe in it again—so she put a hand up between his shoulders and guided him forward, past Liberty Gate. They stepped onto proper Gyr Abanian soil together.