#subtlety is six feet under and I love it so much

[choki-the-rich-cactus]

Not even in my wildest dream that I thought I would see an official art of Reo making an Isagi curse doll and was literally driving a stake into Isagi’s heart, in a chapter that he vowed to take Nagi back from Isagi...

[theofficialpresidentofmars]

i’ve been going insane about Hamlet recently. so I’ve been a comprehensive list of everything in this play that makes me absolutely lose my mind, and here’s the list for Act 1.

- The play starting and ending with Horatio. Hamlet is the protagonist, the prince, the titular character, but it’s Horatio’s story to tell. Horatio is the one charged with recounting the occurents which have solicited, and as such he’s the first and the last of the main characters that we see. Love a good bookend.

- Hamlet’s first line (first two lines really) being a bit of wordplay. Much of this list will touch on his extensive need to pun about, and there’s no more fitting way to introduce such a character. I love his silly little lines so much

- The complete normality of the Royal Court in the first scenes. Given what this play becomes and where most of them end up before it’s over (six feet under), it’s so important to me to be able to see, as an audience, the tail end of what once was, especially given that we never get to see Hamlet prior to his grieving state. There are so many subtleties in this play that hint at the world the characters lived in before the events that happened did, and I think about them far too often.

- Hamlet asking to go back to Wittenberg, being asked by his mother to stay, and complying. God, this little moment on so many levels. If Hamlet had gone back to Wittenberg, he would’ve likely been able to grieve and move on in a healthier manner, likely being surrounded by a greater support system (than one that tells him to get over it) or at the very least a place of comfort, where he is free to express himself and pursue what he specifically likes. By staying in Elsinore, he is putting his individuality in that sense aside for the duty he owes his country (or the one he will owe the Ghost, which is still to his country in a manner, avenging treason). And of course, by staying in Elsinore, the events of the play are allowed to transpire. Also Hamlet’s relationship with Gertrude is so important to me and so often under-acknowledged, and this brief moment is again, one of the subtle few where we can draw larger conclusions about their relationship prior to the play’s events.

- The religious stuff in this text and especially surrounding Hamlet’s character and motives is also something I like looking into, and this moment where Hamlet considers that he would kill himself if it weren’t for the notion of divine punishment is also so. In less than a page, we’ve been presented with two alternate ways that the events of the play could’ve been avoided- Hamlet’s return to Wittenberg, which would’ve likely allowed him to heal and move on, and Hamlet’s suicidal thoughts, which although the worse option by far, still technically would’ve worked as a preventative measure: lives would’ve been saved. Either way, it’s just another tragic facet of his character, and the first of what will be many cries for help from this character over the course of the play.

- Hamlet and Horatio’s reunion, of course, but specifically the moment when Horatio tells Hamlet about the ghost. OUgh. Shoutout to that person who wondered if post-play Horatio ever lay awake in night, wishing he hadn’t told Hamlet about the ghost at all because I think of that every single time I read it. Horatio’s closeness to Hamlet increases greatly due to the events that occur as a result of this one line, and their relationship is just so. interesting to me from a comparative standpoint. between the events of the play and what might’ve been. but we’ll get into that later. and also Hamlet, once again, taking every opportunity to be a little sassier will always be funny to be. who said this wasn’t a tragicomedy?

- and Hamlet’s reaction to hearing that he may be able to see his father again

- Ophelia from the very beginning being told what to do by the men in her life, having her femininity and body reduced to a sexual object, being the victim of that good ol’ fashioned misogyny right out of the gate and it hits. I love Ophelia’s character so much, and it really just does set the bar straight away what we’re to expect. She’s talked over, told what to do, held to unreasonable standards by men who wouldn’t meet them himselves. It’s early days again, and I’ll get into this more later, but wow.

- Again, Hamlet’s reaction to the ghost on the roof, and specifically his threat to ‘make a ghost’ of Horatio or Marcellus should they try to stop him. It’s a grim little nod to what’s to come, and it’s an interesting little setup to both the desperation and the dedication explored regarding Hamlet and his father. Followed shortly thereafter by the ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark’, and you’ve got yourself the equivalent of your hair standing up on end in anticipation of the lighting strike that sets the play in motion.

- ‘If thou didst ever thy dear father love (O God!) Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.’

- ‘Murder?’

- this whole scene. goodness. Every time I’ve recounted this play to some poor soul who couldn’t escape my segues into it, I’ve always gotten a reaction when Hamlet Sr reveals that the snake that poisoned him is the same one that now wears his crown. And that’s also why the previous normalcy is so important, because Claudius hasn’t explicitly come off as like that bad a guy yet. Maybe a bit of a douche for slipping into the sheets of his brother’s queen, but he’s at the very least acted onstage with nothing less than a formal and respectable air to him. But now we’ve passed the point of no return at the same time as the prince, and we can’t let the villain get away with this. Because that’s what he is, right? A villain. A murderer. And everything Hamlet’s been worried about or concerned with or thinking about prior is wiped away, trivial, unimportant, and there is no normal to return to.

- also, absolutely insane move to tell your depressed (and possibly manic?? i’ve been trying to look into the modern psychology side of things someone please help me out) son that he has to kill a guy to restore heavenly vengeance. this can’t go wrong. surely

- Horatio and Marcellus swearing their secrecy and dare I say involvement by complicity (oh, Horatio) and Hamlet deciding that the logical course of action is to. naturally. fake madness. put on an antic disposition. his decision-making process in this play is something I’d like to put under a microscope and study

I’ll update with the following acts over the next few days, and reply if I think of anything I forgot to intitially add. feel free to add thoughts :D

[heli0s-writes]

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup​​‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

-

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

-

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.  

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

[krethes]

Moody Monday

I don't make the rules. Here ya go, ya animals. From another WIP! > Content Warning for Canonical Character Death and dealing with the subsequent grief.

The motorbike was his sanctuary, where Sirius could retreat to when he needed to be well and truly alone with his thoughts. For all hat the loved his friends, James was a helpless fixer and Remus would give him long, measured looks from across the room until Sirius cracked under the force of his intense, golden gaze and spilled his guts, usually followed by a lot of sobbing and snot smeared across a cable-knit jumper. They were messy, his thoughts, and sometimes he just needed to not feel them. So he drove, for hours and hours on a road that never seemed to end, the cold biting cruelly at his cheeks and ears, stinging red. As soon as he was out of Remus’s ever-concerned sight, he’d taken off his helmet and the wind tousled his hair like a horse’s mane. A horse, Sirius thought, wouldn’t have been a bad alternative to being a dog. Not as subtle, sure, but he’d never been one for subtlety. If he was a horse, he wouldn’t have to ever stop running. He could just go and go and go; no petrol to run out of, no paved roads to bind him. Logically, he knew his horse self would need to eat and sleep, but logic played no part in this journey. Remus, of course, had tried to get him to stay, had held tight to his wrists and begged and pleaded, had tried to reason with the Sirius who knew he was just running away from his problems (again, like fucking always), but that Sirius was lost at sea, capsized by the grief that gripped his chest. Grief he hadn't ever expected to feel. Regulus was dead. His own brother, his flesh and blood, gone. Just like that. Every time he closed his eyes, Regulus’s face—pale and too much like his own—would flash. His sneer, practiced in the mirror, mocking Sirius for his choices, his perversions (though that had just been parroting, Sirius was sure), his traitorous behavior. Sirius had turned his back on him, left him to fend for himself with the likes of Walburga and the Dark Lord, and look where it had got him. Six feet. Sirius kicked his bike into a higher gear, weaving recklessly between lorries. Someone honked at him, but he sped away without turning to look. If he could just… get away, then maybe… well, he didn’t know what, but anything had to be better than staring at the creased photo of Regulus he kept buried in his trunk.

[sunsoothed]

lightness

jang hanseo character study kinda fic i promised. i'm not sure if this is a character study anymore. i have no idea what this became. anyway! i wanted to explore hanseo and give him a bit of a backstory, so here it is!

*deep breath* content warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, physical abuse, blood, injury, canonical character death (not hanseo), recreational drug use, underage drug use, implied drug abuse

word count: 1866

read on ao3

hope you like it!

-

When Jang Hanseo is seven, he is acquainted with elder brother. Regal; nine-years-old and already hunting.

He still hides behind their father with him when he pretends to be terrified of the sound of gunfire.

Hanseo says nothing. He never brings up how his brother had thrown the bloodied rabbit and his rifle to the servant attending him, never brings up how thoroughly he washed his hands to hide the evidence of his independence from his father.

Never brings up how his brother assessed him with just a look and nothing more.

The first words Jang Hanseo’s brother says to him are as follows:

“Don’t call me hyung.”

Jang Hanseo blinks, traces his eyes over the leather of his brother’s jacket, over the blood that drips from his gloves, over the rifle he holds in his hands. He smiles.

“Okay, hyung-nim!”

A scoff, but some appraisal. Jang Hanseo doesn’t understand the half-smile he receives that autumn afternoon, but he remembers it until he beats his brother with a hockey stick, striking his head trice ‘til he’s out and his back once just for good measure, just to see the blood coming up to his mouth for him to choke on.

-

The first time his brother hits him, Jang Hanseo is eight. The ice rink is dark, and his brother is more geared up than he is.

Jang Hanseo misses thrice, scores once. He is rewarded with a swipe of the hockey stick on the back of his calf, and he thinks it is a game.

For that, he is rewarded with his first broken bone and a seared memory of a hand heavy on his throat. A laugh without mercy.

-

When Jang Hanseo is thirteen, he is offered alcohol at a party his father is hosting.

He declined, having seen first-hand what alcohol does to you, what a rage it puts his father in as he breaks porcelain, the scar he left on his mother’s cheek that lasted till the day she died.

-

When Jang Hanseo is fourteen, his brother kills four people. Classmates, he tells him, when he comes home with red speckled on his face. They weren’t worthy of being my classmates.

-

Jang Hanseo celebrates his fifteenth birthday with the diagnosis of his brother being a psychopath and accidentally tearing open the letter of a one-way ticket to the United States.

Instead of cake, he consumes his own blood, and instead of a pat on the back, he has a dislocated shoulder.

When he wakes a day later hooked to an IV, his brother is gone. The phantom of his laugh lives on, searing long into Hanseo’s conscience.

-

At fifteen-and-a-half, his father sends Hanseo to his grandmother’s for the summer. His father is undergoing a trial, on the charges of bribery, abetting murder, and perjury. With one son shipped off to the States and another to Jeju Island, he has no pawns he will feel ill about sacrificing. It’s not that he loves them. It’s that letting your son die because the ransom money you can very well afford would require you to take some shares out, and that’s too tedious of a process to go through.

So Jang Hanseo boards the short flight, stares out of the window for the longest one hour and fifteen minutes of his life so far. He’s never met his grandmother.

He wonders if she’s like his father, knowing she’s raised him, or if she’s worse.

She’s leagues different from anyone in his family.

Halmeoni scans him up and down when the driver drops him off at her estate. At the front door itself, she says, “We have a lot of fixing-up to do.”

It leaves an impression, that’s for sure.

-

The best summer of his life, Hanseo learns how to uproot weeds and catch a chicken without screaming like his life was being threatened. His halmeoni owns a farm, some 150 acres of greenery and animal and mansion.

Halmeoni teaches him first how to eat well, how to fill his plate and not feel bad about it, how to overeat and regret it. Halmeoni teaches him second that he is the most important person to himself; never his father, and not his hyung-nim.

Halmeoni teaches him third that he has no one else in the world but himself.

This, Jang Hanseo remembers the most.

(But his brother’s —)

-

With his brother’s absence, an anxiety sets into Hanseo’s veins so intensely that upon looking up his symptoms, he sees words like psychosis and personality disorder and promptly closes his laptop shut.

Unbidden, but not unwelcome, he remembers the rages his father fell into. He remembers the embers of gold in those small wide glasses that abeoji owned, remembers the crates of bottles that they used to have moved into the house. He also recalls the putrid smoke that used to emerge from the study. The smell of something burnt and something that made him cough so hard it alerted his father of his presence.

It’s in the boys washroom that he smells the scent again. By the open window, out curls smoke.

Jang Hanseo catches the eye of the assailant. Oh Yeonwoo will get him into this mess and then out. He will be Hanseo’s first true friend.

-

Jang Hanseo tries it for the first time on the terrace of the school. One joint between the two of them and nothing but heaving coughs from him until he learns how to take air after smoke and allow its natural passage back up. The joint is over by then, and Hanseo feels nothing.

Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together, carelessly tossing the filter over the railing of the terrace. “You’ll get the hang of it,” He assures. “I didn’t even make it after a couple of joints, so you’re doing better than me already.”

Hanseo lends him a half-smile. Better than him, he thinks. When have I ever been better than anyone?

“Hanseo-yah, what’re you thinking with that scowl, hm?” Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together again. “You’re so scary when you space out.”

“I am?”

Yeonwoo nods again. Hanseo notes something hazy in his eyes, something completely unguarded in his demeanour. He blinks cautiously.

“Hanseo-yah,” Yeonwoo whines, “Stop staring at me.”

“I’m not,” He replies. “Are —” Are you okay? Hanseo was going to ask. Stupid. Yeonwoo has settled against his shoulder now, humming some tune. He stretches his legs out in front of him and sways his feet to the rhythm. He seems better than okay.

So this is what it does, Hanseo thinks. Lightness. He wants to be light.

-

And so, Jang Hanseo, age sixteen, falls into something whose magnitude he cannot guess. Addiction is only the half of it. The other half had started the day Yeonwoo showed him something called shotgunning, which had taken his first kiss and his first experience with intoxication whose harm had lasted longer than its euphoria.

When he lies beside Yeonwoo, all too hot and all too cold, unable to distinguish which fingers are his when they hold hands, he finds it. The lightness. When Yeonwoo turns and exhales into his neck, prickling sweat and prickling hair to stand on edge, Hanseo smiles.

And when Hanseo wakes up, the dread in his gut is deeper than it’s ever been.

(— his brother’s —)

-

So it seems that boys with no family and boys with brothers who know nothing but violence and boys with a terrible, terrible blankness to them can also, by some grace of humanity, fall in love. And so it seems, as Hanseo feels the telltale thumping of his heart and lightness in his abdomen, that Yeonwoo will keep having this effect on him.

Subtlety, Yeonwoo tells him, the afternoon they sit on the roof and stare at the sky and at the smoke. Subtlety will let you get away with everything.

Subtle touches, then. Hanseo’s fingers lingering a moment too long on Yeonwoo’s arm, Hanseo’s hand firm between his shoulder blades. Subtle words, and subtle smiles, and subtle smoke between their mouths as they chase lightness.

Subtle kisses, too, when Hanseo feels he can see his own eyes in Yeonwoo’s, when Hanseo still finds the thrill of sealing his lips with Yeonwoo’s to be a minefield of his own feelings. Subtle kisses that Yeonwoo always blackens — drags them down into teeth and tongue and desire. Hanseo doesn’t know, then, that this is what differentiates them. What puts him on a curved, unshapely parabola and Yeonwoo on a straight line.

Feral, Hanseo once thinks, his gaze only slightly unclouded, as Yeonwoo bites at his lips, his neck. Feral, in the way he never kisses to coax Hanseo’s mouth open; never to cherish feeling. Only to chase after something so much deeper.

