#thinking about adding the time lapse maybe perhaps…I’m really really pleased with how this turned out

[asimplearchivist]

Do y’all ever think about what was going through Grovyle’s mind at the Passage of Time when he found out about the hero being his partner?🙂I do.

(Click for better quality! And please for the love of God notice the reflection in his eye that I spent far too much time on getting just right😭)

Time lapse below the cut:

[robininthelabyrinth]

I am grinning like a FOOL at nmj/wwx/lwj. Aaaaaahhh just imagine the looks on everyone’s faces ESPECIALLY the jins, can you IMAGINE. Every sect except their own has entered a marriage alliance in one swoop, and that marriage alliance includes three of the most powerful cultivators alive. I’m in love with this.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, past 5 - aka Pastime (with good company)

-

“I can forgive you for getting married, but not for making me tell Uncle about it,” Lan Xichen said without ceremony as he swept into the room like a puff of aggravated white cloud – and yes, he was well aware that was how he was coming off, he had plenty of self-awareness. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was actually upset anymore; he hadn’t seen so many secret little smiles from Lan Wangji since their childhood. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him turn that shade of red before. I think he was even thinking of throwing something at me!”

“Did you mention the bit where it technically fulfilled his requirements regarding devoting to a single spouse?” Nie Mingjue asked from behind his teacup, eyes bright with amusement and not even a speck of shame. It was just like him, too; Nie Mingjue was not one to regret decisions he had made. “Huaisang mentioned that you’d said that: I rather liked that one.”

“I did,” Lan Xichen said, making a face at Nie Mingjue and causing him to laugh. “It didn’t help. As you probably could have guessed, you – oh! A-Yao, be careful, you’re spilling the tea.”

Jin Guangyao looked down at where he’d filled his teacup to overflowing. “Ah,” he said, and put the teapot down, reaching for a piece of cloth to clean up the mess on the table. “Forgive me, I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing…I’m sorry, er-ge, did you say that da-ge was marrying? And you – told your uncle about it, for some reason?”

“Well, there wasn’t much of a choice,” Lan Xichen sighed, sitting down and accepting the cup of tea that Nie Mingjue slid over to him instead. “Since one of his brides is going to be my brother.”

“Your brother? You mean – Wangji? And - one of his brides…?”

“He only has the one brother; who else could he mean?” Nie Mingjue pointed out, and Lan Xichen shot him a glare to remind him to behave – it wasn’t Jin Guangyao’s fault that he probably had more siblings than he could count on both hands and feet, after all.

“Yes,” he said, turning to Jin Guangyao. “Forgive me, A-Yao, I entirely forgot you weren’t at the Unclean Realm when this was all being discussed at the start. As it stands now, Da-ge will be taking two brides to share the position of first wife, one of which is my brother.”

Jin Guangyao was blinking very rapidly, clearly attempting to process the information and just as clearly having some difficulty. Possibly at the idea of Nie Mingjue getting married at all, much less in a cutsleeve marriage – in fact, Lan Xichen wasn’t sure he’d ever mentioned to him that Lan Wangji was a cutsleeve. 

Did Jin Guangyao maybe have some lingering prejudices? It seemed unlikely, given what Lan Xichen knew of his personality, but such issues were more often seen among the common people…

“I see,” Jin Guangyao said. “And…who’s the other one?”

“Wei Wuxian,” Nie Mingjue said, and he looked so incredibly pleased about it that Lan Xichen reluctantly shelved the idea of scolding him further. A smile from Lan Wangji, a smile from Wei Wuxian, a smile from Nie Mingjue – anything that caused this many smiles was bound to be a good thing.

Even if poor Jin Guangyao’s smile did look a bit strained…

-

“He’s what?!”

Jin Guangyao held his hands apart as if to indicate he had no idea how it had happened either, and Jin Zixuan thought that for once in his life his duplicative half-brother might be completely and utterly sincere. “He confirmed it himself.”

“Wei Wuxian,” Jin Guangshan growled, having apparently decided to skip over shock in favor of paranoid theorizing. “Of course – all this time, Nie Mingjue pretended to disdain the Stygian Tiger seal, looking down on it, but in reality he was seeking his own means of obtaining it –”

Jin Zixuan didn’t think that was especially likely.

He’d fought with Nie Mingjue during the war as one of his lieutenants. Even though his father had insisted that the Jin sect fight under its own banner, it’d quickly become obvious that none of the generals his father had appointed had the slightest idea of what they were doing, unlike Nie Mingjue; to keep his people from enduring another slaughter, Jin Zixuan had forced himself to swallow his pride and ask Nie Mingjue for advice.

The other man had never once lorded it over him, even though Jin Zixuan was in the weaker position – his letters had been straightforward and to the point, answering his questions without any judgment, and when they worked together in person, he was the same.

Jin Zixuan had spent entire nights worrying about his motives, and a shamefully long time to realize that the reason Nie Mingjue was acting the way he did was because he was just – like that. Honest and forthright and disinclined towards scheming, the way everyone said he was; a man who was righteous in the sense that he did what he thought was right, not in the sense of flattering himself to think he was better than others.

(Somewhere along the line, Jin Zixuan had shifted from choking down his pride to choking down guilt at thinking that Nie Mingjue was a better leader than his father – and that he’d probably have been a better father, too, no matter how Nie Huaisang had ultimately turned out. He thought, though he did not know, that if he had not adopted some of Nie Mingjue’s straightforwardness in pursuing Jiang Yanli, she might not be his bride today.)

“ – why didn’t any of us think of that?” Jin Guangshan was demanding when Jin Zixuan tuned back into the conversation, and it made him nearly choke. “A-Xuan! What sounds are you making over there?”

“Nothing, father,” Jin Zixuan said, coughing a little to clear his throat. “Merely – admiring how unorthodox Chifeng-zun’s thinking must have been.”

Jin Guangyao’s lips twitched. It was only a second, there and gone, but Jin Zixuan had still seen the little glimpse of humor. It was truly a pity, he reflected, that his brother wanted his position more than his friendship; they might have been good friends, in another world. Of course, that was the way things went in Lanling, with each person out for themselves, but ever since he’d married Jiang Yanli, he’d started to think that perhaps the greedy, grasping, conniving world his father had cultivated around him wasn’t the right way to lead a sect.

He used to think that the Jin sect was better than everyone else because of the way they thought – that only they were honest enough to acknowledge the frailties in human nature and to make use of them, rather than pretending that people could really be brave and righteous and true, that friendship was a real thing rather than another name for allies of convenience, that love was anything more than a momentary lapse, a weakness – but he didn’t any more. The other righteous sects might be naïve in their belief in righteousness, but believing in righteousness encouraged righteous behavior; even if it was done only as a façade, for most people, the façade would eventually turn into truth after it became enough of a habit.

For most people, anyway.  

Jin Zixuan had done his best to like his new brother – upstanding war hero that he was – but he couldn’t quite manage it. He was too familiar with people who came to him with gentle smiles that hid daggers, and his mother, while far too vicious, was unfortunately right that those who shared his parentage all seemed to have their eyes fixed firmly on his position.  Jin Guangyao might pretend that he didn’t, but some of the moves he’d made were a little too obviously meant to be consolidations of power: courting the Qin girl, being friendly with certain dissatisfied factions…

Jin Zixuan heard that Jin Guangyao had once been Nie Mingjue’s deputy, wearing a façade of righteousness, and their current enmity had been birthed once the other man had seen what he was really like.

It seemed like a bad trade to him, scrabbling for scraps in Lanling instead of being respected as a man in Qinghe, but he supposed he was in no position to judge. He’d had all the advantages in the world given to him at his birth, and he’d still taken so very long to figure out that righteousness was actually worth something by itself.

His father was still ranting about Wei Wuxian, with his half-brother indulging him with nods and questions that didn’t achieve anything other than making his father feel good about himself for having guessed right, and eventually Jin Zixuan was sick enough of it to feel the need to divert the conversation.

“Whatever his motives may be for marrying Wei Wuxian,” he said, “surely those reasons don’t apply to Hanguang-jun, who possesses no secret power to be obtained. It’s not as though the Nie sect needs a connection to the Lan sect – Chifeng-zun is already sworn brothers with Zewu-jun.”

He paused, deliberately, then added, as if in afterthought, “And A-Yao, of course.”

Jin Guangyao might have mastered the ways of the mistress, sweetness and support and indulgence to win favor, but Jin Zixuan had grown up with a mother that had never allowed an infamously straying husband to bring home a single concubine – if Jin Guangyao thought a few tricks were enough to get his position, he was only dreaming.

Jin Zixuan would help him wake up.

-

“Do you think it’s that he doesn’t like A-Xian enough to marry just him?” Jiang Yanli asked, biting her lip, but her husband shook his head with a laugh.

“My father couldn’t think of a reason either,” he said, looking arrogant and smug in that charming sort of way he had when he was happy. “The only thing he could come up with after hours and hours was that he might be some sort of pretty flower vase meant as a consolation for having to marry the Yiling Patriarch.”

“But you don’t think that.”

“Of course not. Chifeng-zun is a good man, and even if he wasn’t, he’s old friends with Zewu-jun, who would never allow anything like that.”

Jiang Yanli conceded the point, but that still didn’t explain why. She’d known, of course, of Jiang Cheng’s desperate gamble to protect Wei Wuxian and keep him in the Jiang sect in some manner – technically not, since he’d be under the protection of the Nie sect going forward, but this way at least made sure that he’d always have his family backing. She’d even hoped, based on some things Jiang Cheng had said to her, that Wei Wuxian was happy with the marriage, looking forward to it.

But why would Nie Mingjue take a second wife – no, another first wife – at the same time? Wasn’t that looking down at her brother?

“Personally, my theory is that he just didn’t want to get cuckolded,” Jin Zixuan said, playing with her hair. “So he took precautions against it.”

“Cuckolded?” she asked, and she could feel him turn red – her husband was sensitive about such things, a remnant of his unhappy childhood. He was terrified that she might start to suspect him of crimes he hadn’t yet committed (as if he wasn’t a terrible enough liar that she’d know at once anyway if he’d really done anything), and he usually avoided any discussion of infidelity like the plague. She wasn’t letting him off this time, though, not if Wei Wuxian’s happiness was at stake. “What do you mean? A-Xian wouldn’t betray someone he’d sworn himself to.”

Not without a good reason, anyway. The way Wei Wuxian had been behaving recently towards Jiang Cheng – towards the Jiang sect generally, especially after the business with the Wen sect remnants – could almost make her think terrible things, and only the fact she loved her brother as blindly as she did could make her unswerving in her faith that there was some purpose behind his seemingly cruel behavior.

“Probably not,” Jin Zixuan agreed. “But I mean – come on. I didn’t notice it when I was younger, because I was an idiot back then –”

He said it, not her.

“– but Wei Wuxian chased after Lan Wangji the entire time we were at the Wen indoctrination camp together. Same way I chased after you, actually.”

“With no grace or tact or knowledge of women?” she teased, and he blushed and rubbed his cheek against hers.

“Well, yes,” he said. “But I got you in the end, didn’t I?”

That was a good point.

Jiang Yanli hadn’t seen them interacting enough to really judge – convention separating men from women the way it did – but Wei Wuxian had spoken of Lan Wangji rather a lot after his time studying in the Cloud Recesses. It was certainly a plausible guess.

“So you think Sect Leader Nie married Hanguang-jun for what reason?” she asked. “To keep A-Xian from pursing him?”

“Common wisdom in Lanling says that if it’s not to create connections, then there’s only two reasons for a man to take a concubine,” Jin Zixuan said with a shrug. “One is to keep the man company – the other’s to give company to his wife.”

Jiang Yanli’s eyebrows shot up. “Company for his wife?”

“Why not? Men and women move in different circles – if a man is worried his wife might be thinking of looking for company outside, it’s better to get her someone who will be by her side all the time, isn’t it?”

Jiang Yanli covered her mouth to hide her laughter. “I suppose so,” she said. “Please don’t get me company in the future, though; I’m quite capable of making friends on my own.”

“And I,” her husband said, perking up at once, “of keeping you too busy to even think about other company –”

-

“You really think it’s all right?” Jiang Cheng asked Jiang Yanli. He trusted his sister’s judgment, but he was still worried. “I don’t want Wei Wuxian to think he has to suffer in silence –”

Jiang Yanli patted his shoulder. “A-Cheng, think about what you’re saying. I’m not saying A-Xian wouldn’t suffer, but – in silence?”