-

At seventeen, Jang Hanseo implodes from heartbreak.

Transfer student. Short, ebony hair, in that oh-so-timeless straight bob. He has a nice smile, even Hanseo can tell, and he has a charming walk. He’s also assigned a seat beside him. This, of all things, was the catalyst.

Yeonwoo didn’t want to kiss him anymore. Yeonwoo wanted to smoke with him, but Yeonwoo also bought a new companion along with him. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never wanted what Hanseo did. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never felt the way Hanseo did.

Hanseo knows that he knew, somewhere, beneath what his world had become, that this would not stand for long. Its foundations were, in the end, smoke.

-

But it does not surprise him, Hanseo thinks, seventeen and a quarter, something vile in his veins. It does not surprise him that he’s here.

His head hits, dully, the floor under him. He laughs. And he laughs some more, as the world turns from dust to sky to ocean. And he waits for the servants to find him in his father’s study.

-

They tell him that he’s lucky, later, in the hospital. Jang Hanseo thinks this is what death feels like, on the verge of eighteen. He states blinking at the ceiling. Hospital rooms are white on all six sides, and heaven is supposed to be white on all six sides as well. He wants to laugh, so he does.

And it hurts.

Hanseo stops laughing.

(— his brother’s laugh —)

-

Hanseo laughs. Ten years past, ten years perished, Hanseo laughs until his heart hurts. His brother’s heart is still beating. His blood is still warm, the three hits to his head and one to his back hadn’t kept him down. Hanseo laughs as the blood splatters on his face, sprinkled red on his chin and lips, a sprinkled red dancing in his eyes as he brings the hockey stick down, down, down.

For everything Hanseok has made him — less, more, just enough. For all these little things that had changed Hanseo more than broken bones could. For lost love. For things that weren’t, in the end, Hanseok’s fault.

Hanseo beats him till his heart stops fighting back and the blood pooled in his mouth flows quietly. Till Hanseo feels no fight left in him, and then some, till the exhaustion in him takes over.

Hanseo slumps over his brother’s dead body, and Hanseo laughs.

(But his brother’s laugh will always be louder.)

[darlingandmreames]

No One Knows (Until Everyone Knows)

(also on ao3)

Ariadne got a couple of blocks away from the workshop before she reached for her phone and found an empty pocket instead. If it had been anything else- except maybe her keys, she needed those unless she wanted to sleep outside- she would’ve just kept going and grabbed them when she got in the next day. Not her phone though. That she needed.

The door was still unlocked when she tried the handle and the lights were on when she slipped back inside. Normally she would’ve assumed it was Cobb, he tended to stay late, but he’d headed out surprisingly early that day. Both Arthur and Eames had still been finishing up working when she’d left, though, so at least one of them must have still been in. It was a bit late for both of them, particularly Eames, but she’d long given up trying to figure out any of their schedules. If taking this job had taught her anything it was that people in the dream sharing field had the most incomprehensible sleep and work schedules of anyone she’d ever met. 

“We should head out soon.”

“I heard you the first six times. Let me finish this first.” Ariadne could almost hear Arthur rolling his eyes. “Unlike you, I am actually doing work.”

She smiled, half listening to their conversation in the other room as she scanned the tables for her phone. Out of everyone it had taken her the longest to get used to working with the two of them. On their own they were both fine; they both had their oddities but were still nice enough, and Arthur in particular had been helpful and patient as Ariadne had tried to adjust to dream sharing and manipulating. The two of them together, though, was a very different story. They argued constantly and she'd thought at first that they didn't like each other, but she realized quickly enough that their bickering was more banter than actual arguing. They were an odd pair, but entertaining once she'd gotten more used to it. 

"I was working but then you said you were almost ready to head out so I stopped working. You're the one holding us up."

"You realize you can just leave without me, right? You're under no obligation to wait if my desire to actually do my job is bothering you so much."

Ariadne could already see them in her mind. Arthur sitting at the table he'd staked out as his, papers spread around him, Eames leaning against the table next to him, grinning and arms crossed. It was a scene she'd seen plenty of times over the past couple of weeks, sometimes multiple times a day.

It was not the scene she found when she finally rounded the corner, however. Some pieces were the same- Arthur was indeed standing at his usual table, papers spread around him- but Eames wasn’t leaning against the table. He was standing behind Arthur, his arms wrapped around Arthur’s waist and chin resting on his shoulder as Arthur sifted through various papers. “And miss out on your delightful company?” He kissed Arthur’s cheek. “Never.”

She watched, surprised, as Arthur laughed quietly. “Thought I was difficult and annoying?”

“You are. Very annoying. Especially when you’re keeping me from heading back to the hotel.”

Ariadne backed up around the corner and back out of view quietly, feeling awkward. She certainly couldn’t say she was shocked, the two of them spent most of their time walking the very thin line between banter and outright flirting, but still. She’d never seen them like this, and she got the feeling that was very much intentional. She hesitated a moment, thinking over her options, before dropping her keys loudly on the concrete floor. She took her time picking them up, trying to make as much noise as she could without it being obvious that that's what she was doing. Let them know she was there and give them a moment to move if they wanted to before she walked in.

Sure enough when she rounded the corner again Eames was leaning against the table several feet from Arthur, who suddenly seemed singularly focused on whatever papers he had in front of him. Ariadne smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I know I already said night for the evening, but have either of you seen my phone? I think I left it here, and I didn’t see it on any of the tables in the other room.”

Eames glanced around, frowning, before pointing to the counter. “Is that it?”

She followed his finger, smiling in relief when she spotted her phone lying next to some of Yusuf’s equipment. “Shit, yeah, thanks.” She slipped it into her pocket and gave a quick wave as she headed back towards the door, walking quickly. She already felt awkward for interrupting, no need to make it worse by staying longer than absolutely necessary. “Okay, goodnight for real this time!”

Ariadne glanced back once she was back outside, the light from the workshop shining dimly through the obscured windows. That…certainly hadn't been what she'd expected to find. It was sweet though, honestly. And it certainly put their bickering in a new light. She wondered if Cobb knew; he and Arthur clearly knew each other fairly well, so if anyone else knew it'd be him. Given their apparent desire to keep their relationship hidden, though, she doubted it. She set off down the sidewalk toward her apartment, smiling slightly. Well, he wouldn't hear it from her. 

XXX

When Saito had first begun considering hiring Dominic Cobb to perform inception, he’d done his homework. Arthur Cohen- though Saito doubted that was his real name- had come up repeatedly in the process, and Saito hadn’t been surprised in the least to find him working this job as well. He was known for being one of the best pointmen in the field and for being serious, efficient, and perfectionistic. And he had very much lived up to that reputation in the short time Saito had been working with him.

Unless Eames was around.

“Thank you for your input, Eames, it was most helpful.”

Eames leaned back in his chair with what might have passed as a polite smile if he’d been aiming it at anyone else. Saito couldn’t tell which Eames seemed to enjoy more: starting disagreements with Arthur, or egging him on once they began. Either way it was a common enough occurrence that Saito knew exactly what was coming. This was the third time they’d gone at it in as many hours. “Well someone has to bring some imagination to the job, and it clearly isn’t going to be you, love.”

“Yes, your imagination is always so wonderfully helpful. Like on the Barraker job, remember how helpful it was then? It even managed to get me shot if I remember correctly.”

“See?” Eames grinned. “Very helpful indeed.”

Cobb sighed. “Focus, gentlemen. Please.” He turned back to papers spread out across the table. “We need to figure out how to get Fischer from ‘I will create something for myself’ on the second level to ‘my father doesn’t want me to be him’ on the third. It’s a logical leap, but still a bit of a leap all the same.”

That was when it happened. A small smile that was more warm than teasing, met with an eye roll that was more fond than annoyed. The exchange was over almost immediately and both men were back to paying attention to Cobb like nothing had happened. If Saito hadn’t been specifically watching the two of them he would’ve missed it, and as it was he seemed to be the only one who’d caught it. 

Saito'd had several affairs over the years. He'd never married himself, nor did he intend to, but several of his partners had been, so he knew that game quite well. Hiding affection in plain sight. Stolen glances when no one else was looking, lingering touches that were just brief enough to still look casual, carefully maintained appearances and interactions that often carried a second, more intimate meaning. He was familiar with all of them, having been both the initiator and recipient of them on numerous occasions. It was a game built on subtlety. On delicacy. On smiles and eye rolls when no one else was paying attention. 

He continued watching Arthur and Eames as the conversation continued but the moment didn't repeat itself, not even when they started bickering again a few minutes later. Saito couldn't help but wonder what they were like when they were alone; the fondness and warmth had been brief, but it hinted at a side to both men that was surprising. It perhaps shouldn't have been- he knew as well as anyone that a professional persona was often little more than that, a persona- but it was nonetheless.

He sighed slightly and went back to actually listening to what Cobb was saying. He was the one who'd insisted on being this involved in the job in the first place, the least he could do was pay attention. 

XXX

For a profession that took place almost entirely while asleep, dream sharing was full of people with terrible sleep schedules. Even occasional somnacin use fucked with the circadian rhythm and the amounts professional extractors used were enough to completely destroy any hope of a regular sleeping pattern. So Yusuf didn't think twice about knocking on Eames' hotel door at 11pm. He was three cups of coffee in and eager to share the breakthrough he'd just had, nearly vibrating with a combination of caffeine and excitement. Actively working with a team on a job opened up so many new possibilities that he'd never really had the chance to explore running his shop back in Mombasa, and he was thrilled to finally have the chance to do so. 

Eames gave him a tired smile when he opened the door. "Yes, hello Yusuf, can I help you?"

He looked surprisingly disheveled, his shirt untucked and hair out of place, and Yusuf briefly wondered if he'd maybe been getting ready for bed. Even if he was this wouldn't take long, and Yusuf was too excited to not tell someone what he'd figured out. "I was working- well, I was actually making coffee, but that's a necessary part of working, so basically the same thing- and I realized something." He pushed past Eames and into his room. He had a tendency to get a little loud once he got going, so he figured it'd be best if they didn't have this conversation in the hallway. "So the compound we'll be using creates a super clear connection, right? Between dreamers? And normally we talk about that just in relation to the team members, but it obviously includes the mark as well! That means when you're impersonating Browning on the first level you could…"

Yusuf stopped, confused, when he got into the main part of Eames' room. He'd assumed Eames would be alone because, well, it was 11pm on a Tuesday. Not exactly prime time for company. But Arthur was there too, laying on the bed. He was propped up on his elbows, expression somewhere between mortification and murderous intent. It would've been pretty funny, honestly, if it hadn't been directed at Yusuf. He frowned. Had Arthur come in to talk about the job with Eames as well? He couldn't think of any other reason for him to be here. He looked a bit disheveled too, jacket laying on the ground beside the bed and shirt partially unbuttoned, which was odd given how proper Arthur usually was, and… Yusuf stopped.

Oh.

Oh no.

"Did you need something?" 

Arthur's tone was tight and yeah, that was definitely murderous intent in his expression. "I, uh…" Yusuf glanced around, panicking. This was bad. He needed to get out of here. "I, um, you know, it's really not that important. It can, uh, it can wait. Until tomorrow. Yeah. I'm, um, I'm going to, uh, go now."

"That'd be great, thanks." Eames was still standing by the door, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking like he wanted Yusuf out of the room just as much as Yusuf wanted to leave. He moved aside as Yusuf hurried passed him and back out into the hallway. "Oh, and Yusuf?"

Yusuf turned around, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Y-yeah?"

"This, um," Eames ran a hand through his hair, giving Yusuf an embarrassed smile, "this just stays between us, yeah?"

Yusuf nodded. Keep it quiet, he could do that. "Not a word."

"Thanks." Eames closed his door and Yusuf hurried back to his own room. He closed the door behind him and quickly locked it, deadbolt and chain, just for good measure. He didn't think Arthur would actually kill him- there were clearly…other things to occupy his attention right now- but he still intimidated Yusuf enough that he figured it was better safe than sorry.

It was a bit sweet though, now that he had a chance to actually think about it. The two of them were insufferable around each other but in the sort of way a kid was insufferable around their crush, and he'd wondered if they had a bit of a thing for each other. It was nice to know he'd been right, even if it meant avoiding Arthur for the next few days.

XXX

In retrospect, Dom felt rather stupid for not having seen it earlier.

He'd known Arthur a long time. He’d actually been the architect on the first job Arthur ever worked, which was how they’d met, and they’d worked together relatively frequently in the years since. He was the only person Dom had worked with who had met his kids, even if just briefly, and he’d been one of the only semi-stable parts of Dom’s life since Mal’s death. They’d had their differences over the years, but Dom unquestionably considered him a friend. Probably the closest one he had anymore, and he liked to think he knew at least a decent bit about him.

One of the things he knew was that Arthur and Eames bickered. They always had, ever since the first job Dom had worked with both of them. It was just what they did. That was the unspoken arrangement of any job both of them were working: you got an excellent point man, an excellent forger, and a guarantee that they’d refuse to shut up or get along for more than 5 minutes for the entirety of the job. Dom had occasionally wondered if it was more flirting than actual bickering- it certainly walked the line sometimes- but he’d never really given it much mind. Even if it had been flirting, there hadn’t been anything behind it.

Except maybe there had.

Because Arthur’s voice wasn’t usually as soft, or as fond, as it was when he told Eames to go to sleep. Dom glanced over at him as he rolled up his own sleeve. Eames had already gone under but Arthur was still crouched by him, Eames’ hand in his. It was small, maybe nothing for most people, but Dom knew Arthur. Knew him pretty well, or at least as well as Arthur let anyone know him. He wasn’t nearly as cold or emotionless as people tended to assume he was, but he also wasn’t a particularly affectionate person, not openly at least. And that was affection in his expression, clear as day.

He looked away as Arthur stood back up, busying himself with his IV. That…wasn't a side of Arthur he'd really seen before, and he got the feeling that was intentional. Arthur was a private man after all, even for someone in their profession, and this was far from a good time to risk infringing on that. There was more than enough shit going on that was more important, and Arthur would have his hands full enough trying to hold off Fischer's sub-security for Dom to risk throwing him off; their lives depended on Arthur being focused. 

"Hey, you ready?"

"Yeah, just…just give me a sec." Dom finished rolling up his sleeve and got ready to insert the line. Maybe he'd ask after the job, assuming they all made it.

XXX

Arthur was usually a pretty even keeled person. Years of working in the underworld of extraction meant that very little surprised him anymore, and he tended to be unfazed by most things. Even when things did manage to surprise him he'd long learned to keep it hidden below the surface, away and out of sight. Right now, though, he felt almost giddy.

They’d done it. They’d fucking done it. Inception. It’d gone sideways in just about every way possible, but they’d still done it. It was an amazing feeling and as Eames came up beside him, Arthur couldn’t help but look at him with a grin. Eames raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “You’re in a good mood.”

“And you’re not?”

“Course I am.” Eames grinned back and leaned in slightly, his hand brushing briefly against Arthur’s hip. “You just don’t usually show it so openly.”

Arthur leaned in as well, resting against Eames' arm. "I have my moments."

"That you do, darling," Eames laughed. "That you do." After a moment he shifted, slipping his arm around Arthur's waist. They generally avoided any sort of public affection but Arthur leaned into the touch, wrapping his own arm around Eames' waist in return. Eames laughed again. "You really are in a good mood."

"Just looking forward to celebrating a job well done." He rested his head against Eames' shoulder. Across the baggage carousel Saito caught his eye, raising an eyebrow, and Arthur shrugged slightly in return. "I was thinking dinner?"

"Mm, maybe a few drinks too." Eames pulled him in slightly. "I know a wonderful bar near the hotel, one of my favourites in the city."

"Sounds like an excellent plan." Knowing Eames, a favourite bar could refer to anything from an exclusive establishment to a hole in the wall dive bar, and Arthur absolutely couldn't find it in him to care which it was. All that mattered was that it was the two of them, celebrating. 

The baggage area slowly began to clear out as people's luggage began dropping down onto the carousel. Yusuf hurried by them, bag in hand, glancing at them briefly and nodding before looking away again almost immediately. Eames chuckled and Arthur couldn't help but smile as well; he'd been awkward around them ever since he'd stopped by Eames' room unannounced, even going so far as to avoid the both of them as much possible for a few days afterwards. Ariadne seemed to have no such qualms, though, flashing them a wide grin as she walked by. Arthur smiled back; if Ariadne stayed in the dreamsharing field- which Arthur had a feeling she would, reality was never enough after getting a taste for dream construction- he had no doubt he and Eames would get a comment or two from her the next job they worked together.

The giddiness faded somewhat as he and Eames waited for their bags to appear, but the sense of excitement and disbelief stayed. Arthur caught Dom's eye as he made his way across the room and Dom nodded, his own expression mirroring Arthur's disbelief. They'd really done it. They'd performed inception. Completed a job that shouldn't have been possible and gotten Dom home. Arthur hummed happily as Eames rested his cheek against the top of his head. It would be nice to spend the night out, dinner and drinks and wherever else they ended up until they finally ended up back at the hotel, riding the high of what they'd managed to pull off. After everything, they deserved it. 

[goldencuffs]

aberrant affairs

Laurent Revere comes down the wide, glossy staircase wearing a sheer, silk shirt that matches the pink in his cheeks and lips, and jeans that are too tight to be appropriate. His golden hair is neat, styled with care, and it shines brighter than the chandelier he stands under. He’s still wearing his ring, a giant cut of diamond that is obnoxious, yet tasteful.

“Goddamn,” Lazar mutters under his breath. His mouth is open, and his gaze is glassy.

Jord agrees. Goddamn. No one should look this sinful two days after their husband’s death.

“Gentlemen,” Laurent greets politely. His voice is husky, a gentle purr that is seductive to its core. “I apologise if we’ve met before, but I can’t seem to place your faces.”

Jord shifts his jacket so it falls open at his hip. There, his badge gleams in the lighting of the foyer.

Laurent’s eyes fix on it for a few beats before he tilts his head. “Ah,” he says. “Please, follow me.”

Laurent leads them through his mansion with ease. The hallway itself is grand, high ceilinged and designed with white marble. The room they eventually end up in is ostentatious; it overlooks the sea, and the minimal furniture in it are gold trimmed vintage pieces.

“Coffee or tea?” Laurent asks, so sweetly it catches Jord off guard.

He clears his throat.“Coffee.” He adds: “For both of us,” when he notices how dazed Lazar still is.

Laurent busies himself making coffee for them in the corner, where an expensive, steel machine rests on top of a gold plated bench.

Jord’s gaze is helplessly drawn to the curve of Laurent’s backside, the tops of his thighs and the white of his feet, which are bare. It somehow makes Laurent look both boyish and expensive.

Lazar is staring too, but with less subtlety. They both catch themselves at the same time and turn away; guiltily, they turn their faces out towards the view of the sea.

Laurent comes back with three cups of rich coffee balanced on a silver tray. It smells divine, and Jord picks his up with too much eagerness.

They sit in silence for a while. Jord watches Laurent carefully. His skin, lily white, is unblemished: there are no dark circles or red rimmed eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s been mourning. He doesn’t even seem shocked. Nothing about Laurent suggests he’s just lost a husband. Instead, he looks regal, like a spoilt, bratty sugar baby that’s never had to work for anything in his life. Jord’s blood boils.

Lazar puts his cup down with a small clink and says, “I’m sure you must be wondering why we’re here, Mr Revere.”

“Please call me Laurent, detective,” Laurent says. He watches the both of them over the rim of his cup, his blue eyes steady. “And yes, I have been wondering.”

Jord says, “We have some questions about your husband’s death.”

Laurent wraps both palms around his cup and nestles it on his lap. His nails are clean and his fingertips are pinked. “Oh?” he says, and god — Jord finds himself genuinely impressed. The kid is good; he legitimately sounds confused.

“Where were you on Saturday evening?”

“Here,” Laurent blinks, his long lashes fluttering. “At home.”

“Was there anyone with you?” Beside him, Lazar is dutifully writing down Laurent’s responses.

“Just the usual staff.”

“And why weren’t you with your husband at the gala? It seemed like a pretty big event to miss.”

Laurent’s lips purse. “I had a terrible headache.” He pushes back his hair on his forehead with the delicateness of a virgin milkmaid from a period drama. “I’m prone to them quite often.”

Jord — barely — keeps from rolling his eyes. He asks, “What were you doing when you received the call that your husband died?”

“I was getting ready for bed. I was —” Laurent’s chin quivers enough for it to be noticeable, the first real signs of distress. “I was waiting for him to come back.” His voice wavers as he says it. With a polite cough, he excuses himself with a meek, “I’m terribly sorry.”

It’s so convincing. It’s confounding how effortless his acting is. It’s why Jord says, lightly, “Well, at this point, you must be used to those kinds of calls.”

Jord finds himself subjected to Laurent’s sapphire gaze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What I mean,” Jord begins, “is that being married to you seems to suddenly drop a man’s life expectancy. Twenty six years old, and all three of your marriages have ended with your husband’s untimely deaths.”

Laurent’s face goes ashen.

Jord doesn’t fall for it. He’s not going to be swayed by such a pretty face — isn’t going to be another victim in Revere’s life.

He knows Laurent’s history by heart at this point; he and Lazar have been vigorously studying it for the last two days.

Laurent’s first husband, a refined gentleman from a small village in Kempt, had died just seven months into their marriage. The second, a professor at one of Akielos’ most renowned universities, had died in his sleep. He’d only been married to Laurent for six weeks. Laurent’s last husband, a famous socialite with ties to the Patran royal family, had dropped dead in the middle of his speech last Saturday at a private gala with over five thousand witnesses, just shy of their one year anniversary.

All three men had several unfortunate things in common: each had been extensively older than Laurent, wealthy, and had been so enamoured by Laurent, they had married him within months, sometimes weeks, after meeting him.

Jord has done this long enough to know that three of anything is never a coincidence.

Sitting in a multi million mansion, watching the sun catch the gold of Laurent’s hair, he can see exactly why a lonely, older man with a fortune to spare would be so eager to capture Laurent’s attention.

Laurent’s response is cold, composed, but underneath his thin shirt, his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Perhaps I’ve misunderstood, detective, but are you — insinuating that I had something to do with my husband’s death?”

Lazar leans forward. “You do have to admit, Laurent, that it is incredibly suspicious that every single husband you’ve had has died shortly after marrying you.”

It’s oddly gratifying to see how much colour drains from Laurent’s face. But the tears that suddenly well in his eyes makes Jord pause.

“Get out,” says Laurent, quietly. His words are so choked, at first, it’s hard to make them out. “You have no right — how dare you —” Laurent cuts himself off, frustrated, and still breathing heavily. “Just go. I don’t want either of you in my house.”

Jord almost declines; he wants to push more answers from Laurent, wants to let him know that a few tears won’t dissuade him from getting to know the truth. Then he thinks better of it; they have time. Jord isn’t going to rush this case.

So he stands. Lazar does too.

“We’ll be off then,” Jord says. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Revere.”

Laurent mutters something too quiet for Jord to pick up on. From his tone, it isn’t hard to guess what, though.

Still, probably trained under his husband — husbands — to be as gracious as possible, Laurent stands too, intent on leading them to the doorway.

In the foyer, there’s a tall, well-dressed man standing near the staircase. His features suggest he is Akielon through and through: his nose is straight, eyes and hair both dark, and underneath his suit, it’s obvious he is nothing but muscle. He is stunningly attractive, although not exactly Jord’s type.

When he sees Laurent, the sheer joy on his face is blinding. It dampens considerably as his gaze shifts to Jord and Lazar.

“Hey,” the stranger says, in rough Akielon, addressing Laurent. “Erasmus just let me in, but he didn’t say you had company over.” Once again his eyes roam over Jord and Lazar, but almost against his will, his attention is quickly stolen by Laurent.

Laurent offers a small smile. “Damen,” he greets, and his voice is pleased, a little relieved. “These lovely gentlemen were just on their way. Detectives, this is Damen Vallis, my best friend.”

Jord watches Damen’s eyes narrow at the word detectives, but his smile is friendly as he shakes their hands.

And then Damen steps closer and finally takes a good look at Laurent’s face, his red eyes and pink nose. The anger that contorts his face is so sudden, it startles Jord. From the corner of his eye, he can see Lazar raise his eyebrows.

Still in Akielon, Damen says, “What the fuck did they say to you?” It comes out biting, harsh.

Laurent winces. In a placating gesture, he places his hand on Damen’s forearm. “Nothing, I swear. I’m alright.”

Damen shakes off his hand with a grimace, mouth pulled tight. The disgust on his face is evident.

Laurent looks hurt, but doesn’t outwardly react. He seems to realise that Jord and Lazar are still there because he says, “Just wait in the living room, okay? I’m just going to say goodbye.”

Damen nods, curt, and stomps off, his fists clenched. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone else.

“Sorry,” Laurent says, after a brief pause. “He isn’t normally so rude, but his clients have been giving him grief lately.”

“He’s a lawyer?” Lazar asks, and Laurent nods.

“Best in the state,” he says, genuine pride in his tone.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Since forever. Our families are very close.”

Jord nods, only half listening. While they walk through the same marbled hallways, he thinks of the look on Damen’s face when he had caught sight of Laurent: smitten, completely besotted. There was a strange violence thrumming under the surface of his anger when he had realised Laurent had been crying. But those things aren’t necessarily abnormal. It isn’t uncommon for best friends to be so loyal.

It’s the way Damen reacted when Laurent had touched him that keeps replaying in Jord’s mind. Something about it had seemed off.

It isn’t until they’re back in the car that he realises what had bothered him about it. Laurent had touched Damen with his left hand, the hand that still had his ring on it.

Damen had seemed… outraged over the fact that Laurent was still wearing it.

As they drive off, Jord watches Laurent step back inside his mansion and thinks he might have misjudged him, after all.

[bestworstcase]

farran re-reads lost lagoon: chapter 1

- there is a vibe here that i really don’t know how to explain. it might just be a juv fic thing where nuance gets flattened on the assumption that younger readers won’t or can’t understand such subtleties but i am immediately remembering that something about the way rapunzel is portrayed in the novels gets my hackles up. tts was evidently limited in how it could flesh out rapunzel’s character, and some of her flaws are glossed over accordingly - but in tts, rapunzel does have flaws, and toxic positivity is one that is repeatedly, if lightly, examined. in lost lagoon it feels like this trait has been dressed up in a party hat and presented to me as her best trait with a rah rah girl power cake to go with it, and it irks me. we’ll see how this holds out through the rest of the story, because in all fairness i have never met a juvfic first chapter whose character establishment i liked. lmao

- to give an example - in tangled and tts, pascal functions as rapunzel’s voice of reason. he encourages her to get out of the tower, and likewise encourages her to be cautious of eugene and check for ‘red flags’ (such as pointy teeth). in tts he regularly displays emotional awareness and sensitivity well beyond what rapunzel can grasp, and makes his doubts known when he feels rapunzel is behaving poorly. here… he’s afraid of heights, for some reason, so rapunzel can look carefree, spirited, and brave while teasing him for having this fear. she even lampshades the fact that it makes no sense for pascal, who grew up in a seventy-foot-high tower, to be afraid of being in a tree perhaps five or six feet off the ground. 

then this is underscored by means of guards rushing up with a ladder to ‘help’ rapunzel down from the tree, followed by her laughing them off and jumping to land ‘as always, on my strong bare feet.’ while it makes sense for rapunzel to think and feel this way, it has a distinctly different energy from rapunzel cracking under pressure in before ever after. in bea i feel like i’m supposed to sympathize with rapunzel’s distress whilst also recognizing the importance of the shoes she has been asked to fill, and of making her ready to fill them; that is… not the impression being crafted here.

- lost lagoon is one hundred percent structured as a coming out romantic novel wherein rapunzel identifies and comes to terms with her identity as a gay woman by cheating on her perfectly nice but unexciting male love interest with another woman, and this is endlessly hilarious to me regardless of anything else. i mean:

Not to mention true love with Eugene—sweet, funny Eugene! […] And yet something wasn’t right. Something was missing.

leila howland said “get fucked, fitzherbert”

- the treatment of friedborg here is a small step up from tts, where ‘haha weird and ugly’ is literally the punchline of every scene she’s in, but nevertheless it is distinctly uncomfortable to have a mute character portrayed as communicating in grunts and pointing. surely corona has some sort of sign language? surely someone could get this poor woman a slate and a piece of chalk, or if fine motor control is an issue that makes writing or signing prohibitively difficult then at the very least a booklet of cards with common words and phrases she could use to convey her meaning? but…no. instead she becomes a device to illustrate how opaque and confusing rapunzel finds palace etiquette to be.

- rapunzel thinking “manners are overrated” is extremely funny. i am not sure it’s supposed to be funny, but it is.

- lost lagoon eugene is suffering the great indignity of being made to learn something. this is one of the first signs that the book is fanfiction, which now that i think of it is also sort of hilarious.

- also: “I’ll join a dishwashing club or participate in a meatloaf-eating competition if that’s what it takes to make your dad accept me.” eugene what

- re: romance novel: “I watched Eugene walk back toward the castle. Why couldn’t I be as happy as he was? I wondered. We had everything anyone could ever want. Was there something wrong with me? It was almost like I didn’t even know I was lonely when I was in the tower, but everything had changed now. I could feel the places inside me that had been empty for so many years and I wanted to fill them all up.”

- amusing as this is i also can’t help but feel… a little irked, that tts rapunzel’s zeal for the outside world and her discovery of it has been transmuted into mere loneliness. rapunzel is a lonely person, absolutely, but i think far more pressing than that loneliness is her longing for newness after a life spent in the tower. moreover, in tts we see that it takes six months for rapunzel to start really chafing within the confines of her new life—in beginnings, which is the canon lost lagoon equivalent, she is still overwhelmed with wonder and delight in all the new things, cassandra included. i suppose what i’m getting at here is i don’t quite buy that the shine wore off this fast. it’s been less than a week.