“If he thought it might hurt one of us he would,” Jiang Cheng said stubbornly. “This was my idea, and you know he’s worried about messing up your relationship with Jin Zixuan by starting too much trouble, especially with the Jin sect being the first one to jump down his throat about it. And anyway, he wasn’t chasing after Lan Wangji! He was – he –”

He frowned. He’d always thought that they disliked each other – certainly Lan Wangji’s constantly cold expression didn’t suggest he enjoyed Wei Wuxian’s teasing, although Wei Wuxian did spend an awful lot of time planning out pranks centered around Lan Wangji in specific. Or even, as Jiang Yanli had pointed out, just talking about him.

Which he did. A lot.

“What if Lan Wangji doesn’t like him back?” he asked, suddenly consumed with a brand new worry. “If Chifeng-zun goes to all that trouble for Wei Wuxian, and gets his hopes up, and then it turns out that Lan Wangji really doesn’t like him –”

“I’m sure Sect Leader Nie must have thought it over carefully before he took any action,” Jiang Yanli said. “A-Xuan tells me that he’s a good person, a good leader, and a good general – he must have a plan. Don’t you think?”

“Well, he is all that,” Jiang Cheng admitted. He wouldn’t have been so confident in his plan to marry Wei Wuxian into the Nie sect if Nie Mingjue hadn’t been as righteous as his reputation. But still…

“Why don’t you see what Wei Wuxian thinks about it?” she suggested, quite reasonably. “And anyway, he’ll still need a chaperone for their next visit, and the seasonal floods are over – you could go supervise.”

Jiang Cheng brightened. His older sister always had the best ideas. “What would I do without you?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

She laughed. “Starve, probably. Would you like some more soup?”

“Of course! Remind me, why am I letting you go off to Lanling again..?”

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: the thing with feathers, ch. 15

Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn & Yú Zǐyuān, Jiāng Fēngmián & Yú Zǐyuān, Jiāng Yànlí & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Fēngmián & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Qǐrén & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Lán Yuàn | Lán Sīzhuī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Yú Zǐyuān, Yínzhū, Jīnzhū, Lán Jǐngyí, Jiāng Fēngmián, Jiāng Yànlí, Lán Qǐrén, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo

Additional Tags: Transmigration, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Illnesses, Family, Scars, Memory Loss, Angst, Crying, Music, Nosebleed, Fear, Recovery, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Parent Yú Zǐyuān, Referenced Sexual Slavery, Blood and Gore, Monsters, Sexual Tension, betrothal

Summary: Wangji speaks for himself. Wei Ying wakes. Communication ensues.

Notes: I might be wrong on this, but when I rewatched The Untamed with my mom, it seemed the town was named Lotus Pier and the sect grounds and Jiang home were named Lotus Cove, which is why I’ve been differentiating the two here. Even though yuanfen is often associated with the red thread, it isn’t always associated with romance. It’s not even fate, really, as that implies a higher power. It’s simply fateful coincidence and often simply associated with good or bad luck. In this case, it’s a potential relationship—whether friendship or more, Lan Wangji isn’t really thinking about right now. He just believes that his second meeting with Wei Wuxian means they are meant to have import in each other’s lives, and he wants very badly to protect him.

AO3 link

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

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Wangji felt like he had been in a daze since Wei Ying had abruptly gotten a nosebleed and panicked when he was talking to an older Jiang disciple. When he had tried to take his friend to the healer, he insisted on being taken to Madam Yu instead. 

As improbable as it seemed, Wei Ying’s vision of a monster yao had apparently been correct, the adults had informed him when they returned. And it put him in danger.  

He was disappointed to have missed the practical lesson shufu had given on the proper disposal of yao corpses, but he would rather be at Wei Ying’s side. 

Wei Ying was still unconscious, and Wangji was aware of the conversations happening around him despite the daze, as they tried to determine how best to protect him—if he truly had precognitive visions, Madam Yu argued, he would be seen as an asset to acquire by certain other clans.

Madam Yu’s arguments regarding his protection made sense, particularly official adoption, and though shufu was balking and displeased with her second idea, it too was truly logical, could throw off any suspicion from the Sun that saw all, could protect Wei—or rather, Jiang Ying. 

And what if Wei Ying’s dream of being cast into Luanzang Gang… What if that was a premonition? The place was warded and managed by the Wen sect, after all. If they wanted him and could not have him, would that be the result? 

If he could do anything to prevent that from coming to pass, he would. 

Shufu was turning angry colors, seeming to be too overcome to speak properly, starting and stopping and sputtering when Madam Yu countered his half-formed objections, completely unruffled. 

“I agree,” he said firmly—during a pause, so as not to interrupt. 

“Wangji!”

Shufu looked outraged, and Wangji wondered if he had been expected to stay silent on the matter. Madam Yu, on the other hand, looked pleased. 

“I want to help him,” Wangji insisted. “I wish to help prevent his nightmare from coming to pass.”

He could see from the stricken look on the adults’ faces that they knew what he was referring to. Wangji was glad he didn’t have to elaborate further, and that they understood the gravity of his concern. For a moment, there was dead silence as they digested the idea, but he was also unsurprised when his uncle spoke again against the idea of betrothal. 

“You’re too young to—”

“A-Li has been betrothed since she was a toddler,” Madam Yu cut in swiftly, what little patience she had spent. “I only hope her betrothed doesn’t grow to become as egregious a pig as his father. I trust my sworn sister will do her best with him.”

Wangji couldn’t help but gape, unused to gossip in general and absolutely shocked to hear such words about a major sect leader. 

“A-Ying is kind and intelligent,” she continued, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you disapprove of him because the mother he doesn’t even remember once shaved your beard off as you slept.”

The statement seemed to hang in the air. Shufu was turning an alarming color, and Wangji couldn’t help contemplating what he would look like without his beard. 

All told, it was probably for the better that they were interrupted by Wei Ying waking, though the fact that he woke with a scream and immediately started sobbing was more than a little upsetting. It took time for the Jiangs to calm him down, for Madam Yu to assure him no one died, that he had done the right thing telling her so they could take down the yao without anyone being hurt. 

“Perhaps you should tell us what you ‘saw,’” shufu said once Wei Ying was calm. 

“It was big, and like a dragon, but not like a dragon,” Wei Ying started. “Like a snake, maybe?”

He remembered only that about the creature. His san-shixiong had grabbed him and Jiang Wanyin, propelled them to shore with a burst of spiritual energy, and had been promptly eaten by the yao.

“It bit him in half,” Wei Ying said, his voice trembling. “And then it started killing the others.”

He lapsed into silence, his jaw trembling. 

“I ordered the disciples out of the water,” Madam Yu told him. “Your shushu and I battled it with Jinzhu and Yinzhu on the river. San-shixiong is fine, as is everyone else.”

She patted him on the shoulder, clearly trying to comfort him. 

“You did the right thing, A-Ying,” she said. “You kept them safe. Now we need to keep you safe.”

Wei Ying blinked, his eyes darting as he processed that. 

“Because I saw,” he said eventually. “People will want that.”

Madam Yu nodded, looking pleased that he understood. 

“I’m sorry for bringing trouble, shenshen.”

The smile disappeared, her face tight and downcast for a moment. Wei Ying’s words hurt her, but Wangji didn’t understand how. 

“A-Ying, you can trust that your shushu and I will handle any trouble. You are not at fault.”

The boy nodded, but still looked uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure whether to believe it wasn’t his fault. 

Jiang Fengmian seemed to sense that, and patted Wei Ying’s head.

“A-Ying, we decided the best way to protect you is to officially adopt you into the Jiang clan.”

“As our son,” Madam Yu added. “And A-Lian as our daughter.”

“It won’t be unfilial?” Wei Ying asks softly after a moment. “My mama and baba… Would they be mad at me?”

The Jiangs looked startled at the question, but Wangji understood. 

Shufu almost fulfilled the role of a father for him, but his true father was still alive, though he’d never met him that he could remember. So to refer to shufu as such would be unfilial; even if his father was dead, it could be unfilial. 

“Your father,” Sect leader Jiang started hoarsely, and had to clear his throat before continuing. “Your father was my sworn brother, and I loved him as though he was my blood brother.”

“If you would be more comfortable continuing to refer to us as shenshen and shushu, rather than a-niang and a-die, you may,” Madam Yu told him. “Legally you would be our son, to protect you, but we wouldn’t be replacing your mama and baba.”

Wei Ying nodded, biting his lip. 

“It’s just… I forgot them—everything about them. I don’t want them to be hungry ghosts.”

Yu Ziyuan gathered him to her, and he let out a soft sob. 

Wangji couldn’t imagine forgetting his mother, who had been one of the brighter points of his life until her death. Wei Ying, as a homeless orphan in Yiling, had smiled so much like her. Back then, he could remember his parents. Now they were lost to the void where his memories once were. 

“You didn’t lose your memory on purpose,” Jiang Yanli offered softly. “I’m sure they wouldn’t blame you for that.”

“They will not be hungry, A-Ying,” Madam Yu murmured to him. “Their tablets are in the ancestral hall for you to leave offerings and burn joss paper whenever you wish. We are not replacing them. Fengmian and I can tell you stories of them, if you wish. And Lan Qiren was acquainted with your mother and may be willing to share stories as well.”

“The stories may help you remember,” Wangji added.

“Maybe a-die and a-niang can draw them, too,” Jiang Cheng said. “I bet that would help.”

Wei Ying sniffled and nodded, his nose running as he seemed to fight the urge to cry. Wangji pulled a cloth from his sleeve and handed it to him and received a watery smile.

That seemed to remind Yu Ziyuan of the other part of the plan. 

“It’s possible this is just the effect of the resentful energy still in your mind,” she said. “Learning the songs of the Lan and further help from them might make it fade. To avoid suspicion about why you will spend time in Gusu, you will be betrothed to Lan-er-gongzi.”

“When you are older it can be dissolved,” shufu added.

Wangji watched for Wei Ying’s reaction, feeling oddly uncertain—after all, it was an unusual arrangement, and he might not welcome it—but when Wei Ying turned to him, it seemed like his own uncertainty was reflected back. 

“I don’t want to prevent you from meeting your fated one, Lan Zhan,” he said softly. “You don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I already agreed. Our meeting again was yuanfen, and I wish to help protect you,” he assured him. “It is no burden.”

He knew Wei Ying often saw himself as a burden, or at least referred to himself as one. He always seemed conscious of how much he was relying on others, always seemed to try to make up for it. Wangji wanted him to know he was not a burden, not trouble, not anything other than worthy of protection. 

“You’ll let me know if it is?” Wei Ying asked solemnly. “Like Lan-xiansheng said, we can dissolve it later.”

“It will not be a burden,” Wangji insisted. “But if I am wrong, I will tell you. But you also must tell me.”

Wei Ying smiled, strangely wistful. 

“Ah, Lan Zhan. You’re so good.”

“W—Jiang Ying is also good.”

It was hard not to think of him as Wei Ying, but Wangji would do his best to adjust. His friend looked startled at the name, then smiled almost bashfully. 

“You can call me A-Ying,” he said softly. “If it’s easier.”

Wangji knew friends often referred to each other, and he nodded, happy that he considered them close. 

“Then you may call me A-Zhan,” he said. 

No one aside from occasionally xiongzhang called him so informally, but he thought it would be acceptable if it was A-Ying. 

Shufu, he noticed, watched their exchange, stroking his beard thoughtfully. 

“Madam Yu’s idea is that the two of you will act as second in command to both sects, according to the betrothal contract,” Lan Qiren says. “Half of the year in Yunmeng, half in Gusu.”

“Thus you will have an excuse to receive further treatment in Gusu and to learn more musical cultivation that may help,” Madam Yu added.

Jiang Fengmian reached forward, patting A-Ying’s arm. 

“We will negotiate the terms, but only if you’re okay with it, A-Ying,” he said. “People may say rude things.”

A-Ying seemed surprised to be asked, but he nodded. 

“I know people might be weird since it’s a cutsleeve betrothal, but people find something to be weird about all the time. I’m fine with it if A-Zhan is.”