(i promised myself i would keep bitter snow talk to a minimum for this but i do feel the need to say - benighted happens in a far more compressed amount of time than canon, and there rapunzel does indeed begin to feel overwhelmed and anxious within a single week. but her response to that anxiety is to think “well, i overestimated how easy this would be just a little!” and it isn’t until several more weeks have passed that she begins to feel dissatisfied and unhappy and uncomfortable as a consequence. whereas here, the vibe i am getting is more “manners are dumb, shoes suck, the guards suck, i’m miserable and i don’t know why” which just… it doesn’t feel like rapunzel.)

- rapunzel asks her security detail to give her some space, and when they refuse, she takes note of their sweaty brows, thinks to herself that they must be roasting under their armor—and uses this observation to deftly manipulate them into leaving her alone by suggesting they go dip their feet in a fountain to cool off. “It would make me really happy to see you happy.” 

i would argue that this sort of conscious manipulation is not at all out of character for rapunzel - she learned it from gothel and certainly there are examples of manipulative behavior from her in tts as well - but for it to happen so clearly in the very first chapter of the story casts everything else that happens in a sort of interesting light. for rapunzel to do this suggests a basic grasp of, at least, how people can be made to do things by appealing to their physical needs or comfort—yet she will also struggle to grasp social nuances and as in canon much of her conflict with cass is grounded in rapunzel’s dismissal of or blindness to what cassandra wants or needs from her. manipulativeness and social ignorance is an interesting combination of traits for her to have and it is nice to see the manipulativeness borne out so overtly in the text. again, we’ll have to see how this holds up later in the story because i do not remember it very well.

re: romance novel: the dissatisfaction and loneliness established in chapter one and explicitly not filled by the male love interest are, of course, answered by a fascinating glimpse of the one (1) gnc woman in all of corona. whom rapunzel only glimpses because she is climbing a tree to paint the view out of hopes that it will “fix” how out-of-place she feels. ms. howland you are not subtle, and also, how did she slip this past the disney censors?

[the-darklings]

Jean-anon is baaackk! I think my last ask got swallowed up by tumbler as I pressed send. So sorry if you got the message twice!

I’ve just been listening to snoh aalegra tangerine dream, and I’m getting such strong Jean vibes 👀

Also totally see V and Jean randomly meeting each other after they have grown up and deciding to go out to catch up. Whilst out both of their phones ring simultaneously with an open contract and they both know that the jig is up as they both stare at each other.

JEAN ANON, MY BELOVEDDDDD

okay, so i've never heard this song and just listened to it but AHHH you got the vibe so spot-on. i've added it to their playlist! if you want to soak up more of their energy/get a better feel for them, you can listen to it here (and please do let me know if you have any more recs based on it, would love to hear them!!) there are a few songs on here I consider to be anthems for them but that's a story for another time.

and oooh - oh - oooh. so, jean doesn't do too much fieldwork in an assassin sense. he's the man that walks into a room already having full control of it - that's not to say he doesn't know how to throw down, he does. but it's about the control, about the knowledge that everyone already knows you're the most destructive thing in the vicinity without saying a word or lifting a finger. he actually rather enjoys v's more outward physical displays of danger (read: he's horny. he's used to people bending to his will so her merging physical threats with the subtlety and intellect of poison making? he is looking very disrespectfully and lets her know as much). the more she lets darker sides poke out the more curious/pleased he is. he's unapologetic about power and control and doesn't think she should be, either. it very much comes down to his innate ability to see into her and her raw potential.

the idea of them meeting after so long though? a ghost from each other's pasts coming back to haunt them? for v it's a comfort, a joy. for jean, I imagine it's a bit different. he doesn't like any associations with his past. everything he was is best left gone and buried six feet under. but she's different as well. she's haunted now. more withdrawn compared to the firecracker he recalls in those hazy memories. them both getting a call for a contract though? the sinking realisation? it's like looking at each other and seeing the other naked, stripped back, a threat, competition. he always felt oddly himself with her. like with her, he could be everything he never could with others. now, he understands why. they are cut from the same cloth, and that makes her dangerous to him. and he has a tendency of destroying things that are dangerous to him one way or another.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Hi I would love it if you wrote a fic on Harry and Benny finding out about the other’s relationship with Beth

All Hope and No Pawns

Rating: T Word Count: 1382

Summary: A missing scene from Benny's apartment after the phone call to Beth in Moscow.

“Go beat him,” Benny urges.

When he drops the receiver back into its cradle, he unconsciously continues to grip it. His adrenaline’s spiked, his head’s lowered—for all his corporeal clues, it might be him about to face Borgov. There’s even a chessboard before him, styled with the final permutation he and the boys teased out from Beth and Borgov’s positions at the time of adjournment. Only so many ways this can go now. Damn, he just wishes he could watch it happen.

With a final squeeze, he releases the phone and steps away, rubbing a hand thoughtfully across his chin. He’s still uncomfortable moving too far from the phone. Crazy, since it could be hours before the match is decided. As Benny emerges from the depths of his own thoughts, he can hear the others, talking lowly and pacing while the excitement of blurting strategy down the line to Beth burns through them. It won’t last; soon, they’ll be crashing while he makes himself yet another cup of coffee, determined to stay awake. Another of today’s senseless notions: that his ability to remain sharp will somehow help Beth do the same.

He returns. He resets the board and plays out one possibility, all the way through to the fallen king. It makes him feel better. To drown out a skeptical note in Matt’s voice behind him, Benny collects the pieces in his hand and rolls them around, listening to the wood knock. He puts them in formation and plays through another version, searching the arrangement for gaps and his brain for the memory of Beth’s instincts. During their time together, starting with training and turning into… well, she learned to beat him faster and more soundly, but he learned a thing or two as well. Although the way Beth plays is still opaque and elusive, Benny has a sort of feel for it. He studies the board and tries to grip that old conviction of his—she sees things the same way he does.

“Will she call herself, do you think?” Hilton asks, tone as buoyant as ever.

“No,” Benny sighs. He turns away from the board. “She’ll be swarmed when it’s over.”

He doesn’t specify an outcome. The fucking Soviet players make him superstitious.

“She’ll have that asshole from the State Department with her too,” Mike says. “He’ll keep her on a short leash.”

“He’ll try,” Benny counters, provoking chuckles.

“Well, maybe Townes’ll stay between them,” Matt theorizes. “He managed it this morning.”

“Maybe Mr. State Department thought they were doing something he would’ve blushed to interrupt,” Hilton says.

“Beth and Townes?” Benny asks scornfully.

There’s no chance. He and Townes spoke before Townes flew out there, when he agreed to smooth the way for Benny’s call to get through without interception by Beth’s official government handler. Townes didn’t try to pull any bullshit territoriality where Beth was concerned—and he didn’t flinch when Benny did. (He hadn’t meant to, but a whole string of things had left his mouth as he verbally worked through his tips and encouragements for Beth, immediately afterwards hoping that Townes wouldn’t pass any of it on.)

“Aren’t they… close?”

“We shouldn’t be talking about them like this,” Harry says firmly. “Especially Beth.”

“If either of them has feelings for the other, it’s Beth,” Mike says.

“It’s true,” Matt adds, backing his brother up. “We were there when they met, more or less. She had such a crush on him.”

Benny frowns.

“Guys,” Harry pleads.

“Nobody’s saying anything against either of them! But don’t you think Townes is her type?”

“No.” Benny and Harry speak the same adamant syllable at the same moment.

Benny’s never wanted attention less than he does in the seconds immediately following, when the others’ eyes bounce back and forth between him and Harry. He twitches his wrist so his bracelet slides around it.

“Early lunch?” Matt tactfully proposes.

The rest of them mumble their assent and file towards the door, grabbing hats and jackets, stomping feet into shoes. Even Harry takes a couple steps. Just a couple.

“Are you coming?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” Benny tells him, holding his ground.

Harry turns and nods to Mike, relieving him of the task of holding the door open. It’s a strange jerk of the chin, almost mournful, like he’s signaling to someone to go on ahead to the funeral reception while he lingers by the grave as the diggers fill it in. Now, Benny doesn’t have any plans to put this guy six feet under, but the implications of Harry having such a ready opinion on the sort of man Beth goes for aren’t exactly the kind to make Benny leap joyfully around his apartment. He exhales steadily from his nose.

“I heard you were training her,” he begins when they’re alone.

Harry—to his credit—doesn’t cower. He straightens his back and faces Benny directly.

“For a little while. Of course, she’d eclipsed me before we ever began, but I’d read more books.” He laughs softly to himself. “Not many more. A few.”

“I told Beth she needed a more mature trainer to get her ready for Paris.” Benny cocks his head as his teeth grind together. “Obviously, your time with her was plenty mature.”

“That’s not any of your business.”

Where Benny would keep his gaze trained on his (he hesitates to use the word ‘rival’) guest as things teeter between polite and heated, Harry looks away. It’s unnerving, actually, how he glances calmly around the apartment like a prospective renter. Must be seeing the space they’ve all been sequestered in for hours with fresh eyes.

“She’s been here,” he concludes.

“After Ohio.”

“Ah. After she beat you. And when she got here, I’m sure she kept beating you.” He doesn’t seem to mean it maliciously, so Benny doesn’t interject. “She beat me a lot too. It made her frustrated with me. I got over that. Mostly.”

“I’m not even close. To getting over it,” Benny clarifies.

He meets the stare of Harry’s round eyes with his hands on his hips and wonders if he’s just put himself in a bad position, presented a vulnerability to be exploited. Harry could miss it, like he missed his chance to take the Lexington final back from Beth when she castled. But then, Harry could also be more sensitive to human interactions than he is to astute pawn placement.

“That makes sense,” Harry allows. “You two are much more evenly matched.”

So, he is aware that they’re not really talking about chess.

“What was your mistake?” Benny surprises himself by asking. Harry looks surprised too, but Benny shrugs.

“It was a… visualization problem. I never knew what was coming with her and gave my own plan away too early. Do you love her?”

Benny places a hand on the table to anchor himself against the blunt question. Jesus, Harry does have an issue with subtlety.

“Yeah,” he admits after a solid minute. “I might.”

“Does she love you?”

Blow after blow with this guy, trying to take him to the canvas like he’s Muhammad Ali! Best Benny can guess, it’s a petty hit from someone who knows he’s already lost. Harry doesn’t want Beth because he knows he’s not gonna get her, but his question has this insulting presupposition—there’s just something in his tone that assumes a certain answer. It’s a last wild swing at the man who could still have a shot at the happiness Harry wanted for himself. Though Benny watches him warily, there’s nothing he can do, no way to regain his mystery. They’ve circled each other and determined the major weaknesses.

Benny shakes his head.

“That’s the one thing I don’t know.”

Harry regards him too long, then shrugs his coat on. He climbs the stairs unhurriedly and goes out after Hilton and the other members of Beth’s emergency chess contingent. A group of fools who are probably deceiving themselves to think they’re providing her with anything she couldn’t figure out on her own. She’s exceptional. She’s beat them all before; that’s why it’s her over there in Moscow and not one of them. So many, many invariable miles and possible outcomes from here.

Benny makes a fresh pot of coffee and takes a seat by the phone.

[apothecaryave]

Familial Pains

Going home was never the pleasant experience poetry dictated it should be, not for Aveline. But she had run clean out of excuses, each letter she’d received somehow containing more guilt than the next. It was to the point where simply seeing the familiar parchment of her mother’s stationary made her stomach drop. The longer she tried to put off opening it, the larger it grew in her head, taking over the desk and all other correspondences until she at last slit it open with the resigned panic of war prisoner set to meet her execution at last.

We are well, her mother assured her, save for the pain of your absence. Aveline always rolled her eyes at the sentiment, convinced the money she sent on the regular was more than enough to ease any such sorrows.

 She’d never been close with her mother or her brothers, and her biological father was not a man she entertained any notion of reconciliation with. It didn’t matter that the injury he’d caused her adoptive father had been an accident, or that he had shown her paternal affection despite the infidelity her birth was proof of. All she had to do was recall every lost, confused, then guilty expression of her adoptive father whenever he couldn’t recall where he was or why he happened to be holding a sack of coin in hand.

 That innocent panic of his before she explained that they were headed to the show he’d been looking forward to, and that what he was holding was the simple payment given to him after dropping off a promised shipment of medicine on their way — no apology could fix that. No number of ‘sorry’s and ‘I didn’t mean to’s would make it any less difficult to explain to her real father, over and over again, what was happening and why it was happening when all she wanted was to spend a simple, happy evening visiting the man who never should have loved her.

 But it could never be so simple as avoiding the faces and voices that brought all her old feelings up from under her skin. Now her bothers had married; there were nieces and nephews to spoil, mild ailments of aging to remind her of her mother’s mortality, and a compounding sense of familial responsibility she had never escaped.

 Aveline was not a son: she would never inherit the farm, nor had the land been of any real consequence to her livelihood once she had left the village. But she was still the eldest, and by far the most financially successful, and despite the emasculation, her father and brothers had benefitted greatly from her contributions over the years. The farm, as she was often told, was thriving and expanding thanks to the newly hired hands, tools, plants, and all other investments that had brought the once humble landscape into extensive orchards capable of sustaining the quickly growing line of Durands.

 She couldn’t deny that a part of her still, despite all reason, was planted firmly in that farm. As the carriage rolled down the road, she was surprised by how little had changed over the years. The overgrown streams were still overgrown, long grass grasping at the energetic splash of water that escaped with crisp, melodious sound. It suddenly felt not so long ago that she explored those slippery rocks barefoot, braving the wicked chill as she searched for colorful pebbles to collect.

 It was her home itself that had changed the most. The carriage came to a halt at a place she never would have recognized had it not been for the orchards surrounding it. Gone was the humble cabin — a cozy one room affair with a loft where the whole family had slept. In its place was the sort of town house she might have expected within Gridania, more than three times the original’s size replete with a second story and three chimneys.

 “Time has been good to us all.” Aveline murmured to herself as she stepped out of the carriage, one hand occupied with a large bag. She gave the coach a handsome tip, but scarcely managed to turn around before not a few, but six children came bounding out of the front door.

The eldest (or so she assumed, the girl being the tallest among the gaggle) stopped short a few feet of embracing her, instead throwing her arms up excitedly in a bright, “Auntie Aveline!” The other children joined her in a semicircle with the same chorus, and Aveline was suddenly helpless with awkwardness. Being the eldest of her siblings, unmarried, and utterly foreign in the place that was once her home, even ‘hello’ felt strange on her lips. Did she call these charming strangers darlings?

 “Aveline!” Ah, that sharp, high voice meant to be softened with affection could belong only to her mother. Though far from elderly, her mother’s face had new wrinkles, and though she hastened without delay toward her daughter, Aveline could tell that her knee was still giving her trouble.

 “Mother.” Aveline tightened in her mother’s embrace, suddenly and guiltily wishing that she’d been stolen up by her niece’s arms instead. Those young eyes were so bright and innocent in their childish delight — no expectation, no disappointment, just wonderment at the mysterious woman their grandmother had undoubtedly spoken of.

 Her mother, on the other hand, noticed this off-putting tension immediately, and disapproval muddied her gaze as she stood back with her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Aveline, what sort of greeting is that after all this time? Your father and I have been aching to see you!”

Aveline grit her teeth. Of all the words she might have said, those were among the worst. That she should feel any familial guilt over that man was a notion capable of making her turn her back there and then to run after the carriage that was already trotting off.

 But Aveline had been raised to be a polite girl, and the reservedness she saved for the most difficult of her apothecary clients was in full force. “I’m sorry, Mother — it was such a long trip. But I’m delighted to see all my nephews and nieces in such good health. As ever, you look lovely in blue.”

 Her mother glowed at the compliment and gave her shoulders a squeeze before leading her inside along with the gaggle of children. Everything afterward was a blur of activity. There wasn’t even time to feel further awkwardness, for she was reintroduced to her brothers’ wives, their children, and the veritable waterfall of things that had changed about the Durand farm. Their well-to-do lifestyle was obvious in every detail, from the crisp cusp and polished buttons of her brothers’ shirts to the small but comfortable sitting room near the front of the house. Here was a proper growing estate where the Durand name might take root and thrive for generations.

 And she had no place in it.

 Not that she was unwelcome, of course. Her nieces and nephews gushed over the presents she had brought them, pastries from her shoppe with dolls and toys thrown into the mix for good measure. Young children were easy to buy gifts for, and their pure adoration for so simple a gesture made Aveline happy in a way she’d not felt in a very long time.

 She found, too, that her sisters-in-law were easy women to get along with, mild and kind-spirited and far more than her brothers deserved — a point they smirked at when they saw her sisterly admonition cast over her shoulder. Though her brothers still couldn’t pass on their old habits of teasing her, the barbs had diminished greatly with age. She didn’t know them as well as she might have liked to, she realized, and a sudden emptiness threatened to claim a sliver of her heart. How much had she missed, and was all her time spent away as worthwhile as she liked to believe?

 It took only the entrance of her father to remind her that it had not been so. The room felt stifling the moment he entered. He was a tall man, a proper elezen with the lean musculature and pointed ears to prove it. He all but loomed over the gathering of hyurs, entirely out of place with his elegantly angled features. Even his poise was different and she hated it, that natural grace not at all in line with a family of humble farmers.

 How was it, after so many years, that her rage could bubble so hotly to the surface? There was no provocation in his expression, just a deep sorrow and gentle resignation in the face of her rejection. He asked nothing from her, no affection and no acknowledgment, greeting her gently and assuring her that she was welcome.

 And that just made her angrier. She wanted desperately to hate him as the villain he was, to charge him as a negligent, cruel, awful man, but it was plain his place was firmly rooted in the home. Her brothers admired him, her mother unrepentantly loved him, and his direction had undeniably been key in turning the poor fortune of the Durand family around. Aveline had merely speeded along the careful seeds he had sown, and one look at the gorgeous orchards peeking from the windows assured her of this.

 Thus, all the awkwardness returned once the children had settled and she was left in the company of adults and exceptionally delicious apricot wine. As the sun set, casting a warm glow about the sitting room, conversation slowed, turned serious, and she was faced with the questions she’d feared the most.

 “Are you never going to settle down, Aveline? You always go on about your bistro and that apothecary of yours, but never your personal life. I hate to imagine you lonely.” Her mother’s face was all concern, though the last of her words pierced Aveline’s pride with the subtlety of a lightning bolt.

 Aveline’s hand tightened around the curve of her wine glass, but she let the sensation go almost immediately. Had she been a male, she mused, a lifestyle of keeping lovers in lieu of marrying would have made her an eclectic, but not unredeemable rake. As a woman, however, she might as well have been a spinster. An artist or businesswoman could still have merit in the eyes of her family, of course, but to lack a man with a ring on his finger was lacking all the same.

 “I’m many things, but not lonely. I’ve lovers who bring great enrichment to my life and that is all I desire.” Aveline struggled to reign in her smile as her mother gasped (and frankly, the rest of the room’s company as well), the latter caught completely off guard by her daughter’s unmistakably proud admission.

 “Such men can’t provide you with a family, my dear. Do you not want a family?” Of course her mother pressed the issue, her shameless hypocrisy making Aveline’s ears hot. That wretched man sitting beside her mother, her birth father by all technical terms, had sired her as a bastard child. The father of her brothers, the man her mother had married, was the selfsame person who had been injured and willing to die some place quiet after coming to the ridiculous conclusion that the shameless elezen in front of her could provide for the family better than he ever could.

 She wanted to scream. She wanted to ruin her mother’s new dress and shatter her wine glass at the woman’s feet. Her whole body trembled with fury, and she very nearly forgot the question entirely. It took every onze of willpower in her body to restrain herself, and the fury slowly, painfully cooled into ice. Silence filled the room while she did nothing but sip from her glass.

 “Mother…” Oliver, the youngest of her two brothers, had enough sense to intervene, but not the words to do so effectively. Did he share the same sentiment, even in the smallest way? The full intensity of Aveline’s gaze fell on him like daggers. The way he recoiled, stunned and penitent, made her sick with the realization that he simply wished to avoid conflict. How prudent of him, wanting to keep the peace at the price of bottling all her ugly feelings away.

 But it was selfish, to step back into their lives and cause a scene. Here was blissful happiness, a simple life managing orchards and making fruit products. All the old wounds had been forgiven and healed over years ago. They didn’t need an emotional knife to start the bleeding again.

 Aveline ignored the throbbing in her head as her mind wrested full control of her emotions, twisting them so they could fit back into the depths of her chest. Her voice wouldn’t shake, but it remained empty when she spoke. “It’s quite fine, Oliver. What I want from my lovers isn’t a traditional thing. On all accounts, they lead lives far more exciting than I do. To tie them down in any regard, be it to my particular lifestyle or as my only devoted partner, would bring no one happiness.”

 “Oh, Aveline, you’ve always been so unselfish. But you seem so unhappy, and I—”

 Aveline cut her mother off with a not-quite-subtle thud of her hand against a nearby end table as she set her glass down. She stood quickly, brushing off her skirt with one quick, angry flourish. “The orchards have been calling to me since I first laid eyes on them. Please do excuse me while I catch some fresh air.”

 Who in the seven hells was her mother to decide whether or not she was happy? A woman didn’t bask in adultery and presume her bastard child’s life would be a happy one. If anything, Aveline decided, she had learned how be happy despite her mother’s infuriating weakness. She took these feelings out on a pebble as she kicked her way along one of the orchard’s paths, finding petty satisfaction in its helpless skitter before her fury.

 At length, she came across a stream marking the end of the orchard. The sun had set some time ago, leaving the world washed in pale moonlight. Beyond the water lay the forest proper, deep and dark with the tall shade of trees obscuring everything. She was utterly alone.

 Something inside her snapped at last. “You half-witted, pompous strumpet! How dare you! How dare you pass judgment on my life! You weak, disdainful, miserable cretin, basking in some bastard’s love while father suffers! You have… no right…”

 Her whole body trembled as she shouted into the trees, the world silently absorbing her furious tumble of insults. It still wasn’t enough. Forgetting all decorum, she bent over, snatching up pebbles and twigs to toss into the stream. They made a wonderful cacophony of splashes, but more importantly, helped to temper her outburst through simple exhaustion. A few of the flatter stones even managed to skip a few times across the water before disappearing forever.

 “If I’d been your son, you’d be celebrating my success!” Splunk! “But you abandoned father! You abandoned me!” Sploosh! “What sort of mother speaks of marriage when she has no dowry set aside? You selfish, ungrateful—” Aveline had escalated to the biggest rock she could lift without hurting herself, slinging it into the water with the force of both arms. It made a magnificent splash high enough to reach her, the cold water splattering over her dress like a furious downpour of rain.

 Her eyes were wild and wide as she glared down at the water. Breathless and bent over her knees, all she felt was an empty sense of satisfaction for having let the words out. How long had they bubbled under her every smile? She hated every reminder of such feelings, all of them irrevocably leading back to her mother. Weak. How could a woman be so weak?

 And why did she still feel so angry over it? Any rational person would tell her she was overreacting — the rational voice in her head said as much. She was deep into her twenties and far beyond blaming any insecurities on her parents. The past just insisted on being so very present, her mother’s incessant happiness, her happy family and idyllic life hammering deeper every miserable memory she had of her father.

 Even as a child, scarcely a decade old, she’d sensed death in her adoptive father’s intention when he left home. There had been a panic in her she hadn’t understood, an urgency that warned her she might never see him again. No matter how old she grew, she’d never forget his gaunt face, defeated and hopeless as he sat listlessly beside the road.

 “Go back home, Darling,” He’d told her. And she’d refused, clinging to his sleeve as she sat next to him. He was too numb to consider her feelings, and found himself rambling on about his every insecurity. His wife didn’t love him — she was better off with a man who could make her happy. He’d mucked up his first ever attempt at running a farm, threatening starvation on his own kin — they were better off with a competent man who could keep them fed. He no longer had a reliable mind, the head injury impairing much of his ability to remember the most basic things throughout the day — he was better off without himself.

 Every day since, she had battled his each and every defeat. Before he gave up his merchant business peddling goods across the realm, he had been a competent and optimistic man. So she told him to be a merchant again, and like an old man remembering how to skip, he’d found some friends, some debts, and took to the road as if he’d been born for it.

 He’d needed help at every step, too. When he inevitably bumbled a deal or forgot where he’d put his earnings, she’d been there to take on odd jobs to keep them fed. When he got them lost on a long road between cities, she’d been there to forage and shelter and guide them back on the right track. She still remembered how much the hunger had hurt, how scary those dark nights alone were. But there had been happy moments, too, gazing under the stars and having her first earned coin dropped into her hands.

 Over time, it had gotten easier. She’d matured rapidly and learned quickly how the world far beyond her village worked. And, in time, her father had found some comfort and shelter in an old friend from Gridania. The blessed woman offered him food and shelter on the pretense that he manage her stable’s finances and help look after the chocobos. More than that, she genuinely cared for him, perhaps even loved him, given the looks she saw them exchange when they thought she wasn’t looking.

 She had no reason to be bitter, not with her fortune, her lovers, and all that had evolved in her favor. And yet, standing amid the familial bliss of her mother’s farm, she felt pity for the girl who had parented herself into adulthood. There was no shaking the feeling that something precious had been taken from her, yet she had no right to feel that she was lacking in anything.

 “Are… Are you alright, Aveline?” Colin, the oldest between her brothers, was timid as he approached. The crunch of his footsteps was followed by the warm glow of lantern light.

 Her senses returned to her abruptly, and she absently wiped at her damp cheeks before turning around to face him. “I’m fine. There’s no cause to worry.”

 Colin bit his lip, and her stomach twisted at the thought of what he might have overheard. “I’m glad. I heard shouting.”

 Oh. Well. “I might have been letting off some steam. There’s nothing you need concern yourself over.” Her expression was a guilty one, and the streaks of mud her hands had left on her cheeks didn’t add any dignity to the moment.

 “I see.” Colin’s gaze lingered, brimming with concern, but all that followed his simple statement was a long and awkward silence. “You can tell me about it if you want.”

 Aveline blinked, surprised. She expected him to urge her back to the house, not to expand on her irrational outburst even more. “There’s really nothing to say. Not more, at least.”

 Her brother shifted uncomfortably before stepping closer. When he saw the extent of her dampened clothes, the line of his mouth flattened into yet more concern. “May I see you back home? It wouldn’t be right if you caught a cold.”

 Her pride and a stronger need to be alone very nearly turned him down, but they’d set aside a guest room for her and it would be significantly warmer than the evening air steadily giving her goosebumps. She sighed and relented with a nod, placated by her brother’s worry.

 The walk back was a slow and quiet one. Were it not for the perfect silence, she likely wouldn’t have heard his muttering.

 “I have regrets, too.”

 Aveline lofted a brow at this curious confession, not having expected it in the least. “I beg your pardon? Not about Mother, surely.”

 “It’s more to do with you.” Colin ducked his head, uncharacteristically bashful. “I haven’t been much of a brother.”

 “You can’t blame yourself for the distance of our parents. Though you were a miserable tease when we were younger, it’s nice to see that you’ve outgrown the worst of it. I don’t know how your wife would stand you otherwise.” Her smile turned wry — it was good to tease him as a sister should.

 Her brother answered with a faint snort. “Lily always felt so delicate to me. You know how she struggled carrying our first child, and the first thought that came to my mind was that if anyone could help, it was you. You’ve always been so far ahead of me, strong and untouchable. I was so foolish, never thinking of how vulnerable you must have felt.”

 “Where… is this coming from?” Aveline felt a prickle of something uncomfortable. Her brother had never been one for feelings, and she frankly hadn’t been one, either.

 “I just…” Colin rubbed at the back of his neck, never meeting her gaze. “I just want you to know you’re not alone. I know I’m too late, and I’m a poor excuse for family, but this is your home, too. No matter how you feel about Mother, you have a place here if you ever want it.”

 Aveline didn’t know what to say, and silence fell naturally between them again. On the one hand, she was perfectly ready to inform him that she would never want a place where her mother resided, but it wasn’t an offer from her mother. For once, utterly independent of his family, Colin had decided to be a brother.

 “Thank you.” The two words were the most she could manage in the moment. All other thoughts led to old pains and complications she was too tired to consider, and so it was a brief and awkward goodnight when she finally stepped into her room.

[thebombasticbooky]

Flouted Traditions

I actually wrote genuine fanfic I feel confident sharing and it’s Fire Emblem. The heart cannot be controlled. Summary: Hilda's been looking forward to the Garreg March Ball year, and she is going to enjoy it. Dancing with the guys, getting favors set up for the next month, getting spoiled and adored... It's going to be perfect. And this time, she's definitely not going to get distracted by Marianne. Definitely.Probably.But she really shouldn't be standing off to the side all alone like that...Or; Hilda gets distracted by Marianne at the Garreg March ball. Very late to playing Three Houses, and probably late to this idea. But I got to the Garreg March Ball, and had the perfect storm of circumstances of seeing their supports, making Marianne a dancer, and Hilda saying she loves dancing, so this kind of just fell out. Might do more of these two expanding on some things if the mood strikes, but for now, enjoy. 

AO3 FFN

This was supposed to be the most exciting night of Hilda’s month. No, year. No, life. It was everything she’s wanted! Dancing, beautiful clothes, even better looking guys… It was the annual ball! She should’ve been flying high! She should’ve been delirious off of all the boys falling at her feet eager to please, and racking up bodies for the next six months of chores. And it wasn’t like all that wasn’t happening. Even without it being tradition and all, the guys would’ve been lining up to dance with her. And she was getting helping hands for chores. She was just off her game- so far she only had enough for three months. She was distracted, and her distraction was a blue haired noble wallflower named Marianne von Edmund. True to her word, Marianne was watching from a distance. Hilda noticed her from the corner of her eye lingering in a corner of the dance hall. Her eyes were downcast, her head low, and she seemed to be so much smaller than she was, folding into herself. Hilda had to admit, had this been the start of the school year, she probably wouldn’t have even noticed her. The spell Marianne cast to blend into her environment was practically magical for how potent it was. Even as the winner of the Heron Cup, a position that would’ve guaranteed any other girl- like, say, Hilda- a legion of adoring suitors, only a few managed to find her, and all were quickly turned down. Clearly, Marianne didn’t want to be noticed. So Hilda just shouldn’t’ve noticed and gave her what she wanted. It was being courteous, really. She pulled her eyes away. Some guy was looking down at her adoringly, ready to be twisted around her finger. Focus on that.