“I am,” Lan Zhan said. 

“Excellent,” Madam Yu said, looking pleased. “We will discuss this with your uncle and draw up terms. But first we will perform the adoption rites and announce you and A-Lian as Jiang.”

Wangji understood she meant letters would later be sent out to the rest of the gentry later about their betrothal. Though he preferred not to be the object of gossip, he understood the betrothal announcement would concretely ally Gusu Lan and Yunmeng Jiang and serve as protection for A-Ying. He would manage somehow.

A soft knock on the door prevented any further conversation, and Madam Yu dispelled the silencing talisman. She opened the door to reveal a servant, and the scent of food wafted in, making his mouth water. It was long past dinner now.

The servant bowed.

“Madam Yu, the townspeople learned of the yao. Some witnessed the battle. The businesses came together and delivered food as thanks. We are serving the disciples as well.”

Several more servants entered the room, efficiently clearing the table and setting up far more communal dishes than normal. It was clear that the food was from both restaurants and the Lotus Cove kitchen, and so the array was much more varied than most meals. He did notice that there were far fewer dishes from the Jiang kitchens, and realized the yao attack had likely even interrupted dinner preparations by the servants, making the gift from the townspeople all the more apt and appreciated. 

Sect Leader Jiang murmured about reimbursing the restaurants to the ranking servant who had knocked, and the rest of the Jiangs moved to the table while he did. Wangji offered a hand to A-Ying to help him out of bed, and they went together.

Many of the dishes were heavy with spice, but Jiang Yanli was already putting together a bowl of rice and lesser-spiced dishes, which she handed to him with a smile. Xiongzhang and shufu were filling their own bowls in a similar manner, while A-Ying filled his with a base of noodles almost fiery-looking with spice and other dishes that were tinted red, orange, and yellow with spice, then settled on a cushion a little away from the table.

Aside from the sound of utensils on porcelain, the room was unusually silent, everyone focused on eating after so much energy was expended on the yao. Where normally the Jiangs chattered during supper, the meal was almost as quiet as those in Gusu. It felt odd, as Wangji had become accustomed to listening to the conversations around him, even if he didn’t participate in them.

Wangji settled beside him to eat, quietly considering what should be done to make A-Ying comfortable in his visits to Gusu, and the first thing on his list was acquiring spices and spicy condiments from the Lotus Pier market. His friend would find the fare at Cloud Recesses entirely too bland, but he wanted him to enjoy Gusu as much as he had come to enjoy Yunmeng.

Perhaps he should ask Jiang Yanli to teach him recipes, as well.

Mind set, he focused on eating, taking comfort in the warmth of his friend beside him.

[sheyshen]

Patch stuff had me thinking and inspired me a little bit so... Some Shey dealing with Anduin being kingnapped among some other things and some background fairshaw because I wanted to write Mathias and Flynn since they’re her friends.

-

It was late. Really really late. Shey knew she shouldn’t be up right now, but she couldn’t sleep. Anduin was missing, the scourge were starting to rampage, there was a blasted hole in the sky. And she felt useless. She hadn’t been in Stormwind when the king had been taken, hadn’t been there to protect her son, the only family she had left.

It wasn’t her fault, or Genn, or Mathias though both the Worgen and spy blamed themselves as much as they blamed the true guilty party. But even though she knew deep down that there was nothing any of them could’ve done to prevent this, the guilt still gnawed at her. So instead she walked through the halls of the keep, heading to the one place she would go when her mind wouldn’t let her rest. Turning she recognized a familiar coat, the owner doing his best to look as unassuming as possible.

Which might’ve worked had it not been well past two in the morning. Still, the guards ignored him as he strode past them and poked his head into a side room before continuing on.

“Flynn.” Shey smiled at him as he started, turning to look at her a large grin masking how surprised he had been.

“Ah! Commander! Fancy seeing you here.” He strode up to her, the smile never leaving his face. “Now what are you doing wandering the halls of the keep?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She pointed out, laughing lightly, “Looking for Mathias?”

He scratched the back of his neck, “perhaps. Or I could be here to see you, or Taelia, or…” he seemed to be dragging out a long pause.

“The spymaster is in the war room down that way.” She gestured back the way she came. Flynn thanked her and hurried past her, “And Flynn. When you see him, try to get him to get some rest. Tell him it’s my orders if he refuses.”

“Will do.” He looked like he wanted to say more. She had nearly bid him farewell and continued on her way when he nodded toward the halls she had exited from, “You should go get some sleep too.”

“I have some things to attend to, besides the bed’s too big for me alone.” She waved him off, “Don’t worry so much about me, go find Shaw before he wanders off to find more work to do.”

Flynn looked like he was going to argue, insist that she should take her own advice but finally, he nodded, wished her good night, and hurried off toward the war room.

Alone once more she returned to her intended goal, taking another hallway to the gardens and then to the attached library. Her little safe haven amongst the hustle and bustle of the day to day. She browsed around, picked out a well-worn book, sat down, and began flipping through the pages. Inside was a letter, the edges worn and had been obviously handled numerous times.

It was addressed to her, and even before opening it she already knew what it said. She ran her fingers along the edge of the seal, the wax broken years ago, opened the letter carefully, and took out the single page folded inside. She didn’t unfold it, instead, she put both the letter and the envelope on the nearby table and leaned back in her chair, picking gently at the edge of the paper as she let out a heavy breath.

She doubted she could read the letter now, though she knew every word by heart, it hurt too much to think about it. But as always on nights like this, she debated on what to do. The letter detailed a gift hidden away in the gardens. One she knew of, she knew what it was, what it meant. But hadn’t been able to bring herself to get it yet. It was from Varian, meant to be an anniversary present when she returned home from some last-minute requests she had needed to attend to.

But the Legion invading delayed things, and she hadn’t found the letter until after he had…

She picked up the letter, carefully putting it back into the envelope. She debated on putting it back in the book, putting it away, perhaps she’d be braver next time, be able to deal with finding the last thing she’d ever receive from the one she loved most, that’s loss still tore at her heart even with Gul’dan’s death. She knew next time she’d still chicken out, she knew herself well enough that if she hadn’t been able to make herself go and open the gift over the past few years she wouldn’t be able to do it tomorrow either.

She pushed herself to her feet, deciding that maybe at least taking the gift from its hiding place would be a step forward. She pocketed the letter, mentally following the clue that had been written down, and went to the corner of the garden that was attached to the library. Underneath a bench that faced toward the ocean was a hidden compartment. Shaw normally kept a hidden weapon there in case he or the royal family had been caught off guard, but currently, it also held a small box. Taking it from its hiding place, Shey turned it in her hand. Simple, a blue ribbon kept it tied shut, and the box looked untouched even after all this time.

She inspected it, before pocketing the box and leaving the gardens. She strode out of the keep, taking the pathways along the canals, nodding towards the guards that kept watch and the death knights and paladins that had set up posts to keep an eye out for undead. They let her be, greeting her with a simple ‘commander’ or ‘ma’am’ or ‘majesty’. She still wasn’t fond of the last of those, while she knew the title was merely a formality it still never sat well to be regarded as anything other than what she was, a mage just trying to help.

Crossing the bridge to the gardens she strode up to Varian’s grave. It was quiet now, her friends and comrades that had swarmed where Anduin had been last having turned either to different leads in hopes of finding their missing king or had decided to get some well-needed sleep. She ran her hand on the stone, wanting to say something but knowing that there was nothing she could say. She was sorry she couldn’t protect Anduin? That she didn’t know what to do? That she couldn’t forget, couldn’t move on? Instead, she sat down on the steps, pulling out the box, and ran her hand along it.

She didn’t hear him approach but wasn’t surprised when she heard Shaw speak up. “Mind if I join you?”

She gave him a sad smile, “Please.”

He seated himself next to her and let out a heavy breath.

“I take it Flynn couldn’t convince you to go to bed.”

He chuckled, a rare sound coming from her friend. “He tried, but he ended up falling asleep first.” He dug around in his bag, pulled free a flask, and took a swig before offering it to her.

“Thanks.” She took it, sipping at it in thought. “I…”

“Don’t. This isn’t your fault.” He took the flask when she handed it back to him. “We’ll find him.”

“He’s my son, Mathias. If I can’t protect him…” She cringed, hating even the thought of what might happen.

“And my friend.” He stared her down, “We’ll find him.” He repeated as he drank from the flask, turning away to look over the gardens again, quietly adding “we will.” at the end. It sounded more like an attempt to convince himself rather than her.

Taking the flask she sipped at it once more. She picked at the box that still sat on her lap, rubbing the ribbon between her fingers.

“You finally opened it?”

She glanced at Shaw before shaking her head. “Not yet. I can’t bring myself to. But it’s a step.”

"Did you know Fairwind named his parrot after me?"

Shey rose her eyebrow at the change in subject. She huffed a laugh, "did he now."

"He thought it was funny." He smiled faintly, the look on his face affectionate. "Not as much when it warmed up to me faster than to him."

"Did he bring little Mathias with him when he came to Stormwind?"

"No, actually. Seems the bird gets seasick. Stays in Boralus with Cyrus whenever Flynn comes to visit."

Shey grinned. "So no parrot sitting on Anduin's shoulder during meetings I take it."

Mathias nearly choked on the contents of the flask, likely some of Flynn's rum if Shey was able to guess by the taste, "no. Absolutely not. Thank the light for that. It already can mimic his voice nearly perfectly. I don't need it following me around the keep too."

She chuckled at his sudden loss of composure, a rare moment that likely wouldn't be repeated easily. "I'll be sure to watch out for him next time I'm out there." She grinned.

"I'm sure you two will get along." He seemed to hesitate before handing the flask to her, but in the end, he pushed it into her hand. "Rest is yours."

"Thanks." She took a gulp, finishing off the drink and handing the now empty flask back to its temporary owner. He put it away as she leaned back and watched the stars, the pair lapsing into a comfortable silence. After a few moments, she spoke up again, "hey Mathias? Thank you. For coming to sit with me tonight." She yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"You needed the break."

"As did you." Barely a few seconds passed and she felt as if she could barely stay awake. "Did you… did you put something in-" she practically collapsed mid-sentence as whatever he had slipped into the drink took hold and she fell asleep.

The next thing she knew was waking up in her bed. She bolted upright as she awoke. Glancing around the room she found her friend asleep on a thin bedding on the floor, Flynn hugging onto him tightly as the sailor grumbled in his sleep.

Getting out of bed she strode across the room sitting down and narrowing her eyes at the spy as he looked up at her.

"I can't believe you."

"You needed your sleep." He spoke quietly, trying not to wake the man who had a death grip on his shirt.

"I was fine." She also stayed quiet, the pair arguing back and forth in whispers. "I would’ve slept eventually."

"Or passed out at your desk like last time." Flynn shifting made him glance back but the man only rolled over onto his other side and continued his grumbling. Free from his lover's grip Mathias sat up. "You need your strength, If anyone is going to find Anduin it'll be you."

A mix of emotion flashed across her face before she sighed, "I suppose you're right." She admitted. She glanced around the room, "why did you sleep here anyway? I don't mind, but your room is nearby, you didn't need to stay here."

"Flynn's suggestion. He said you seemed lonely, and I'm inclined to agree." He watched her carefully. "Whatever is to happen next I have a feeling it will be over my head, so allow me to make sure you have a home to return."

She debated on what to say, before settling on "thank you."

"Heey." Flynn’s groggy voice joined in as he sat up. His eyes were still closed and his face was scrunched up like he was quietly cursing how bright the room was, but he smiled at them. "What are you two chatting about?"

"You of course." Shey grinned at him.

He laughed, went to say something then stopped and buried his face in his hands, grumbling something as he tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

Mathias pushed himself to his feet, Shey followed suit and then turned to gather her gear to prepare for the day.

"I'll gather reports for you before you leave for Northrend." He stretched as he spoke.

She nodded, "we can go over them while we eat. I have some things to leave for Genn before I go so I'll meet you in the dining hall."

"I'll be sure to keep things brief." He gave her a formal nod and left the room to get things in order.

Flynn flopped back down still grumbling that it was too early, before kicking off the blankets and getting to his feet, stretching, and then dug around his bag. Not finding what he was looking for he scrunched his eyebrows in confusion for a moment before remembering and then looking towards his friend. "Did chatting with Matie help?"