She shouldn’t have noticed Marianne pecking away at some buns as adorably as one of the birds she was always talking to. Marianne thought she was being so subtle! Like there was some sort of subtlety to her rapid bites just because they were quick, but there was so many of them, and the dear is obviously just so hungry. It really was just like one of those birds, hopping and fly around with such grace and then just throwing all that grace away to scarf down their pieces of bread. It was so cute!

Gah! Stop noticing! I shouldn’t notice! She tore her eyes away, wondering when they even drifted over, as she switched from some guy for another guy. Nice muscles on this one… he could carry a whole section of the library for her. Not like Marianne. She’d have to lean over Marianne’s shoulder, faces inches away from each other, guiding Marianne’s trembling hand under her own to the shelf and feeling it still and relax in her grip… Marianne’s fingers looked so pretty tonight. Hilda was proud of her work. Marianne at least let her pretty her up a little before the dance, and she found the perfect blue shade that matched Marianne's hair perfectly. Wait. She was noticing again. When did that happen? She should’ve been focusing on this guy, on the dance. She just. Shouldn’t've. Noticed.

But.

This wasn’t the start of the school year. There had been too many hands brushing against each other as they sorted books and sending a nice little jolt through her system. Too many times Marianne jumped back and leaned into her for comfort at another bottle dropping in the infirmary. Too many hours spent practicing dances for the Hereon Cup, just the two of them, Marianne’s fingers on her hips as electric as any Thoron spell. Too many close calls where she was hurt and Marianne’s magic and gentle touch sent warmth trough her body, her soul, and out to her fingertips. What did this even feel like? Nothing. No jolts, no comfort, no electricity, no warmth... nothing! This guy… goddess, she didn’t even know his name… he wasn’t half as beautiful as Marianne. And yet, for all that beauty, Marianne was just letting the night- this night-  pass her by. No. That just wasn’t right. If the Heron Cup proved anything, it was that Marianne was made to shine.

And that it was Hilda’s job to bring it out of her. Like it or not. Which, make no mistake, she did not like. Hilda never met a job she did like, and she wasn’t starting now, just because she was throwing away the dances she dreamed about all year… to go to Marianne instead… and do the work of drawing her out… oh, shut up, brain, you made your point.

She gave Some Guy The Third- goddess, did she switch a partner again without noticing?- a polite, apologetic smile as she told him she needed a break.

“Do you need to sit down? Lay down? I can grab a chair, or three, or a couch from the commons?” Or three? A couch? “Maybe you need to fuel up? I’d be happy to serve you as you regain your strength.” Handfeeding? Ughhh, did Marianne even know what she was giving up right now!?

Still, Hilda laughed with a charming lilt. “No, no, I’ll be fine. Please, just have a good time.” He nodded and went off to find a new partner, as Hilda went off to find hers. Marianne. Not ‘her Marianne’, her partner. Dancing partner! Shut up, brain!

“Marianne!” she greeted, with a smile. Marianne looked up, like a deer caught in an archery course. She obviously wasn’t expecting any attention tonight, which was ridiculous. If she wasn’t trying to hide, every eye would be on her. She looked even more surprised than she usually would be, though, and her next words confirmed why.

“H-Hilda? What are you doing here?” With me, was left unsaid, but to Hilda, it echoed off the walls. She turned up her smile, trying to radiate safety.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” “...B-because there’s gentlemen? And dancing?”

A remorseful sigh escaped her lips, try as she might to hide it, and judging by Marianne’s little giggle, she failed. Still, the sound lessened the sting somehow. “Don’t remind me…” In an instant, the smile was back on. “But I’ve danced enough with them! I’m allowed to check in on a friend, aren’t I?”

Marianne’s smile alone made the detour worth it. “I suppose…”

“It’s the Garreg March Ball, Marianne. And you’re the winner of the Heron Cup! So I know you can dance, especially after all my expert tutoring.”

Her eyes darted away, and a blush spread through her cheeks, even brighter for how pale her skin was. She fiddled with her dress as she answered, “There’s no boys I want to dance with,” and there it was. Hilda was going to have to take the lead again. What was it about Marianne that brought out this side of her? That made her do things against her very core? Hilda did not work, not when she didn’t absolutely have to. Hilda did not go the extra mile- the extra foot- to spoil someone else. Hilda was the spoiled, the chased, the one to be worried over and taken care of. That was a fact, a Garreg March tenet. And yet, somehow along the way, another fact was established.

Hilda does the work for Marianne. Hilda takes care of Marianne.

Ah, well. It was what it was. No use fighting it now.

“And what did I say, Marianne? If a boy asks, you must accept. It’s polite.” “I-I know, I’m sorry, but…”

She sighed, fondly, as if there just wasn’t any other choice in the matter, and held out her hand. “Dance with me.”

Marianne’s eyes were even wider than usual, her blush even deeper. “E-eh? B-but I said I’d watch…” “And you said that about dancing with boys. I’m not a boy. Obviously.”

“...B-but tradition…” “It’s tradition, Marianne, not a rule. Heck, just look at Dorothea and Mercedes, they’ve already made their way through most of the girls. I’m a little offended they haven’t gotten to me,” she grumbled to the side, affronted, before fixing the charming smile back onto place and aiming it at Marianne. “C’mon!”

“…” Marianne’s eyes met hers with a surprising strength, and Hilda was short of breath all of a sudden. “You don’t have to. D-do something you don’t want to. I know you were looking forward to this, so you don’t have to waste time helping Marianne again. You do that so much already, but tonight… t-tonight should be for you.” Oh… oh, sweet thing… that was sweeter than anything any of the guys had said to her tonight. She really thought this was just an obligation for Hilda.

Hilda let her smile soften with her tone, and tried to convey just how much she genuinely wanted this. “Marianne. I want to. I promise. It’ll be just like I said before you danced in the Heron Cup, remember?”

‘…” Marianne nodded, and recited almost blissfully, “’Imagine I’m dancing with you. Just like our lessons. Just the two of us, nobody else, and you’ll do great’.”

“And you did! This time, I’ll actually be dancing with you, too. It’ll be nice to have a partner with talent this time…” Marianne looked at her for just a moment more, as if scanning for any sign of pity or hesitance. And then… then the little witch smiled, mischievous, a twinkle in her eye. “I-is it still rude to turn down a girl? If we’re already flouting tradition?”

Hilda gasped, playfully, hand to her chest, and the delight in Marianne’s laugh was worth a hundred chairs Some Guy the Third could’ve brought her to lounge on. “Marianne! That’s it, now you don’t get a choice.” She grabbed onto Marianne’s hand, and took a moment to note how much better theirs fit together than any of the other partners she’s had tonight. She began dragging Marianne to the dance floor.

“H-Hilda…”

“I’ve got you. Remember,” she assured, with a little quirk of her lips. “Just the two of us.”

And Marianne nodded, slowly. “Just the two of us.”

Then, effortlessly, the dance began. They already knew each other’s movements, their grips, so well after those hours of practice for the Cup. Hilda was shocked, and honestly a bit offended, when their professor chose Marianne over her. She was the best dancer in the house, everyone knew it. Then Marianne had come to her room, hair frayed and sweat pouring down her skin, begging for help. Like always, Hilda couldn’t say no. And the thing Hilda learned in those lessons was… Marianne listened. So many dancers want to enforce their will onto the dance, make their own rhythm, and drag their partner along. But Marianne went with you. If you stepped a little too early, she’d adjust effortlessly. If you lost your balance a little during a twirl, she’d support your weight and guide you to the landing without a second thought. And with a little of Hilda’s confidence and experience, Marianne swept the cup.

She wondered if the professor planned for Hilda helping. Not just for Marianne becoming such an incredible dancer, or for getting her moment to shine and bask in a win. That alone would’ve been good enough- she still remembered Marianne telling her, breathless and disbelieving but so overjoyed her voice was laced with it instead of anxiety for a change, “I... I still can't believe it. How could someone like me have possibly won?" But the way Hilda’s heart soared with pride seeing Marianne up there, and how Marianne’s eyes looked for her in the crowd- not that she was hard to find with how loud she was cheering- and she broke into the softest smile Hilda ever saw… it was their moment. A moment between them, just like now. She wondered if the professor planned for that. It wouldn’t surprise her; it seemed like the professor thing to do.

“Are you… having fun?” Marianne asked, with a touch of concern. It was so sweet of her to check in. Talk with the boys had been so one note, almost like a script. A flutter of the eyelashes here, a compliment there, oh someone like you would be such a big help for that… same script, different guy.

“It’s the annual ball, of course I’m having fun!” She definitely was now. This was more like she dreamed. The perfect dance, the perfect partner… for dance...

“Oh. You just… didn’t look it before…”

Geeze. Even Marianne could tell, huh? “I didn’t?”

“N-not that you have to explain anything to me! Just… it looked like you were going through the motions…” It was so sweet of her to care, to worry over her.

“I’m having fun now,” she amended, and Marianne’s smile deepened as they danced.

Goddess, this felt right. Hilda took the lead, like always. Marianne’s hand on her shoulder… hers on the curve of Marianne’s back… those light brown eyes looking just a bit more vibrant, all for Hilda… It was just like practice, but even better. The romantic lighting, the swelling music, and Marianne, happy, for once, for just a moment or two. Because of her. Screw tradition. Let everyone see Hilda passing up the perfect chance to dance with every boy from every house, because all she could see was the quirk of Marianne’s lips, and the spark in her eyes, like the ripple of life in a quiet pond.

Emphasis on the ‘all’, because she got so caught up in the Marianne of it all, she could feel her feet slip. Whoops. Ah well, what was a little embarrassment on the biggest night of the year? Marianne’ll probably be more mortified than she would be. It was going so well, too. She closed her eyes and prepped herself for a fall, and… nothing.

She opened her eyes to find Marianne, peering down at her, resolute. Her hand had slid down in an instant and was on her back with a certainty like Hilda had never felt from her before. Just as the song had ended too. That was her partn… her dance partn… her Marianne for you. Always listening. And here she was, holding her up.

Taking care of her.

“I’ve got you,” Marianne whispered, without a stutter, without a trace of doubt or hesitance, like this was the one thing Marianne was absolutely sure she could do.

Oh.

She was blushing, wasn’t she? She was blushing so hard… As Marianne pulled her back up, there was some clapping from the other dancers. Hilda cleared her throat, straightened her hair, and tried to get back some control. “G-guess it’s not the two of us now, is it?” she got out, with a forced casualness. Goddess, now she was stuttering. At least Marianne was looking her usual anxious self at the attention, and that brought a resurgence of Hilda’s confidence. It was Marianne’s turn to be taken care of. “You know, a dip like that isn’t exactly traditional…” she teased.

“O-oh, I didn’t… I wasn’t…” So. Cute. How could Hilda resist? Fortune favors the bold, right?

She leaned in and gave Marianne a peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” she reassured, lips mischievously curled, “I liked it.”

Marianne seemed to blank for a second, face now brighter than any of the lights. Heck, it’d give the sun a run for its money. For a moment, Hilda thought she went too far, and that Marianne was about to bolt. But instead, she swallowed, and managed an, “O-oh. Good. I wanted…” Her hand squeezed Hilda’s even as her eyes stayed on the floor. “I wanted you to like… at least my dance tonight… i-if that’s not egotistical to say…You deserve the night you were hoping for... ” Hilda could put it together. While Hilda was trying to make this good for Marianne… Marianne was trying to make this dance better than Hilda’s others too. She was trying to spoil her. Was that why she said yes? For Hilda’s sake, as much as Hilda asked for hers? Hilda couldn’t keep herself from grinning as she started to drag Marianne once again, now to the food table. “C’mon! I want some of those buns you were digging into.” Marianne was still red from before, so this just wasn’t fair, but Hilda couldn’t help such prime opportunities to tease. “Y-you saw…” “Marianne von Edmund. I always see you.” She beamed at her, and after a moment of staring at Hilda, jaw dropped, Marianne beamed back. “Now, let’s eat up. We have to refuel for our next dance. I think you should take lead next time.”

“N-next… B-but you said it’s tradition not to dance with the same partner…”

Hilda smirked. “What’s one more flouted tradition tonight? It’s just us anyway.”

Marianne chuckled, lightly, and gave her the softest smile Hilda had ever seen. Lindhart’s pillows would envy this softness. “Just us.”

“Right. Now…” She held out a bun to Marianne’s mouth. “Say ‘ah’~”

And as Marianne actually took a trembling bite, both of their faces radiating more steam than the sauna, Hilda couldn’t help but think:

This was the most exciting night of her life.

[siswritesyanderes]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day! I have a request for Bellatrix Lestrange x hufflepuff muggleborn female reader (reader is a year younger than her). Bellatrix is madly in love with reader even though she despises her for being a muggle-born. Reader is terrified of her, but Bellatrix wants her to love her. Bella stalks reader at all times and is completely obsessed. She kidnaps reader’s family and friends and forces reader to marry her. Then Bella kills them off. I hope it isn’t too dark!

(Trust me, I’ve written darker, lol. In fact, gonna go ahead and say Bella’s thoughts are a bit darker than most of the other yanderes, so…warning: nothing too outlandish, but some of Bella’s pureblood bigotry and obsession stuff might be disturbing? Your mileage may vary. Also, I didn’t hit all the points in the ask, because I elaborated on some stuff and it was getting long, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.)

Purity was everything. And you either had it or you didn’t.That was it, on a fundamental level.

It was something she knew even before she knew how to read; some might say even before she knew how to talk. Her mother still told the story of when they’d set little Bella up with a playmate at age one and been somewhat mortified at how disgruntled and dismissive she suddenly became, in the presence of the other baby, until it had come to light a month later that the playmate they’d thought to be of pure birth was actually illegitimate via some filthy Muggle.

“She could tell that something wasn’t right with the little imposter,” adults would chuckle. “She had a nose for it, even then.” And they would pat Bella’s cheeks and she would soak in their words of praise with a broad smile and greedy eyes.

“An overly-intense child,” she had heard her father say once, when she was six and lurking in her parents’ doorway. “Well-mannered, but overly-intense. She is too observant of adult things, and she doesn’t get on well with other children, including her betrothed.”

“That contract has already been made,” her mother had responded, with a hint of grim humor. “They don’t have to get along. Just be glad he’s not secretly a half-blood, or Bella would sense it.”

And that was another thing that Bellatrix had grown up knowing to be true: that she was an incredible judge of character. As such, she never had to think about anyone twice; those who she loved were deserving of love, and those who she hated were deserving of hate, and those with whom she was indifferent were deserving of indifference.

Wanting someone, though…that was new.

And yet, even from the moment she’d first seen the mudblood girl- and of course, she’d known immediately that you were a mudblood, from the way that you carried yourself and from the surname that McGonagall had read off -she’d felt such a strong and unfamiliar yearning. Not love and not hate, but something with elements of both.