"It did." She huffed a laugh, "though I'm not sure how I feel about him spiking the drink to get me to get some sleep." She stepped around a corner, dug out some clothes, and pulled them on while she spoke. "But yes, it helped."

He wandered the room, inspecting the furniture and decorations that took up much of the space. "You weren't kidding about how big the bed was. This whole room seems a bit big for one. But…" he shrugged.

"I used to share it with another." He glanced at her when she cut him off. "Anduin was supposed to make this room his and I to return to my previous quarters. But he refused. Said he wasn't ready." She didn't elaborate more.

He watched her as the pieces clicked into place. An unopened box sat on the edge of a chest of drawers. He picked it up, inspected it, and then turned and handed it to her. She looked at it, the gift she still debated on what to do with, the end that she didn't want to face. Anduin wasn't the only one who wasn't ready to face that Varian was forever gone.

Flynn put his hand on her shoulder, "then if you need someone to stay with you let me know. I'm not always in the city, so if I'm not I'm sure Matie’ll offer the same even though he likely wouldn't say it." He cocked his head, a goofy grin on his face, "I mean, we're friends right?"

"We are." She smiled at him.

He released her shoulder. "Right. Now, I need to get me a drink, and I'm sure you need to get to your own things and. Just, be careful alright?” He pulled her into a hug, “Come back safe."

"I'll do my best." She returned the hug.

"Good." He looked like he wanted to say more but instead stepped away, waving goodbye as he turned and left the room.

She wondered if he had debated on offering to travel with her. But an ice block full of undead likely didn’t sit in with what he was willing to face down for much of anyone but Shaw. Still, she was grateful for his support, even with how wild things have been.

She looked at the gift in her hands and settled on what she would do. She tucked it away in the side table next to the bed, closing and locking the drawer. When Anduin was home safe then she would face this, but for now, she had taken a step forward and had a world to save.

[typewriterghcst]

Title: When the Sun Leaves the Field Fandom: The Cat Returns Rating: uhhhhh let’s go with. like. PG or PG13ish for. Heavy Themes. speaking of— Warnings: I struggled with how to word this, and I hope I can still manage anyhow with making it clear— there are a lot of parallels with suicide in this story, so I would advise that if you are very sensitive to that subject, you might give this one a pass. Other than that, y. yeah, there’s heavy overarching themes of death all over the place. The notes paragraph will probably clear up what I mean Characters: Cat King, Natori, mentions of other characters Summary: It’s good to have someone at the end of the road. Notes: For this meme, and the prompt of ‘When I am dead’ with the added bonus of ‘if it makes it painful: one-sided. :)’ bc @madamhatter is a sadist jfjfkd;a Or. Maybe just an enabler. Either way I absolve myself of all responsibility with this one :v Tho for the record, this is using the weird manga-inspired verse I use on the ask blog, and I will actually apologize for that preemptively 9_9;;

&&&

They had begun their trek in the early morning (what passed for early morning), not under the cover of darkness but simple isolation. They had left early in the interest of privacy. Of concern and long-lived affection. No one needed to know yet.

They stop for a meal in the Finch Kingdom. Natori thinks they must look quite a pair for those who are too young to recognize them, Claudius slouching languidly with one foot hooked against the table to tip his chair back and Natori himself sitting prim and timid with his feet gathered up beneath him and paws folded demurely on the table.

“...do you remember when we first met?” Claudius eventually asks, and it feels so sudden it takes Natori a long minute to register it. And by the time it does, that ever-present gnawing guilt has settled into its usual spot before its accompanying source’s arrival.

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “You know I don’t.”

To that, Claudius doesn’t respond for some time, staring out at the mellow passersby and combing absently at his mustache, an idle habit he’s never been able to totally shake.

Finally, Natori speaks up again, gentle, low. “How was our first meeting, Claudius..?”

His companion gives a pensive noise or two, still absently worrying at a handful of long fur before his mind seems to come back to him. “Feels kinda weird to relay the story to someone who was there, babe.”

“Well, pretend I’m someone else, then.” A light, almost playful piece of advice, but one which seems to loosen Claudius' tongue.

"Don't really want someone else, though.”

"That's sweet of you."

"Heh. I'm always sweet, babe."

"Some of your courtiers might be inclined to say otherwise."

"Bah, what do they know."

Natori laughs. "Not enough, I suppose."

They lapse into another silence, then, lost in the murmuring chatter of the residents of the Finch Kingdom going about their day. Natori is just on the verge of politely asking when they might leave.

"It was a disaster. I made an ass of myself."

"Oh, it couldn't have been that bad." Spoken affectionately, but with perhaps a knowing edge.

"It could and it was," Claudius persists. “I'd seen you over and over again, always trailing after the queen. I could tell you weren't royalty, an' I made a… an assumption."

Somewhere, Natori is beset by both a distant humiliation and the fervent wish that he might remember more, that this description, vague as it is, might be just the trigger to jog his unreliable memory. Alas, the vague but deeply-rooted embarrassment is all that arises.

“You thought I was a companion of a certain, ah, character.”

“Oh, so you do remember, you fibber.”

Natori laughs again. “That was only the logical conclusion.”

“I know.” Claudius’ chair comes finally crashing down with a thunderous clap, and he’s unfazed by the curious glances and annoyed frowns the action brings the two of them. Natori rather oddly feels no compulsion to direct apologetic smiles or other motions to their fellow diners, either.

“Guess we should get a move on.”

“Yes.”

They leave the Finch Kingdom behind, and start not for one of its neighboring kingdoms, but for the aimless, trackless space between them. Unusually, Claudius wordlessly trails after his advisor, trusting wholly in Natori's knowledge in a way he hasn't in quite some time.

“Has your mind changed?” Natori questions once, and even he himself can hear the veiled wish that his companion’s resolution might be faltering, despite his best efforts.

“How do you think Lune’s doing right now? You think he’s noticed we’re gone yet?”

“...I would be quite surprised if he hasn’t yet, yes.”

“It’s too bad, Natori. You know?”

“I know.”

“Just too bad,” Claudius continues to mumble under his breath.

Natori doesn’t answer.

“He’s going to be fine, though, you know? I think we prepared him pretty good, myself.”

“I’ll be keeping my eye on him for you,” is Natori’s subdued, faint reply, and it’s this time that Claudius finds himself unable to form a response, so much so that a thick silence settles heavily between them for a long moment. It isn’t lessened by Natori turning to survey him with measured uncertainty, either, and it seems to Claudius that they spend an inordinate eternity simply sharing this somber gaze, and gradually coming to an unspoken understanding.

Finally, when he can’t stand it anymore, he does look away with a restrained snort. There’s a lump in his throat that’s somewhat easily ignored, more so than the impossible to define tangle of emotions in his chest, at least.

“Still got it, babe. Sure know how to set an old cat’s mind at ease.”

The hesitant but affectionate smile Natori gives him is an oddly exquisite pain, too brittle and too honest; he almost wants to look away.

“Oh, I’m going to miss you,” the other cat murmurs in a manner which seems almost involuntary, and Claudius thinks it sounds something like a lovelorn admission of guilt. Or perhaps he only hopes.

“Well, who wouldn’t?” He declares.

“Who wouldn’t.” Natori echoes obligingly.

They walk for a long time. There comes a time when Claudius gets bored of it and sits, and Natori settles down beside him without comment or complaint.

“It’s a sorry place for a nap, babe,” Claudius remarks.

Natori’s response, Claudius realizes, is to lean into his shoulder with a contented noise, and it’s a show of comfort and affection that does not pass him by. The ex-king decides to return the favor, though he rather quickly finds lying across Natori’s lap a far more inviting position. Natori laughs.

“Intolerable, still, Claudius..?”

He waits a long moment to respond. He’d been bored, restless, not necessarily fatigued, but now he finds his eyelids are inexplicably heavy, and he doesn’t fight the urge to doze a little.

“...nah. I take it back.”

He can hear the fondness in Natori’s voice when he eventually replies. “Well. I’m always pleased to meet your expectations.”

It’s this muted emotion which stirs Claudius to let go of the remorse he’s been holding on to since they left. Since before they left. Perhaps he’s held it since they first met, humiliating wrong assumption regarding the cat’s position and all. Love at first sight. It’s a terribly impractical thing, but he’s nothing if he is not ruled by that kind of passion and impulsivity.

“I should have done it, babe. You know? When I first had the thought, when I first felt it, maybe even way back when Sephie left— I should have set you up beside me with a crown, too. Made it official and everything. Bet no one would have objected.” Or, more accurately, had they objected, they’d have most likely been in for a very long drop.

The faltering quirk to Natori’s muzzle makes his smile appear particularly rueful. “I’ve never wanted a crown of my own, Claudius.” Even in times long past when he’d been blessed with one in response to faint acquiescence alone.

“But you would have gone along with it anyway, wouldn’t you? If I had asked you to?”

The permissive (if inextricably reluctant) hum Natori uses to agree with him feels strangely comforting. Familiar. Claudius closes his eyes again.

“I would have,” Natori eventually murmurs. “If you had asked me to. But I was always most content where I was, ha. So, tell yourself nothing was wasted.”

“I’ll do that.”

It isn’t the admission of reciprocated sentiment he’d hoped for, and it stings, but he supposes it will do at the end of the world. When he leaves, he contents himself with a brushed kiss atop the head and the barest, lingering touch of their entwined paws.

Natori returns to the Carp Kingdom alone.

[nandoor]

(so i may have went & wrote a short lil scene set after 2x05 / colin’s promotion where nandor actually apologizes to nadja for, y’know, burning her village down...)

...

Nandor had always enjoyed Nadja’s company—and, even now, despite the wedge that he had inadvertently pushed between them, he could not deny that Nadja was dear to him and had been one of his only friends for nearly a century now. He had originally gotten along with Nadja before warming up to Laszlo, her fun, easygoing nature and charisma tethering Nandor to her long before he even realized that he saw her as a genuine friend. Unlike with most vampires he encountered (though he was loathe to admit it), there had rarely been an awkward moment between them—very little fazed Nadja and for that, he was grateful.

She took each of his eccentricities in stride, even encouraging some of his more newfound interests. A passion for taxidermy, for instance, was something Nadja and Laszlo shared with him—his boar, Barry, had been a one-off acquisition when he had taken it from a victim’s home, unable to part with the smiling beast and its ivory tusks. When he finally got around to displaying it, he was surprised to see that Nadja, inspired by him, had taken the initiative to move her own taxidermy animals from storage and placed them in her bedroom, enshrining them in glass as if she were making a museum of sorts. Later, at Nadja’s behest, he too added to the décor of the shared living places within the house, his other favorite contribution being a grizzly bear that resided near the fireplace in the music room.

In short, Nadja cared about him—even at his worst, when he knew he was being as petulant as an unruly child, Nadja was there to be a voice of reason. She never lied to him, her blunt honesty a refreshing change from his time as a warlord, where honey dripped from everyone’s lips and no one, not even his own flesh and blood, were brave enough to disagree with him, to steer him off the path of destruction he seemed hell-bent on walking until it was too late. Nadja, in her own sharp but well-meaning way, could get him to snap out of any downward, self-destructive spiral with a well-placed kick at his shin or barbed comment that ultimately revealed a genuine truth about himself that he hadn’t realized before. 

She—along with Laszlo, if he were being honest—tethered him to the present when he felt like slipping into the vast ocean of time, his memories as deep and treacherous as a sinkhole.  Loneliness was a dangerous thing for vampires, after all, and while the ache remained, it did lessen when he was around his housemates. And it was hard to feel lonely or out of place when he was sandwiched between the pair, some bawdy comedy playing out on the computer device in his lap, courtesy of Guillermo. 

Perhaps that was why his heart now felt as if it was being skewered on a pike every time she looked at him with a cold, disappointed gaze. Metaphorically, of course, as he had told Guillermo; he’d been stabbed plenty of times on the battlefield before his turning that he knew this pain was different. The cut of a blade was a severe, sharp pain that brought the world into focus, everything just a little too loud and bright for the brief moment before the blood began to pour out. But all nonfatal wounds would eventually heal, scar tissue deadening the nerves there, the pain now a memory made physical, something carried in secret underneath his clothes. 

But this pain? He could not hide it—how much the guilt did eat away at him once he tucked away some of his bravado and pride. Alone in the dark confines of his fur-lined coffin, Nandor had spent the better part of the day wracking his memory, searching through centuries of memory for the mental image of Nadja’s little village, for the yellow flag that was burning in the painting.

He could not find it. And, though he would never admit it to anyone else, he felt a pang of shame at not being able to remember the conquest of Nadja’s village. It was just another pillage, another place he did not bother to learn the name of before it went up in a plume of smoke. At some point in his time as a soldier, the number of dead, the lives destroyed, stopped having a meaning. He killed because he was good at it, because it was what everyone expected of him, because destruction came as naturally to him as breathing.

I’m ruining it, he realized, stepping out of his coffin unaided just after dusk. I could lose Nadja if I don’t do something soon.

When he finds Nadja alone in the fancy room, he immediately goes to her, knowing it was better to act now while he still had the courage to do so. The words tumble out of his mouth in a flood of sincerity as he sat across from her, voice strained with the guilt he could no longer pretend didn’t exist. “Nadja… I’m sorry about what I did to your village. Truly. Is there anything I can do that will make you feel better?”

Perched on one of the armchairs, Nadja raised a brow, placing the book down on the table beside her. She crossed her leg, fingers lacing over her skirts as she tilted her head in thought.

“Well, I’d like if you’d rip your heart out and serve it on a platter. A fancy, golden platter. None of that crock you’d display at a garage sale.”

“…I’m not sure I can do that,” Nandor eventually replied, gaze glued to the floor. He didn’t dare look up, not ready to see the disgust in Nadja’s eyes yet again. Surely she hated him. He couldn’t even blame her; it was thanks to his pillaging that her village became a home to inhospitable creatures such as vampires, why Nadja lost her human life to a vampire masquerading as a snake, latching its teeth into the soft flesh of her neck.

Nadja bared her fangs in a pitying sneer, reaching over to cup Nandor’s cheek with a gentleness that confused him. Her touch itself almost startled him—it wasn’t that Nadja didn’t show physical affection, but it was usually much more subdued and quick. A pat on the shoulder, a brief touch of his knee, a playful shove, even a lazy hand trailing through his hair after a night spent inebriated on drug blood. This close, Nandor was forced to look at Nadja’s face, to see the small curl of her lips as she clicked her tongue loudly, thumb stroking the skin just above his cheekbone.

“You stupid little donkey, I was kidding. I forgive you. So stop with the pouty face. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Really? You’re not doing the leg-pulling?” 

Nadja nodded. “Yes. I know you can’t change what happened—I just wanted an apology.”

Nandor brightened instantly. “So we are okay-A again?”

“For now,” Nadja agreed, pulling her hand away. It took a great deal of effort for Nandor to remain seated, the stirrings of loneliness once again dredged up in the face of possibly losing one of his only friends. “Really, Nandor, I was more upset that you hid the truth from me. I thought we all agreed to be honest with each other, even if it may hurt at first.”

“I just didn’t want you to hate me,” Nandor admitted. “I should have burned that painting long ago—but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t know why, but maybe it was because I actually wanted you to find it one day.” 

Nadja chuckled dryly. “How very stereotypically mannish of you. Instead of talking about your feelings, you decided to hide them until they nearly got us killed by Colin Robinson. Next time, just bloody tell me what’s going on in that pink mushy brain of yours so we don’t die… again.”

“Well, when you put it like that it does seem rather foolish.” Nandor replied, grimacing in a way that only the tips of his fangs were visible. 

For a while, the pair lapsed into a companionable silence. A tension Nandor hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his shoulders began to ease away as he leaned back in his chair, sighing.

Nadja pressed a manicured nail to her chin, brows furrowing. “Now that I think about it… even though you did destroy my village, you did this while you were human. And vampire Nandor isn’t the same as human Nandor, is he?”

“That is true,” he replied, hands placed gingerly over his knees as he toyed with the ring on his left thumb. “You could say that I was a different person back then. Almost like I didn’t do it at all!”

Nadja, agile as a viper, swung her leg out to kick Nandor in the shin.“No, that was still definitely you, you silly, cowardly weasel of a vampire! You can’t pawn off your guilt to your human ghost self!”

“Oww! Okay, fair enough. Yeesh,” Nandor admitted, rubbing at his leg with a sour look which quickly morphed into thinly veiled fondness. They would be alright--it would take time and genuine effort on his part, but hopefully he’d regain Nadja’s trust eventually. And I’ve got all the time in the world to wait, he thought to himself. When he smiled warmly at Nadja he was pleased to see her smile back, fangs shining in the glow of the candlelight. 

Unbeknownst to either vampire, Colin Robinson hovered patiently at the door, eyes gleaming blue for a brief moment before returning to their usual color. He gave an unhappy look to the cameras.

“Well, there goes my all-you-can-eat buffet,” he began, shaking his head in disappointment. “But hey, buffets come and go. Vampire roommates, on the other hand, are forever. So I can’t say I’m all that upset—besides, this just gives me more of a reason to make Guillermo listen to my interpretive jazz solos which I’ve recorded on tape for everyone’s auditory pleasure.”

Not even the boom mic operator could resist giving a weary groan at the energy vampire’s words. 

[ikonxmx]

Coke n’ Hennessy Pt. 1 | Jaehyun [M]

Jaehyun spends the night with a beautiful bartender after a really bad break up. Jaehyun x Fem Reader. Inspired by Coke & Henny Pt 1. By Pink Sweat$

Word Count: 4,569 (well damn)

Warnings: Non-Idol AU. Mentions of post-breakup depression. Mentions of unhealthy coping. Mentions of alcohol consumption. Handjob. Fingering. Spanking (light). Dirty talk. Praise. Vulgar language. (Safe 😎) Sexual and suggestive themes throughout.

This is my first post for an NCT member and I’m pretty excited about it. Hopefully, all of you will enjoy it. Also please note, it’s 2 AM in California and I didn't proofread.

Rowdy drunk screeches make up the soundtrack of the night. Jaehyun had begrudgingly agreed to join his friends at the bar for a night of baseball and getting shit faced. Under normal circumstances he would have declined their less than enticing offer, but... he’s desperate. He’d been holed in his tiny one-bedroom apartment for the better part of two months, only emerging from his cave of self-deprivation and pity to obtain food. He was desperate for interaction that wasn’t through the mouthpiece of his headset and didn’t consist of flanking strategies or opponent locations being shouted at volumes so high they were almost inaudible.

The seductive lure of alcohol had also played a part in his agreeance. He hasn’t taken a drink since the night his ex dumped him, choosing to instead utilize games and food as his vices. They worked fine enough, but religiously eating a tub of cheese balls and drinking 2 cans of Red Bull a day combined with only leaving the couch for bathroom breaks and quick trips for more cheese balls had definitely taken a visible toll on his health. He broke out in places he’d never thought getting pimples was possible, but there they were. And now here he is. In a social setting attempting to fight off his post-breakup depression and enjoy life again. A step in the right direction and a step toward the bar.

“Bartender,” he calls raising his hand in an attempt to catch the woman’s attention. Your attention.

It feels awkward, possibly because it’s been so long since he last stepped foot in a bar fully intending to have more than one drink.

You turn toward the sound of a voice and attempt to spot the unfamiliar face. You find him rather quickly, his hand in the air serving as the perfect guide. “There’s 3 ahead of you hun, I’ll be there shortly,” You smile.

Jaehyun nods and watches as you quickly take the orders of two people, create their drinks and accept their payment. You’re quick, and judging by the satisfied looks of the customers, you’re good too.

“What’re you having?” You ask, lifting your eyes from the current cocktail you’re creating to boar into Jaehyun’s.

He swallows thickly. It’s only been a couple of months since the last time he’s had a drink, but he’s suddenly unable to remember the names of the cocktails he loves with you staring at him so intently. He can’t tear his eyes away from your expectant ones. You’ve finished the drink you’d been working on, collected the payment for it, and started preparing the glass for his drink all while never looking away. Your eyes aren’t rushing him, just waiting.

“Y-you choose,” he finally stutters out, afraid that his sudden lapse in memory would mess up the flow you’ve come into.

You nod, “Light or dark?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jaehyun had never really had much of a preference for one over the other. Alcohol was a means to get drunk, which type it is, lacks importance in comparison to the outcome.

He watches as you pull a can of soda from underneath the bar and a bottle from the shelf before mixing them in what looks like equal parts into the glass you’d prepared.

“You starting a tab?” your question as you hand him the drink. He shakes his head and hands you twenty dollars cash. “The drink was only $10. Let me grab your change.”

“Keep the change.” He says quickly before lifting the cup to his lips and taking in a bit through the straw.

“It’s Coke and Hennessy… in case you wanna order another.” You wink and place what would’ve been his change into the bar’s communal tip jar.

“You going to make a move, or just keep being a big tipper for the rest of the night?” Jaehyun’s friend Johnny playfully quips.

Jaehyun had been back to the bar five times in total, three for another drink and twice in between for a glass of water. Each time you had asked if he was ready to start a tab and each time he declined, leaving the change behind as your tip. Even when you had refused to charge him for water, he slipped five dollars into the tip jar and laughed quietly at your perplexed expression.

Jaehyun shrugs at Johnny, unsure of how to answer the question. Your drinks were good, but not ten dollar tip on a ten dollar drink good. He honestly can’t figure out why he keeps going back for more. It’s not like you’ve been giving him some crazy intricate cocktail the entire night, just soda mixed with liquor. It’s so simple. But he finds comfort in it. Or maybe your smile? The way your eyes light up when he tells you to keep the change? He’ll have to get another drink to be sure.

He returns to the bar, empty cup in hand and a broad grin adorning his face. You’re there. Though this time, as the bar has calmed down, you’re not rushing to take the next patron’s order. You’re talking to a man. Another bartender, Jaehyun assumes, the identical aprons would tell as much. Jaehyun waits for the conversation to end, not willing to interrupt. He can’t hear what’s being said, but it’s the first time he hasn't seen you smile the entirety of the night and figures it’s concerning something serious. Business perhaps? The topic’s not important to him, yet he’s still a bit curious. He twiddles his thumbs aimlessly as he waits, looking over the shelves to see the different kinds of alcohol and the random pieces of artwork scattered across the walls. He notices the bar doesn’t necessarily have a clear theme. It’s just dark… with red lights and a few large TV’s covering different sporting events. In fact, it's a bit run down. Why had his friends decided to come here? More baffling, why had you decided to work here?

“Hey,” A voice calls from directly in front of him, pulling Jaehyun from his stationary tour. It’s the male bartender you’d been speaking with. “What can I get you?” His smile is friendly, but not nearly as charming as yours Jaehyun notes disappointedly.

“Ah,” Jaehyun grabs the back of his neck awkwardly. “The um-”

“He’s not ordering anything else,” A voice cuts in from beside him. Jaehyun looks toward the sound and smiles as you come into view.

The male bartender chuckles, “Thought you were leaving.”

“I am,” You answer honestly. “Just taking him with me.”

Jaehyun’s eyes widen. You pull him by the arm toward one of the only empty tables. Neither of you bothers taking a seat opting to just rest your elbows on the high table instead.

“You’ve paid ninety dollars for four drinks and two glasses of water,” You tell him over the roar of cheering in the background.

Jaehyun nods, fully aware of how much money he’s wasted at the bar tonight.

You scoff, “I should’ve asked if you were a lightweight.”

Jaehyun smiles, “I’m not,” You look at him in disbelief. “Really,” He assures you.

You look at his face, trying your best to read him but coming up short. He’s handsome, even with his face flushed red from the alcohol and the three small pimples that had clearly made themselves comfortable on his chin. He’s got these dimples, and they make an appearance with even the slightest change in his expression. They’re an added bonus to his already nice smile, pairing well with his beaming ridiculously straight teeth.

“Are you sure?” You questioned again. Through the night you’d watched him interact with his friends as you would any other customer. As a bartender, you have to know when to cut someone off. You definitely questioned his sobriety level the moment he stuffed a tip into the communal jar for comp water.

“I’m fine,” He laughs, “A little buzzed at best. I honestly don’t think you put enough Hennessy in my coca-cola.”