You weren’t ugly (Bellatrix never had been stupid enough to just assume that everyone ugly was a mudblood and everyone attractive was a pureblood, like Goyle and even Narcissa’s betrothed seemed to.), but it wasn’t your appearance that had earned Bella’s attention. It was something in your walk and the set of your expression and the awkward way you maneuvered in your school robes.

At twelve years old, Bella had seen the little eleven-year-old mudblood sit on the stool and wear the Hat, and she had thought, Be a Slytherin. Come to me. Sit here, and I will devour you alive. A mudblood in Slytherin would be a rarity, but Bellatrix wanted you, and so you were hers. She felt like a snake longing to bind you up in her coils. To squeeze you tightly, just to feel your feeble struggles and hear your weak grunts of pain.

She wanted to hear your voice.

She wanted to cut off your air.

But then the hat called out “HUFFLEPUFF!”, and Bella had expected to feel disappointed. Instead, a feeling of rightness washed over her. Of course, a mudblood had to go to one of the lesser Houses. Slytherin House could not be corrupted, no matter who Bellatrix desired. That would be like eating candy from a dinner plate: all wrong, no matter how much she enjoyed it.

No, it was only right that her mudblood was a Hufflepuff. Perfect. Not a mudblood who would think herself noble or clever. Not a mudblood with ambition. No, perish the thought. Just a Hufflepuff. Her Hufflepuff.

She repeated your name under her breath intermittently throughout the whole welcome feast: first name, last name, Hufflepuff.

She wrote it on her arm, when she was in bed that night, in the same spot where she normally doodled a Dark Mark, during her more boring lessons. When she awoke, she washed the ink off, satisfied that she would not forget your name.

It was while she scrubbed at the surprisingly-enduring stain of ink that she began to feel sick to her stomach.

Yes, she was always a good judge of people, and yes, she always got what she wanted, but���a mudblood? Did she really want anything from a mudblood but distance? Had she really allowed herself to grow attached to some-

She sank down to the bathroom floor and breathed deeply.

Was she like those blood traitors who disgraced themselves bringing half-bloods into the world when they had better options? She had never had any interest in her betrothed, a pureblood from a good family. She had always assumed that it was because she could only love herself and the Dark Lord (whom she had never met but heard so many great things about), and that marriage was just a means to an end, but…

Well, it wasn’t like she wanted to marry you, though.

She comforted herself with this fact. The air came easier.

She had no desire to marry her mudblood. Of course not. That was disgusting.

But her mudblood would not marry anyone else. Never. The very thought drove her back to her feet with a hot flush of anger coloring her cheeks. She whipped out her wand and aggressively cast Tergeo to rid her arm of the last of its ink. The skin cleared, with a sharp stinging feeling, either because she had been too fervent in casting the spell or because she had simply done it a bit wrong. She didn’t care; she savored the feeling until it passed.

For the rest of that year, Bellatrix woke up earlier than every other girl in the dormitory, got dressed hastily, and hurried over to the part of the castle (near the kitchens, but it was below her station to know where the kitchens were), where the Hufflepuffs would emerge for breakfast and classes. Contrary to the prim decorum her parents had instilled, she would drape herself carelessly over a banister and taunt the Hufflepuffs as they walked by.

“Oh, here come the badgers,” she would cackle, especially jeering at the ones she recognized. She already had a reputation for being a bully, so the Puffs, while annoyed, took it in stride and mostly ignored her.

Sometimes you managed to pass beneath her notice, in the crowd of yellow. But other times, Bellatrix would launch herself from the banister and wrap a tight arm around your shoulders, greeting you by your first name (instead of your last) in so sweet a tone that you flinched in fear.

“How’s my little mudblood doing this morning?” Bellatrix would coo, ignoring the other students’ protests at her use of the word.

“I’m doing fine,” you would answer quietly, ducking your head and averting your eyes.

It infuriated Bella that she was making such a spectacle of herself for a mudblood who didn’t even appreciate it. Bellatrix was beautiful, older, a Slytherin, a pureblood, and yet here you shrank, not in deference, but clearly in the hopes that your politeness would make the encounter end sooner.And of course, the other badgers soon realized that Bellatrix had taken a special interest in bothering you, and they started making efforts to protect you. Bellatrix changed tactics.

In her third year, your second year, she went more subtle. After all, it wouldn’t do for the other purebloods to begin suspecting that her interest in you, dear little thing, went past bullying.

She made a point of bothering other Hufflepuffs. Every other Hufflepuff. She racked up a few detentions right at the beginning of the year, reclaiming the badgers’ fear one hex at a time. Making herself a nuisance the previous year had caused them to forget that she was also quite willing to hurt them. Now, they remembered.

And so you feared her even more than before.

Whatever. What did your feelings matter, anyway?

Bellatrix commemorated your year of meeting by writing your name on her arm in ink every night, in her third year, and using Tergeo to clean it off every morning, until her left forearm always looked slightly inflamed. She imagined writing her own name on your skin, and she experienced a whole slew of new feelings at the image. She didn’t like to imagine the Tergeo part, though; she wanted it to be permanent.

She imagined carving her name, over and over again.

The first time, she would merely write “BB”, to let you accustom yourself to the feeling; she could be generous sometimes- it was a shame you wouldn’t appreciate it. Then, she would write “BELLA” a few times, in various places. And eventually “BELLATRIX”. She imagined her first time writing her full name would be on your back, right on the base of your neck. “BELLATRIX”, and just below it, “BLACK”. Your filthy blood would spill in the shape of her name, in her handwriting; Bella excited herself to excess, thinking of it. Picturing it. She dreamed about it, most nights (She rewarded herself when she had those dreams; they were better than the quite-forbidden dreams, the ones she forced herself to ignore, where she saw a wedding tiara glittering on your head and a loving smile curving your lips.), and could imagine nothing else whenever she walked behind you in the halls. 

She practically ached with the urge to run up and pin you to the ground, to yank your head back by the hair and make you watch as she took out her best silver knife…

She left subtlety behind her in her fourth year. She cornered you in the library during the first week of school.

“What are you writing?” she drawled, taking the parchment from you before you could answer. When she saw the heading ‘Dear Mum,’ she made a disgusted noise and cast Incendio on the letter until it was completely charred.

“Hey!” you protested, hilariously still bothering to keep your indignant exclamation quiet, out of respect for the library or at least to avoid incurring the wrath of Madame Pince. “That was for my mother! Bring it back.”

“You can’t bring something back that’s been burnt,” Bellatrix scoffed. She wasn’t sure that this was true, but she figured a third year mudblood and Hufflepuff wasn’t exactly going to correct her. “Why do you still write to that Muggle woman, anyway?”

“Because she’s my mother,” you answered, with such disbelief that you couldn’t even be angry.

Bellatrix snorted, trying to emanate ridicule when inside, fury was filling her so quickly she thought she might set the table on fire, next. Again, she experienced the familiar feeling that she was a snake who needed to catch her prey up into her coils until you couldn’t move, couldn’t think of anything or anyone else but the tightness of her hold. To feel your warmth on her cold body, to steal it for herself, yes… “She’s a filthy-”

“Muggle, yes. Sort of my whole family are; you never fail to mention it.” You made an effort to sound droll, but your voice was shaking. “If you don’t mind, I think I can manage to love them regardless.”

Bellatrix let out an actual growl, causing you to wince hard. “I mind,” she said roughly, able to think of nothing but her sudden powerful desire to set something entirely different aflame. 

All those Muggles- it was their fault, really. Without the Muggles, her mudblood wouldn’t be a mudblood at all. Worse still, the Muggles were getting your letters, your love…

She would rip their veins open with her teeth, if their blood weren’t too filthy even to piss in.

Smiling her nastiest smile, Bellatrix asked, “Do they even know how to use owls?” She made an exaggerated pitying face: “Or do you have to send it along the Muggle way?” 

“I use an owl. The postman doesn’t come here.” You had abandoned any attempt at wit; your tone was sheepish again.

“One of the school owls, I imagine.”

“Actually, I bought an owl of my own this past summer.”

“What breed?”

You looked wary. “I forget,” you answered, clearly lying.

Lying to the one who owned you. Lying with the tongue that belonged to Bellatrix, with the air that Bellatrix had so graciously allowed you. Lying, as though you didn’t know that Bellatrix’s name would one day be written on your back, your shoulders, your arms, your hips, your legs…Lying, as if you didn’t know how easily Bella could cut. Your. Tongue. OUT, and watch your dirty, delicious blood bubble between your perfect, lying lips.

Smart of you, though; Bella had already been plotting how to use the bird to track down the Muggles. There was only so much that she could do to them from a distance, but oh, come winter holiday…

She didn’t actually need to be told what your owl looked like; she had followed you up to the owlery the morning after you all arrived on the trains.

She spent the rest of that year, and the following year, wringing albeit-uncomfortable conversations out of you and terrorizing the other Hufflepuffs, at the same time where possible, until her mudblood was feared by proxy, at least among the younger students, and even the other Slytherins started to notice that Bellatrix was being quite particular about her bullying.

“What is it with you and the Puffs?” Andromeda asked, almost accusatorially, after pulling Bellatrix firmly aside into a broom cupboard.

“Gross; this room is for servants, Annie,” Bellatrix complained, deliberately ignoring the question.

“The Hufflepuffs,” Andromeda repeated. “Why have you been so…focused on them?”

Bella released her least-ladylike snort. “You’re one to talk, sister dear. Who is that mudblood, the one who calls you ‘Dromeda’?”

Andromeda blushed furiously. “You shut up about that.”

A gleeful cackle. “You needn’t worry about what I say; it’s your betrothed who’s starting to notice how you pine and consort with that badger. At least I keep my fascination in her place.”

“What do you mean, your ‘fascination’?”

“Mind your own business, Annie; I mean it.”

“You’re taking your OWLs in a few months, and your marks have been worsening since second year.”

Bellatrix shrugged. She didn’t do much schoolwork, but she understood all of her classes fine. She allowed her grades to suffer to free up time for observing you; Slughorn even let her sit in on the fourth year Potions classes, in hopes of “improving” her potion-making. “And you’re practically a blood traitor already, and you haven’t even left school,” she said to her sister, before flouncing out of the cupboard to track down her Hufflepuff (and failing that, maybe set Ted Tonks’ robes on fire).

The summer after her fifth year, Bellatrix visited your house for the first time.

A Muggle house, in a Muggle neighborhood. The swine had all stared at her on her way over, because of her robes and her clear superiority. At your house, however, the man who stood in the front yard, trimming a hedge by hand, smiled at her in greeting and asked if she was one of his daughter’s friends from school.

Bellatrix suppressed her disgust at this new development: a Muggle, and a singularly detested Muggle at that, speaking so evenly with her. “Is she home?” she asked the man curtly.

“She’s stepped out, but she’ll be back shortly. Would you like to wait for her inside?”

Bellatrix stared at the man, hyperaware of the weight of her wand in one pocket and her knife in the other. He wouldn’t be expecting it, wouldn’t be able to stop her.

But she still had the Trace on her, and she wanted to take her time with the vermin who called themselves her mudblood’s family, not rush to incapacitate them before she could be overpowered by brute strength. She wanted them dead, but they ought to suffer a little retribution, first, for having received love that did not rightfully belong to them.

Every bit of love that had been given to them, every time she had to watch you run to your parents on the train station platform, and hug them, and chatter with them with no fear or discomfort or flinching…They were thieves, filthy thieves, and she would bleed them, burn them, until they forgot what love felt like.

When I am grown and officially in service of the Dark Lord, she thought, reveling in the idea, then I can do what I like with all of them.

She wrapped a hand tightly around her forearm, sinking her fingernails into her own flesh until the images of you kissing your mother and father stopped replaying in her mind. One day. Not yet. Just a little longer. She was a student of the honorable House of Slytherin, a daughter of the noble House of Black; she could exercise patience for just a few years. And waiting would make it all the sweeter, would make their dirty blood beautiful.

“I’ll come back another time.” Bellatrix glanced dispassionately from the man to the house, memorizing them. She could see you in the Muggle’s face; she would remove those features from him, she decided. One day. “Tell her Bellatrix Black was here.” The thought of how you would react, when you returned home and received her message, gave her a pleasurable chill.

[chestersallya]

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[honestlyfrance]

offering love until it hurt

ship: sambucky

warning/content: canon death; ca:tws setting; angst; character study(?); is this even complete?

summary: Sam Wilson’s timer was so close to zero. So close, but, he doesn’t really believe in them. Not the concept of soulmates, no — he’s just lost his faith in his.

a/n: i remember hearing the priest saying “offering love until it hurt” and all i could think was “wow.” this was one of the many supposed soulmate au fils i did for the sambucky bingo that happened, but i obviously did a social media au instead :D so have this one instead! I’ll continue posting my failed fills to fill the content in the sambucky tag (especially since i won’t join the big bang lmao) please tell me what y’all think! love y’all and stay safe!

The counter on Sam Wilson's left wrist was so close to zero, so close for the inked numbers to finally countdown to 000: 00: 00: 00, and so close to meeting his Soulmate, after a whole lifetime of feeling icy coldness everywhere he went, not once feeling warmth but only feeling the chill tone down a bit during random moments. Living with encrypted numbers were like living encased in a cold and wet cellar with no sunlight streaming in and dancing on your skin Living with numbers on your wrist that rarely become coherent was like living alone in the corner of an abandoned hallway. Cold, cold, dirty, lonely — life was agonizing. It was less than twenty-four hours left. Yes, it was. Sam's soulmate could've been that blonde or they could've been that Redhead. Yeah — When Sam's soulmate appeared, he couldn't have known; it happened too fast.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, had appeared on Sam's doorstep with Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, asking for his help. Sam almost threw his shit, wanted to take the world in his hands, and yell at it, saying, "Let me be selfish for once, please. Let the world slow down just for me, just for my chance at unconditional love," but seeing their bruises and cuts urged Sam, knowing full well that his soulmate would appear in a few hours, to bring them in unprompted.

Sam could be selfish when the timer stopped because that was all his in the end.

"Not everyone." Sam had said, his eyes subtly sweeping his street as he let the two enter his home. He glanced at his wrist; only a few hours left; maybe more or less six hours — he's counting, damn right Sam's counting. 

Soulmates weren't a big thing in his life. No one revolved around the idea of having someone built like you, for you, to love you unconditionally because they knew — they all knew — that the world isn't kind enough to serve such kindness. Everyone he knew and grew up with hated each other in some way but loved and offered love so much that it almost hurt to love. Sam had his fair share of love, and it hurt too much to think about.

"This Riley?" Steve had said.

Sam nodded back. "Yeah."

His heart has been handled by so many hands that his heart has been softened at anyone's touch, making it almost impossible for it to harden at some ungodly sight; the amount of love pouring out of Sam's heart was almost ceremonious, almost as if he was there to be handled, "almost as if his soulmate was everyone he met," as his co-soldiers have said. But, no. His timer has never seen the number zero on the first digit — never stopped counting the breaths Sam hitched in his throat as he watched it count down many times. Sam sometimes wished the next time he held his breath, his soulmate was breathless too when the number zero appeared on any digit.