It’s your turn to laugh, “I was worried about making sure there was enough coca-cola in your Hennessy.” You’d been more than generous with his drinks, most bartenders are for the big tippers.

The conversation dies a bit as you both silently shift your focus to the basketball game. Jaehyun undoubtedly prefers the sound of your voice over that of the announcers and turns back to you. It’s his turn to try and read you. And as expected he can’t. Why had you pulled him away from the bar? The other bartender more than likely would have informed him that shifts switched and he would’ve ordered his final drink. Did you notice his interest? Did you take an interest yourself? These questions and more swirled through Jaehyun’s head as he watched you watch the game. Your lips move but Jaehyun wasn’t listening.

“Sorry, what?” He leans in closer so that you don’t have to strain.

You move your lips to his ear, “Tell me your name.”

“Jaehyun,” he smiles. With all his excitement of finally getting to say more than four words to you, he’d almost forgotten you didn’t know each other's names. He asks you the same question in return and you answer with a smile.

“Wanna get out of here, Jaehyun?” Your smirk

That smirk could mean a million things. It easily pushes a hundred different scenarios into Jaehyun’s mind, and suddenly the flush on his face isn’t just because of the alcohol.

“And go where?” He asks shyly.

“The beach.”

Jaehyun’s car is nice. It’s decently clean inside and out, and it’s a newer model. 2018 at least. He doesn’t say anything when you request the keys. He’s aware that it's much safer for you to drive since you haven’t had anything to drink. Though he stands by the earlier attestation of his sobriety, he wouldn’t want to put anyone in danger should he be misgauging it.

The drive to the beach is 45 minutes long, but it feels like it passes in seconds. You and Jaehyun speak about everything from pets to the ice wall you both (jokingly) agree is totally being guarded by NASA storm troopers while a playlist of mellow pop songs plays in the background. It’s nice. Jaehyun hasn’t had a conversation so random yet pleasant in a really long time. You make him feel comfortable. Which is weird since he’s only known you for a few short hours. There’s something about your presence he finds comforting. He was able to feel it at the bar as well. Though you made him slightly nervous, you also eased those nerves.

You make it to the beach in one piece. Jaehyun has a wide grin on his face as he watches you park the car where the sand meets the land. “All good?” You question as you turn to him. Upon seeing his face you can’t help but mirror his smile. Jaehyun nods, assuring he’s fine and shifts around in the passenger seat. The two of you sit there for a while, the mellow pop hits lulling in the back finally being heard in the new silence.

“Why coke and Hennessy,” Jaehyun breaks the silence quickly, already missing the sound of your voice. He’d also been curious for a while. What about him made you choose that drink of all things?

“Honestly,” you begin, a small smile on your face. “It was the first thing to come to mind.” You admit. There’d been no real reason. He didn’t particularly strike you as someone who even likes dark alcohol. But you’d burnt out on making AMF’s pretty early, and cranberry juice was too far away for a Cranberry Vodka. The simple mix was the closest thing available and your line was beginning to pile up.

“I like the honesty,” He laughs. “And I liked the drink.”

“You kept coming back for the drink?” You smirk.

He shakes his head chucking softly, “If I was only going back for the drink I wouldn’t be here with you right now.”

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely.”

It goes quiet again for a short period of time. You speak up before Jaehyun can this time. “Should we take a walk on the beach?”

“If I can hold your hand…”

You laugh, “You can hold my hand.”

“Can I kiss you?” Jaehyun asks boldly.

You’re taken aback by the request. Sure he had hinted toward his attraction to you throughout the night, but nothing this blatant.

He chuckles at your expression and heats up in embarrassment. “Was that too forward?”

“No,” You admit quickly. It’s your turn to be embarrassed. You answered the question just a little too fast. “It wasn’t, you just… caught me a bit off guard.”

Jaehyun removes his seat belt and leans over the center console. You do the same and laugh as you come face to face with his cheeky grin.

“So can I kiss you?” Jaehyun asks again.

You reach a hand up the back of his neck and gently caress his cheek with your thumb. “No, but you can kiss me back.”

It’s so light that Jaehyun is confused about whether you’ve really kissed him or not. It takes a while for his brain to finally register the light pressure against his lips as yours. He returns the kiss, hands reaching up toward the back of your neck and pulling you closer. Just like that he’s leading the kiss. There’s a heavier pressure and slight neediness to it. Jaehyun hadn’t realized just how much he wanted to kiss you until now. Now that he is actually doing it, and you’re sighing against his lips, Jaehyun feels like a starved man finally getting food. He never wants this to end. He feels your lips part slightly and wastes no time experimentally dipping his tongue between them.

You give a small kitten lick of your own, interested in seeing just how this kiss will pan out. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest as you wait on Jaehyun’s next move. Another swipe of his tongue. You impatiently take the reigns, pulling him closer and pushing past his lips. Your tongues meet and Jaehyun moans. You can’t help the small smile that forms.

Jaehyun moves his free hand toward your waist, desperate for more. More of anything. He wants to feel you… hear you. Every small whimper or sigh you release hits his ears like the opening chords to his favorite song. He can’t help but feel excited. Jaehyun shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat as his ‘excitement’ pushes against the confines of his jeans. There’s no subtly to it, he couldn’t be subtle if he tried right now. All he can hope is that you’re not offended by his body’s reaction.

You notice the second time he shifts and quickly reach your hand to the noticeable outline, eager to hear what sound he’ll make this time. You’re not disappointed. Your ears are met with a rather loud groan. You pull away to watch his face as you massage him over his jeans. It doesn’t take long for his skin to flush an even prettier shade of pink and his breathing to labor.

“The windows are going to fog,” You tease as you change your position to get a better grip. 

Jaehyun throws his head back completely uncaring. He rushes his own hand down to his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them as quickly as he can. He grunts out his pleasure when your hand comes in contact with his hardened member over his boxer briefs. It’s one less layer between you, but it’s still not close enough. It still feels like he needs more. He reaches over, returning his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and crushing his lips to yours.  His hips thrust into your palm, chasing the pleasure it provides.

You move your hand past his boxers and grip his uncovered hot flesh. He pulls away from your mouth with a loud moan.

“Fuck.” he pants against your lips.

“Feel good?” You tease as you speed up your fist.

“So fucking good,”

Every melodious moan, groan and sigh he releases heads directly to your core. Your need grows, starting in the pit of your stomach and pooling down until it reaches your damp underwear. “Jaehyun,” you whine his name in hopes of catching his attention but he’s far too enthralled in his own pleasure to notice. You whine louder, slowing your hand to a near stop simultaneously. Jaehyun’s head whips toward you and he lets out a whine of his own, his hips bucking up to chase the friction he’s losing.

“Please don’t stop,” He begs near tears.

You almost feel bad, but the ache between your thighs his whine causes pushes any sympathy you feel away.

“Touch me,” You demand, lifting up so you’re on your knees, leaning over the center console. 

Jaehyun moans. Is this a dream? He’s wanted to touch you all night, but even with your hand down his pants, he didn’t have the confidence to reciprocate. Reaching a hand around he begins to run his fingers over your jean covered center. It’s hot to the touch and Jaehyun can feel your sex twitching with need. He gradually increases the pressure as he continues watching in awe as your hips push back to meet his fingers, grinding against the air and his digits.

He pulls his hand back, sprawling his palm across your ass and massaging the flesh before quickly lifting it and bringing it down. He isn’t sure how you’ll react to the blow but has high hopes you’ll be in agreeance. His worried nerves are eased upon hearing you release a deep sigh. So he continues, striking your ass again... And then again.

“You’re so wet,” He voices his observance, returning his fingers to your covered core. You’ve dampened your jeans, a clear sign of your arousal making an appearance through the thick material. “Want to feel you.”

You lift yourself up as much as you can, the hand on his dick abandoning its post in favor of your new mission. Undressing your lower half. You clumsily remove your shoes, socks, and jeans, and toss them to the back seat uncaringly. Jaehyun reaches over after your jeans have been removed and returns his hand to your core, the soaked material of your underwear immediately coating his fingers.

“So wet,” He sighs, reaching up and reconnecting your lips.

You kiss him back with fervor. His middle and ring fingers gracefully switch between sweeping through your covered folds and rubbing at your sensitive clit. You moan, desperate for more but much too embarrassed to beg.

Jaehyun isn’t one for begging, though he’s sure the please would sound gorgeous leaving your lips, he feels your body language is loud enough. You haven’t stopped moaning, your hips haven’t stopped moving, and you’ve taken a strong fondness to nibbling his bottom lip. Feeling the boldest he’s felt tonight, he wordlessly shifts the fabric of your panties to the side and slides a single digit into your heat.

“Shit,” He curses feeling a harsher bite.

“I’m sorry,” You moan pulling away, panting slightly. “Caught me off guard.”

He says nothing, instead opting to watch your face as his middle finger glides in and out of your sopping sex.

“I can’t believe how wet you are,” He admits.

You almost go to hide your face in embarrassment, but the intrusion of a second finger halts your actions. The pleasant stretch has you moaning out in bliss and pushing back to chase the fingers as they retract. 

Jaehyun can feel your sex fluttering around his fingers as they enter you. It’s clear to him you’re enjoying yourself, the arousal coating his fingers serving as all the proof he needs. But, he can’t help but feel greedy for more. His fingers speed up and twist to reach every angle inside of your sopping center as he searches for the spongy flesh of your g-spot. You let him know as soon as he’s found it, doubling over and panting out a continuous mix of ‘right there' and ‘don’t stop’. It’s a bit awkward but he tries his best to keep the angle, watching you intently as he does. Your face is contorted in pleasure, lips parted, eyebrows knit, eyes sealed; you’re a complete masterpiece to Jaehyun. He’s not sure how you can get anymore more beautiful.

“I’m gonna cum,” You admit, grabbing at his thigh with one hand to anchor yourself. With your other hand, you reach back to your front and rub harsh circles against your clit. Your high hits suddenly and Jaehyun works you through it, never letting up his pace or changing from the spot he’s found until he’s sure you’ve finished. The hand you had used to help bring yourself to completion, swings up to join your other on Jaehyun’s thigh. Your eyes open, the blissful hayes of your orgasm slowly subsiding.

“So fucking sexy,” Jaehyun whines, shifting in his seat, his long-neglected erection straining harshly against the fabric of his underwear.

“Please tell me you have a condom,” You sigh. He reaches forward and pulls the lever to open his glove box. Sat neatly inside is an unopened pack of condoms. Your next sigh is one of relief. You swipe the condoms and reclose the compartment quickly. “Push the seat all the way back.” You instruct.

Jaehyun listens quickly, pulling the switch to send the seat back and catching you when you nearly lose your balance. He watches as you almost comically climb over the console and take a seat on his thigh. You struggle with the condom for a while before Jaehyun impatient takes the rubber from your hand and opens it himself.

You watch as he removes his dick from the confines of his boxer briefs and slowly rolls the condom down his erect length. He pumps himself a few times once the condom is on, making sure it’s on the right way and that friction won’t cause any air pockets to form. Feeling confident enough with his application, you grip his wrist and remove his hand. A swing of your leg and you’re straddling him, your heated and soaking center just above this throbbing cock.

All he needs to do is line up your center with his member and slide into your sex, everything he desires at this moment is within grasp, but he can’t bring himself to make the move. Everything tonight has been your call, and for some reason, Jaehyun likes it that way. You chose his drink, you chose to come to the beach, you had him get you off first… Why end that now? He moves a hand to your wait in preparation but doesn’t make another move. His eyes are glued to where you two sexes meet, watching as your juices glisten over your folds and his dick jumps in anticipation.

You place a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself and use the other hand to reach for his cock. A small drop in your hips sends his length sliding against your folds. You watch with a small smile as Jaehyun furrows his eyebrows. Another more precise drop has his tip entering your heat. He sighs a bit and tightens his grip on your waist. You continue, drop after drop, easing his thick length into you bit by bit.

Jaehyun’s toes curl as you lift yourself up, your walls squeezing him so tightly he feels like he could cum any minute. He wants so badly for this experience to last. There's an amazingly beautiful woman sat on top of his dick, moaning as she takes what she can, and hissing as she tries to take more.

“Fuck,” You curse sliding yourself down again. “You’re so fucking big.”

“Your pussy is so wet,” Jaehyun moans. “Take some more, I know you can.”

You lift yourself up and drop again in an attempt to take more, but the stretch almost seems too much.

“Want my help?”

You nod, slightly exhausted from your earlier orgasm and exerting so much energy trying to fuck in such a tight space.

Jaehyun keeps his hold on your hips firm and raises his own up. He listens to every whine you let out as he slides more and more of himself into your sex, grunting out his own pleasure when he finally bottoms out inside you. He becomes less gentle. You feel too good to be gentle. As much as his mind yells at him to savor the moment and take things slow, his body is begging him to fuck you senseless.

“You feel so good,” He whines, tensing up at the feel of his impending end. He can’t cum yet. He’s just getting started. Jaehyun grounds his feet into the floor below him and picks up the pace.

“Oh shit,” You moan feeling him touch areas inside you you’re pretty sure no other man has. He feels amazing, the original sting of him stretching you has started to subside and is being replaced by insurmountable amounts of pleasure. Somehow your body is still greedy, begging for more. Although you’ve cum once already, it’s begging you for another. “You like the way my pussy feels?” You pant into his ear.

“Fuck yeah, so fucking wet,” He all but growls. Confidence being spurred by your dirty words, he picks up his pace again. “Your pussy’s gonna make me cum.”

“I wanna come on your cock,” You moan into his ear.

“Fuck,”

Jaehyun’s hips stutter at your words, the rhythm he’s come into suddenly getting lost.

“You want me to?” You question.

“Of course I do.”

You wordlessly bring his hand in between the two of you. He gets the hint and begins sloppily rubbing circles against your clit. You moan into his ear, pitch increasing bit by bit as you feel another climax approaching. 

Jaehyun’s entire body is tense as he fights off the need to cum. He wants to feel your walls flutter around his cock the same way they did his fingers earlier. He wants you to cum first.

“Shit, Jaehyun. Fuck me harder,” You instruct. Jaehyun obeys rutting up into your sex with a fervor you’d yet to see from him tonight. “Oh fuck, just like that. I’m cumming!”

You walls clench and release around his length. The tension in Jaehyun’s body releases as he lets himself succumb to his own climax. He stills deep inside of you, filling the condom to the brim with his seed. Jaehyun can’t remember the last time he’s cum so hard. His hips twitch to prolong the pleasure, more cum leaving his exhausted body.

He collapses in the seat, chest rising and falling rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath. You’re doing the same, but can’t help but smile when you see his blissfully fucked out expression. You chuckle.

Jaehyun looks up at you, his cheeks turning that cute shade of pink again.

“Don’t get all shy now. Not when your dick is still inside me,” You tease.

“I don’t want to take it out,” Jaehyun admits with a laugh.

You lean down and peck his lips before raising yourself from his lap. He mock frowns.

“Think I should be driving you home now,” You say as you reach for your underwear in the backseat.

He grabs your hand, effectively stopping your movement and pulling your full attention to him.

“If you stay the night…”

END

I really hope you guys enjoyed, it took... so long. But, I feel way better now that it’s done! my first fic for an NCT member!! Time for some drabbles.

[discopiratetanis]

The words you want to hear [soulmates au]

Chapter 1 |  (ao3) 

Okay, fine, it took longer than I expected to write this chapter (I’ve been sick, and social life doesn’t wait for you). I know it was going to be three chapters at first because I had a clear idea in my head and thought that was all I needed, but no! It turns out that it wasn’t.

I have divided what was going to be chapter two into two parts, and probably, if the same happens with chapter four, there will be a fifth (with a lot of emotional content, I promise).

So! I hope you like it!

(I’m tagging everyone who was left wanting more with the previous chapter, if someone else wants to keep track I can tag them in the next one too! If the tags don't work is tumblr fault)

@little-piece-of-tamlin​

 @imweakmylove​ 

@skywing4797​ 

@rhodey-rhudert-rhodes-main​

Lettenhove Fortress was a square mass of grey stone, with thick walls and high towers, located at the top of a bare hill next to a mountain range covered with wild forest. A village surrounded the hill, with the houses scattered along its slopes. A fast bubbly river flowed and spurted from the mountains and surrounded the last houses of the town, forming a natural barrier against attackers. A wall, as huge as the walls of the fortress, surrounded the village on the side that the river did not protect.

Jaskier stopped his horse, a black stallion with white legs, as soon as he reached the end of the bridge that connected the two banks of the river. Geralt did the same. A barbican, guarded by two soldiers with the Lettenhove coat of arms, were watching the only passage to the village and the castle. The soldiers looked at them with suspicion and reticence, especially at Geralt. The witcher noticed that they frowned at the sight of the medallion. He said nothing, letting Jaskier step forward to them.

“A crown per person and per horse,” the soldier stationed on the right side said, as soon as Jaskier’s steed took a step.

Jaskier clicked his tongue.

“I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, and I will not pay to enter in my own house, nor will pay my companion. Let us pass,”

The guards looked at each other before they looked back at Jaskier. The soldier on the right scoffed.

“If you were truly the son of the viscount, then you would know that you are the new viscount. Or you should know,”

Geralt saw out of the corner of his eye how the soldier on the left was tensing up, ready to attack just in case… He could smell his distrust, even a little nervousness (because of him, not Jaskier) but he remained calm. He didn’t need more trouble, not when people were willing to find problems out of nowhere.

“I know my father is dead, soldier,” Jaskier hissed, and he really sounded like a really pissed off nobleman. “Let us pass or you will face the consequences,”

The right guardsman frowned a little more, threw a quick glance at his companion, who shrugged with a huff, and then grunted. He extended a hand to Jaskier.

“Well, if you insist… Documentation, please,” 

Jaskier inhaled deeply (and Geralt knew he was tired of this shit already) and reached into his bag. He took out a small scroll of parchment which he offered to the guard. The soldier spread it without ceremony, and read it in silence. With every word he read his expression changed from weariness and mockery to surprise and panic. He looked up from the scroll, rolled it up quickly, and returned it to Jaskier. 

“My apologies my lord, please, come in,”

Jaskier huffed, taking the scroll and put it back in the bag. Then, without words or acknowledging the soldier’s apology, he spurred the horse on and marched forward. Geralt sighed and followed him, knowing that the guards were looking at him much more boldly and curiously than before.

They entered the town.

The main street was full of holes and mud puddles. It connected the entrance of the bridge with the marketplace and the castle. They rode at a slow pace. Busy villagers were walking around, leading mules or carts with sacks or hay bales. Hens and gooses were fluttering or pecking everywhere, groups of children were running through the alleys or playing with rag balls. Somewhere a pig shrieked. Geralt thought, somehow, that all of that reminded him of Blaviken. He looked at Jaskier, who was serious, glassy-eyed.

“So, will there be consequences?” he asked, casual.

Jaskier let out a grunt. He was becoming a very good Geralt imitator, groaning in response to everything, silent, moody, unwilling to explain anything. He had been like that for two weeks since Jaskier got the letter from his family and hired Geralt to kill a monster without any more details. Two weeks of tense, hard travel to Lettenhove. Geralt was almost starting to resent his own shortcomings.

“Of course not,” Jaskier replied. “I’ve been away for years, I understand I wasn’t recognized,“

“Hm,”

Geralt was about to ask if he was okay, but he knew he wasn’t. When someone as cheerful and optimistic as Jaskier went grey and empty that way there was no point in ask if he was okay. How could he be? Geralt had realized during that time how much he hated seeing Jaskier like that. They had been traveling together for years, with some time lapses in which each one had gone on their own way but–

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbled. He had his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m dragging you to all this mess,”

Geralt shook his head weakly.

“Well, no offense, but I’ve been worse,” he said, trying to liven things up. “At least I know you won’t try to con me,”

“Of course not!” Jaskier exclaimed, clearly repulsed by that idea. Then he added with a whisper: “How could I do that…”

Geralt curved a tiny smile without looking at him. Jaskier was probably going to be the best contractor in his entire career, both past and future, as a witcher. He wouldn’t try to trick him, bargain with him, or hinder him. He would accept whatever conditions Geralt asked, he would accept any price. He was sure of it. So thinking about what price to ask him was difficult. Jaskier was his friend, not just any client. And he had just lost his father.

And that meant a lot of things.

“I haven’t even been able to tell you what monster you have to kill,” Jaskier kept saying, a little bit bitter. 

“That’s not your fault, your letter doesn’t say it,”

“But you could have prepared yourself during these weeks, I don’t like to think it’s been time wasted,”

“Trust me, it hasn’t been,”

Maybe Geralt didn’t know what kind of beast he had to hunt for Jaskier, but he remembered each and every day of those two weeks when he had had to stop Jaskier from turning into another beast, a wounded one who was trying to ease the pain of mourning with alcohol and tavern fights. For him, it hadn’t been time wasted.

Never would be.

They went through the second barbican, the direct access to the castle, without stopping or being stopped. Groups of residents were entering and leaving the fortress, in their daily hustle and bustle unaware of the tragedy that had shaken the viscount’s family. As if that wouldn’t alter their lives in any way. Once they were in the bailey, Jaskier looked up at the castle keep, where the flag with the Lettenhove emblem was waving. 

“Young lord?”

Jaskier blinked and looked down. A man in his early fifties had approached them. He had short, brown hair with gray streaks, a square jaw covered with a slight beard, hard, tough features, tanned skin, dark and wise eyes. He was wearing, still, the uniform of the captain of the guard. Jaskier got off his horse, a stable boy grabbed the reins as soon as he did, and took a deep breath.

“Captain Fryderyk,” he said, tense. 

He saw out of the corner of his eye how Geralt also dismounted Roach and gave, reluctantly, very reluctantly, her reins to another stable boy. Around them, servants, locals, and even some of the castle guards were watching their arrival with interest. They looked at Geralt, perhaps, with a little fear. But no one seemed really disturbed.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lord,” His voice was severe but soft, like when Jaskier was still a little child running along the top of the walls, playing at escaping from the servants and guards who were trying to catch him and Fryderyk, a young aspiring castle warden, was the only capable of doing it. 

Jaskier nodded.

“Thank you,”

“I see that you have brought a witcher,”

“Yes,” Jaskier looked at Geralt, who was standing at his side now. “He is–”

“I know who he is,” The captain interrupted, and his eyes glanced at the medallion for a second. “The White Wolf, I have heard the songs,” Then he smiled, barely, but smiled, and turned around. “Jarek!” he called with a strong voice, an order. 

A guard in his thirties who had followed his captain near Jaskier and Geralt stepped forward.

“Sir!”

“Find Lucjan. Have him show the witcher his new quarters,”

“Yes, sir!”

“As a guest of honor,”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier, Jarek, threw an amazed fearless glance at Geralt. Geralt looked back at him, unamused. Jaskier snorted, smiling. Then Geralt looked at Jaskier. His inner right forearm itched. Jaskier gave him a small sad smile and followed captain Fryderyk to the keep. Geralt saw him disappear behind the main gates and breathed a long sigh. Jarek cleared his throat.

“Shall we?”

Geralt grunted and follow his own guard. They went to another gate, located on the right side of the keep, and entered as if Geralt had been living there all his life.

“So, are they true?” Jarek asked.

“What?” Geralt retorted with another question.

They walked through a long corridor. 

“The things the songs tell about you,”

Geralt sighed, resigned. 

"Some of them,”

They entered a kitchen, a large central kitchen, where the cooks, kitchen helpers, and other servants were busy finishing dinner. Jarek looked around and then raised his voice to make himself heard:

“Eh, does anyone know where is Lucjan?!”

A maid, a young girl who was peeling potatoes in a corner, exclaimed in response:

“In the great hall!”

“Thanks, Myra!”

The guard nodded to Geralt and continued to walk across the room to another corridor. The witcher thought about how strangely peaceful life seemed a castle life and how chaotic it really was. He grunted again, feeling tired.

“Jarek,” he called.

“Yes?”

“What do you know about the viscount’s death?”

Jarek didn’t answer right away. A slightly heavy silence, only broken by the noise of the fortress vitality, hovered around them. Until the soldier spoke, much less cheerfully than before.