The amount of love Sam echoed from his bones to his fingertips was addicting, and everyone nipped at the affection and care he had given; almost an addiction, he was a whole other drug the medicinal field couldn't conjure, not even morphine could match. Sam liked it — Sam liked "offering until it hurt," as his father had once preached. Maybe that's why he couldn't turn down Captain America and the Black Widow. Maybe that's why he didn't bother to follow the pull of gravity he felt a tug at him, the subtlety teething and biting at him like needles. Maybe that's why he was selfless. Maybe that's why he couldn't take something for himself.

Sam sits still instead, watching Jack Sitwell look around in search of the "good looking guy in the glasses." They meet eyes, and Sam wishes it to be his soulmate instead, to feel the warmth of the world, embrace his bones made of ice sculpted by God Himself, and to have the counter display a golden zero.

Not this asshole.

Sam wanted his soulmate so badly, even when he's lost faith in them.

"Yeah. There you go." Sam says through the phone. 

It's almost a ticking time bomb in his chest, vibrating at impossible speeds as he waits patiently for him to combust once the timer gets down to zero. He could feel the pull beckon for him, come home, Samuel, it says, but the ice in his bones began to melt; he could feel the warmth, and it disappeared so suddenly, it's almost sickening. Jetlag, practically — it's a sickening ride the universe has given him.

Sam didn't listen to it, didn't want to look down on his wrist, didn't care to cater to the pull his body aches for. As his mantra says: "I've lost faith in you, I've lost faith in you. Let me be the reason I can't believe you." He's been starved of the love and care his soul aches for, and all of these potential soulmates he's met has no place for Sam's soul — no matching fit for his soul to intertwine with. The pull deafening, the ringing in his head, and his feet were almost dancing towards his soul mate's direction. Stop, please, Sam wishes he could bury himself in coal.

The moment Sam had flown to the top of the building with Sitwell in tow, he feels the stabbing of a thousand needles on his skin, all a hissing sensation as he feels his environment being whipped with a satisfying breeze — a breeze Sam couldn't recognize, and when he had landed and retracted his wings, the breeze lowered in temperature and became bearable; Sam could cry behind his goggles. 

He sees his two acquaintances and stopped himself.

Sam couldn't glance down on his wrist, but he's all hyper-aware at the moment; he could almost feel his soulmate walking towards the pull, and Sam senses his stomach twisting in a hundred knots as bile made its way to his throat but failed to reach his end. Again, to be buried under piles of coal was seemingly becoming a yearning Sam couldn't seem to comprehend.

Ms. Black Widow had her gaze burning at the back of Sam's head during the drive on the highway, and it suddenly got warm in the car as his hand on the wheel showed signs of sweat, leather sticking at his hand and becoming slightly slimy. Sam has his face sculpted into a serious and tamed expression despite the nervousness in his aching body, building up an insane amount of anxiety as he could feel the countdown turn to minutes — and it was minutes! 

Sam sighed as he felt his surroundings turn hotter, and he mumbled under his breath, something about his soulmate and his timer, his supposed meet-cute, yet he couldn't even hear himself. There's a ringing in his ear that dulls him into sleep.

Captain America glanced at him, and his eyes glinted in realization; Ms. Black Widow saw it too, the sweat trickling down Sam's neck and melting into the fabric of his shirt, it was too familiar for them; then, it hit them.

It hit Sam too fast.

Jack Sitwell was pulled out of the car after a loud thump on the roof of the car erupted their senses, and he was immediately roadkill as an incoming truck passed by at the speed limit. Screams dwindled and there's chaos in the air.

The world suddenly turned into hellfire, as if Dante's description was intertwined into the real world, Sam Wilson was handled with the terrifying licks of an imaginary flame — as if someone had found a flamethrower nearby and decided to scorch his body until it turned to ash and his bones were all its left, but that wasn't entirely the case; it wasn't oven heat or campfire heat, it was the first interaction Sam had with actual heat, and it was daring, it was fumbling, it was nerve-wracking.

Before Sam could check his wrist for the awaited number, Natasha had pushed him aside with her foot, and then he realized, My soulmate is trying to fucking murder me! as bullets barely flew past him and stuck into the headrest.

His steering wheel was pulled out from the roof. "Shit!" Sam yelled. 

This wasn't the ideal meet-cute Sam imagined. 

But, we go back a few months, years, decades, hell — let’s go back to 1935.

[anonwriter27]

Trust in Me Ch7

She could hear the waves crashing upon the stones below their house, the fresh smell of sea air touched her nose. Y/N was a little girl sat in her bed. The lights were dimmed, and the room was warm, Y/N looked around at her soft toys: one a grey wolf from her uncle Tony, one a raven from her father’s younger brother, Regin. They sat at the bottom of her bed, guarding her as she slept. Y/N felt the warmth of her mother as they sat together on the little girl’s bed.

 “…and so the young maiden said goodnight to her ghosts, and danced back to her chambers to await another day.” Lia said, concluding the bedtime story.

 “Goodnight sweet girl.” Lia got up and went to switch out the light.

 “But mama…” Y/N spoke.

 Lia sighed but gave a knowing smirk, “Y/N you promised one more story and you’d go to sleep.”

 “But I have questions.” Y/N said timidly.

 Lia perched onto the end of her daughter’s bed, “Don’t you always. I will answer one, and then you must go to sleep.”

 Y/N pulled down her duvet so she could sit up and talk, “Why is the young woman not afraid of the ghosts?”

 Lia smiled, “There is nothing frightening about ghost’s sweet girl, they were people just like you and me. They have histories, families, homes, they should be allowed to visit every once in a while.”

 Y/N smiled, “It’s nice that they visit.”

 All of a sudden, the room went dark and Y/N was no longer a little girl, “I miss you.”

 Lia smiled sadly at her daughter, as she opened her mouth to speak, Y/N woke up.

 Y/N opened her eyes slowly, a single tear escaping when she realised it was only a memory. She didn’t move for a while, she tried to fix her eyes shut again in hopes she could return to her dream, but the tears stung too much to keep them closed for long.

 Y/N didn’t have nightmares, not really. Occasionally she would remember the bloodshed on the steps leading up to her home, or the gaping wound in her father’s side as they laid him to rest on the bed; but they were not the memories that haunted her. No, her dreams always consisted of warm and loving memories, and in a way they hurt more. She would spend mere minutes reliving moments of bliss, then awaken to a world she feared. She was not ungrateful by any means, she loved her uncle and all he had done for her; she just found it hard sometimes, to acknowledge that she will never go back to the life she once lived.

 Y/N looked to her nightstand where her clock read 3:12am. She looked around her room, spotting her grey wolf, and fluffy raven sat on the bookshelf across the room, still watching over her after all these years. She removed herself from the warmth of her blankets, snuck her feet into her fuzzy slippers and made her way quietly out of her room.

 She made one cup of tea and one cup of coffee on her way to the lab on the first floor. She followed the sound of drilling and metal clanging, knowing it would lead her to her chosen destination.

 And there she found him, Uncle Tony. He removed his safety goggles and gloves taking the coffee she handed him.

 “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, she shook her head in response.

 “Me neither. Pepper thinks it’s my excessive caffeine intake.” He said, imitating Pepper’s voice.

 “Not the nightmares?” Y/N inquired shyly.

 Tony looked up at her with a tired smile, “Always the nightmares.” He admitted.

 Y/N nodded, “Need some help?”

 Tony chuckled, “Sure, you can do the paperwork, you know I hate that part.”

 They worked together, making idle conversation as they did so.

 “So…Vision tells me Loki is settling in.” Tony said, he had been itching to bring up the topic of Loki but didn’t want to overwhelm her.

 “He seems to be.” Y/N replied, not lifting her gaze from the charts in her hands.

 Tony nodded, “Good…good…and you’re getting along with him…?”

 Y/N decided to cut to the chase, “Subtlety is not your strong suit uncle, what is it you would like to say?” she said with a grin.

 “Don’t look at me like that, I just want to make sure you’re being careful. He has a track record; we can’t just trust the guy because Thor’s given him a thumbs up. For all we know he could be pretending to be calm and collected, and when we least expect it, he’ll…” Tony was working himself up to a rant.

 Y/N placed her hand over his, “Uncle Tony, please don’t worry. I’m okay.”

 Tony seemed soothed and decided to say no more in the subject. They kept working till dawn; when the sun came up Tony looked over to his niece. She had fallen asleep on a stack of papers, pen held loosely in her hand. He draped his fleece over her and let her sleep.

   The avengers assembled for their monthly meeting in the conference room on the second floor. Sam was teasing Bucky about not understanding the order sizes at Starbucks.

 “Surely just asking for a large will do!” Bucky said, clearly irritated.

 “Man, large can range from a grande to a venti, you’ve got to be specific.” Sam teased.

 Bucky rolled his eyes.

 Nat and Steve listened to Bruce explain a new theory, Steve nodded to mask his confusion on the subject.

 Meanwhile, Clint moved over to Wanda and Vision’s side of the room when he saw Thor and Loki enter.

 Last to arrive were the Stark clan, Pepper by Tony’s side and Y/N and Peter behind them.

 Loki was surprised to see Y/N at the meeting. Since their library trip a couple days prior, he hadn’t seen much of her. He assumed his brother had something to do with it, perhaps she worried Loki regarded her in the same way now.

 “Shall we begin the meeting?” Steve spoke up, gathering the attention of the room.

 “Not so fast capsicle.” Tony interrupted, earning an eye roll from the captain. “I want everyone to drop what they’re doing tonight, we have plans.”

 Half the room sighed while the other groaned.

 “Tony, I don’t want to go to another party, I still have a headache from the last one.” Clint complained, rubbing his forehead.

 “And if memory serves me right, last time you fell onto the piano in all your Iron Man glory, causing it to fall through the floor.” Nat pointed out, “You sure you’re ready for that again?”

 “It’s not a party, so kindly pause your whining. It’s a movie night.” Tony explained, “Pizza and Netflix, who’s in?”

 Everyone agreed, due to a mixture of wanting a cosy night in and relief they wouldn’t have to smell tequila around the tower for the next week.

 Loki sat quietly, observing the band of heroes; they were in the midst of discussing which movie to watch, Peter voting for Harry Potter, Sam rooting for Die Hard.

 Loki scanned all their faces, noting the happy and tranquil moment they were sharing; that is, until his eyes landed on Y/N. She didn’t look upset or distressed, she just seemed very focused. Loki could practically feel her overthinking from across the table.

 He then noticed Pepper smile down at the young woman and hold her hand under the table. The action seemed to bring Y/N out of the thought she was currently having; she took a deep breath and began to listen to the debate going on.

 Despite Loki noticing her discomfort, no one else in the room had picked up on it. The second Pepper had noticed, Y/N shook herself out of her reverie. This was another piece in the puzzle, she didn’t want others to worry for her. ‘Is that why she didn’t leave the tower?’ Loki wondered.

 The team finally agreed on a movie and went their separate ways. Loki would have to let her know he did not agree with his brother.

    Y/N sat in her room reading Wuthering Heights for seemingly the hundredth time, but her mind kept drifting to Loki. She was sure Thor must have told him by now, what would he think of her?

 Y/N recalled the day Thor had worked out who her family was. His carefree posture and charming smile altered quickly, his lips forming a thin line and his posture stiffening. He was never outwardly rude to her, nor did he ignore her when she entered the room; but he certainly didn’t welcome her or encourage the idea of friendship between them. It was something that had irked Tony.

 She hated the idea that Loki may look at her the same way. She liked being around Loki, she felt calm with him and that was rare for her.

 The alarm on her phone distracted her from her thoughts. 7pm it flashed, movie time.

 Y/N got up and threw on a hoodie, slipping on a pair of fuzzy socks and made her way out of her room.

 She walked to the elevator which took her to the top floor of the tower where the cinema room was. The avenger’s cinema was huge and rivalled any Imax in the city; it took up the entire floor and had a popcorn station on standby, safe to say it was Peter’s favourite room.

 The elevator doors pinged, and Y/N walked down the long corridor leading to the big screen. She stood to the side of the hallway, safely hidden in a little nook just off the right side of the doorway. She could see almost everyone handing out pizza boxes and laughing at something Wanda had said.

 It was time for Y/N to do her little ritual.

 Although she was reasonably comfortable with each avenger by now, big gatherings still intimidated her. She believed it had something to do with not knowing what each person was doing at any given time. Tony said she got that from her father.

 So, before big gatherings like this, she would count and with each number she would name an avenger she could talk to if uncomfortable. There wasn’t an exact science to it, but it seemed to help.

 “One, Tony.” She whispered, “Two, Pepper. Three, Peter. Four, Vision. Five, Bucky. Six…”

 “Ranking your favourites?” She heard from behind her.

 She jumped with a strangled yelp and turned.

 “Loki, you startled me.” She said, catching her breath.

 Loki smiled, “My apologies. Why are you hiding…and counting?” he asked.

 Y/N blushed furiously, “It just helps…organising things…helps….” She muttered.

 Loki nodded in understanding, “With the crowds?”

 She nodded.

 “Perhaps I should give it a try.” Loki said, earning a shy smile from Y/N.

 They stood there a little while in silence, “You’re not going in?” Y/N asked, though her eyes still didn’t meet his.

 “I haven’t seen much of you these past few days.” Loki said, ignoring her question. “Have you been avoiding me?”

 “No!” Y/N said a little too quickly, causing Loki to smile at her honesty. “I just thought you might be busy with your brother; I didn’t think you’d want me to bother you…”

 “Because you’re a Tatum.” Loki said matter of factly.

 Y/N paused, she looked up at him, scanning his face for any obvious signs of anger or annoyance. Surprisingly she found no judgement in his features.

 She bowed her head, “I’m sorry.”

 Loki grew sympathetic and grew angrier at his brother. “You needn’t apologise for being born.” He spoke with a chuckle.

 Y/N was surprised by his reaction, “I thought you would have shared Thor’s opinion…”

 Loki shook his head, “If we all based our opinions on what other’s think, we wouldn’t get very far, would we my dear?”

 Y/N didn’t really know what to think of his relaxed manner and lack of judgement, but she was certainly grateful for it.

 She gave Loki that winning smile, the one he always felt honoured for having earnt.

 “Now for the matter at hand. Shall we join the others for ‘movie night’?” Loki asked, causing Y/N to giggle at the way he said movie night.

 She nodded, “Okay, would you like to sit with me and Peter? His reactions to the movie are usually more entertaining than the actual movie.”

 Loki chuckled, “How could I say no to that.”

 They walked in together and made their way over to Peter who had already saved them two seats beside him.

 To everyone’s surprise Thor walked over to the little group with a large bag of popcorn at hand and sat in the seat to Loki’s left.

 Thor turned to his brother and Y/N and cleared his throat, gathering their attention. “Would you like some popcorn Y/N?” He asked, a little meekly, or as meekly as a God can.

 Y/N was shocked at first but didn’t want to waste the opportunity to make good with the God of thunder.

 She nodded, “Thank you.” She said sweetly, taking a few pieces of popcorn in her hand.

 The lights slowly dimmed till the room was dark and the movie began to play on the big screen. It would appear Peter had won the debate as the famous Warner Brothers logo appeared before them.

 Thor didn’t have to look at his brother to know he was grinning. “Stop it.” He whispered to Loki.

 Loki chuckled quietly, “Well done…brother.” Loki whispered back.

 Thor smiled.