“Not much, I’m afraid, mostly rumors,” he exhaled a deep sigh, and then, slowly, stopped his walk in the middle of the corridor. “It was almost three months ago, the viscount went to the nearby mountains to hunt with some of his knights, the usual,”

Geralt approached him until they were face to face. He smelled sadness, impotence, confusion. Jarek’s expression was grey, like Jaskier’s.

“And?” he encouraged, softly. 

The guard bit his lips, frowning, trying to…

 “It usually takes them a week to go there, hunt what they want and return to the castle. So a week went by, and when they didn’t come back the captain wanted to go look for them, just in case something had happened,” Jarek frowned a little more. “But the viscountess told him to not worry too much because sometimes they took a little longer to return,”

Geralt made a slight grimace and clicked his tongue. He was about to ask him how long it was before someone came looking for them when Jarek spoke again.

“And then, on the tenth day, our lady fell to her knees with a piercing cry and spat out black blood,”

Geralt arched his eyebrows.

“Soulrotting?”

He saw Jarek holding his breath at the mention of that word. Then the guard nodded silently. Geralt grunted. 

“That was how we knew the viscount was dead. The captain commanded some of his men to the mountains and searched for survivors and the body of our Lord, but they found nothing except the half-devoured corpse of one of the knights,”

“I see,” Geralt murmured. 

That didn’t tell him much, but it was something. It must be the same that the letter said. He still needed to find out how the monster, if it was a monster at all and not a wolf pack or bears, had devoured that man. He needed to go there, to those mountains, to look for anything that might tell him what he was up against.

He knew that Jaskier would want to go with him.

And they still hadn’t talked about their previous fight on that subject.

Jarek said no more and continued to lead Geralt to the great hall where they found Lucjan, who turned out to be the castle’s butler, a slim and graceful man with black hair and blue eyes. He placed Geralt in a room on the east side of the tower, which served as a room for distinguished guests because visitors usually slept in the great hall with the servants, the knights, and the dogs. Lucjan remarked casually that the rooms of the viscountess and the soon-to-be new viscount were on the west side. 

Geralt thanked him and Jarek for their help and was left alone. He left his bag and his swords on a table against the wall, and sat up in the bed heavily, thinking, calculating. Three months was a long time, and whatever had attacked Jaskier’s father and his men might not be in the same area of the forest anymore. The trail must have been erased and more than faded. If no one else had been attacked over there, or near Lettenhove itself, it would be difficult to find the monster. The hunt could last a long time, even if he was lucky.

But at least he will have food, drink and a roof over his head, and possibly all the time he needed to find and kill that monster.  

He sighed and started to take off his armor, leaving only his shirt, pants, and boots. He took off his gloves too, tossing them on the table, and lay down on the bed.  He closed his eyes, just for a moment, feeling again that little tingle on his forearm. He groaned, weakly, and opened his eyes. 

Then, hesitant, rolled up his right sleeve.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest before seeing her?”

“No, no… I’m okay, I need it… I need to see her,”

It had been years since Jaskier had walked those halls, those stone rooms. He had almost forgotten how trapped he had felt in there, the weight of the title hanging over his head. Now that his father had died, that weight had fallen and was crushing him everywhere. It was only a matter of time, once the matter of the monster that had killed the viscount had been resolved before someone would bring up the subject of the succession.

Jaskier didn’t want to think about that.

Not yet.

“I know she must be having a hard time, but what about you?” Jaskier asked Fryderyk as they headed for the viscountess’ rooms.

The captain had grimaced and sipped his nose a little before taking the back of his hand to it, wiping himself… When he put his hand down, Jaskier saw black blood on the glove.

“I can manage, we have called a sorceress, she has given us a potion to ease the effects of the rot,” he explained in a rough voice. “Anyway, in your mother’s case it’s worse, she’s been in bed since your father’s death,”

“Right…”

“Don’t worry about me, young lord, I’ll survive,” Fryderyk gave Jaskier a sad smile. “He and I weren’t completely bounded, only I have had his words,”

“But now you’ll never know if he could ever have had yours,” Jaskier whispered, also sad, feeling his left forearm itching. He rubbed it, swallowing. “How is it? Being a one-side soulmate?”

The captain sighed. His voice was distant and small as he talked.

“It’s hard, very hard, and lonely. You wait and hope that someday the other person will show you his soulmark, and then you have to see how they find their soulmate, but it’s not you, it’s someone else. And you wonder if there’s something wrong, if you’ve done something wrong, if you’re… broken, ”

Jaskier blinked, feeling his eyes getting wet and his face burning.

“You are not broken, Fryderyk,” he murmured.

“I know I’m not, but sometimes you wonder,”

There was an uncomfortable, dense silence. Jaskier bit his lips. In the distance a dog barked, followed by other dogs that must have run in the ward. The beat of the forge, the stables, the march of the guards, the bells, all were sounds of his childhood. Fryderyk looked at him but said nothing.

When they reached the viscountess’ quarters, Fryderyk stopped and stepped aside. Before Jaskier entered, he smiled weakly at him.

“Welcome home, Julian,”

Jaskier felt his fingers tremble. He managed to smile back.

“Thank you, Ryk,” he whispered.

Fryderyk squeezed his shoulder. Then Jaskier knocked on the door. On the other side a serene, melodic, female voice indicated that he could come in. He turned the knob. He entered. The room was big, warm and cozy, just as he remembered it. The walls were covered with tapestries illustrating feats of the past, the floor was covered with a thick carpet of bear fur. The fireplace at one end of the room crackled brightly with orange sparks. The desk where his mother wrote her letters was… immaculate. And on the other side of the chimney was the bed, the big double bed where his parents had fathered him, and where now his mother lay, sick with soulrotting. The viscountess wasn’t alone. An elderly maid was standing by the bed and wiping away the sweat and blood of her Lady, who was mumbling unrelated and delirious words.

And just a little further on, next to a little table with bottles filled with liquids of various colors, there was a young woman, beautiful, elegant, with long, wavy, black hair, who was wearing a white dress that shone with tiny stars as she moved. When Jaskier closed the door and the woman turned around, he could see that her eyes were violet. The woman gave him a polite smile, while she was mixing two of the liquids on a bowl.

“You must be Julian,” she said, calm. 

“And you must be the sorceress,” Jaskier mumbled, approaching her and the bed.

“Yennefer,”

Jaskier watched as she took a clean cloth and soak it with the solution she had mixed in the bowl, then folded it and placed it on the viscountess’s forehead. Instantly, the woman stopped shivering and babbling and fell into a quiet state of sleep. She also stopped sweating, and bleeding from her nose. Yennefer sighed. The maid straightened, caressing her Lady’s hair, gently. Jaskier swallowed, pressing his lips in a thin line.

“She will sleep painlessly all night, and all the next morning until noon. I will retire until then, I need to keep trying more formulas.”

Yennefer began to collect their jars, putting them in a wooden box carved with geometric patterns. Jaskier watched his mother in silence, while the maid cupped the pillows and placed the blankets better. She was older than he remembered, of course, her brown hair had a much more grey than the last time he had seen her, she had more wrinkles everywhere. But she looked older, really older, because of the sickness, he knew that.

“My young lord?” Yennefer called. Jaskier looked at her. She had her box, closed, in her arms. The bowl was still on the table. “Would you accompany me?”

Jaskier threw a glance at his mother one more time, feeling his own heartbeat heavy in his chest, and then left the room followed by the sorceress. Outside, Fryderyk was gone. Yennefer began to walk down the hall, heading east side of the keep. He would have liked to be able to talk to his mother, let her know he was there, but…

“Whatever they promise you,” Jaskier said a moment after. “If you can save her life, I’ll pay whatever you want,”

Yennefer curved a sad and tiny smile.

“What I want, my lord, it’s something you can’t pay with money, but I appreciate the offer,” she replied, then he let out a deep breath. “I’m not entirely sure if I can…The corruption is advanced but I will keep her alive as long as I can,”

Jaskier bit his lower lip.

“How much time?” he asked, in a mutter.

Yennefer made a grimace, a disappointed, perhaps with herself, one.

“I don’t know,” she said, also with a whisper. “I’m sorry,”

 Jaskier slightly shook his head.

“It’s alright, it’s not your fault,” he asserted. “But thank you,”

Yennefer nodded. They walked then in silence until they reach the east side of the keep and the guest’s quarters. Jaskier knew that one of those rooms has to be Geralt’s but he felt suddenly too tired to talk to him about anything right now. He thought about his soulmark, his words. He had been thinking about it for those two weeks, when he had been sober enough to think. He knew he should tell him, but at the same time he knew the witcher, always ready to renegade Destiny and everything that binds him to other people, would not give it a second thought at best. At worst, he would walk away from Jaskier, to protect himself from feelings and emotions, or to protect Jaskier, or whatever Geralt might think of as an excuse. And Jaskier was also always willing to think the worst about his relationship with Geralt. Geralt, who had cost him gods and help to trust him, who had taken eons to pronounce the word friend even when he had treated him as one for years.

“You should tell him,” Yennefer said then, making the bard lose his train of thoughts.

“What?” Jaskier looked at her, confused.

“About your soulmark, you should tell him,” 

Jaskier blinked.

“How do you know?”

Yennefer huffed a smirk, a proud smirk.

“Your thoughts are strong, and I can read them easily without having to look at you. I’ve seen him too, just like you do. He is very handsome,“ she said, playful.

Jaskier cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks burning and his hands sweating.

“He’s not only handsome, he's…” he hesitated, not knowing what words use. He thought about the banquet at Cintra, about Geralt telling him that he had no words for anyone, about the time when Geralt had said that he didn’t need anyone and didn’t want to be needed. He frowned, sighing. “It’s complicated,”

“Ah, I see, a witcher,”

“Yes,”

“So you are a one-side soulmate,”

Jaskier wet his lips and felt, again, tired. A weak beat had started to hammering his temples and forehead. One-side soulmate. He remembered Fryderyk and his eternal longing for the viscount, present throughout all his childhood. Even as a child he had realized that the patience and kindness his father had always had with the captain of the guard was not common. 

“It seems that way,” he said, in a hollow tone of voice.

Yennefer threw him a glance, but said nothing in return. Shortly thereafter, they arrived at her room. Yennefer opened the door, but looked at Jaskier before entering. She parted her lips but paused for a second, as if she was going to say something that she thought better not to. Instead, she said:

"I’ll see you tonight at dinner, your people will be pleased to see you in the great hall,” Jaskier nodded, and she added: “Maybe you should take a bath and rest until then, it’ll help you clear your head.“

Then Yennefer came into the room and closed the door. A soft click indicated that she had used the lock. Jaskier stared at the door, abstracted, and rubbed his left forearm without realizing it. He sighed, weakly, and turned on his heels, heading for his quarters, thinking again.

* * *

The keep had a floor, in the basement, divided between the dungeons and a kind of therma that his great-grandfather had ordered to be built during his mandate. Jaskier had played there many times with other kids, children of guards and servants, when the adults were too busy and they had nothing else to do until dinner time. Well, in Jaskier’s case he did have things to do, but he preferred to run away to play rather than be bored to death listening to his tutors talk about geography or history that didn’t interest him at all.

The therma was a large rectangular room with a big oval pool carved into the stone, which could easily accommodate twenty people at a time. Three smaller cavities, for at least four people, were also carved around it. An intricate system of pipes diverted water from the aquifers that the river fed to a tank, which a team of servants was responsible for keeping warm. They filled the pool and the smaller bathtubs when a lever for each one was operated.  

Jaskier ordered the servants to fill one of the small tubs, and started to unpack the clothes he was to wear later, when he had got rid of all the dirt and sweat from the roads. The stable boys had carried his bags and luggage up to his room, and though his current clothes were in good condition, Jaskier could not help but look through his old closet and chest. Everything was the same as when he had left years ago, with the exception that his mother had probably had ordered his clothes to be aired from time to time so that the moths would not prey on them. 

When the bathtub was full and the steam covered the surface of the water and its surroundings like a cloud, Jaskier undressed, gave the dirty clothes to one of the servants and went into the water. Another servant left sponges and soapy salts, plus towels nearby for him to dry off later. Jaskier felt his muscles slowly warm and relax, and puffed a pleasant breath. He took one of the jars containing the salts and poured a handful of it into the water. Soon, white and blue bubbles appeared, and two centimeters of soap mantled the surface of the tub completely. He slid down to rest his head on the edge. The tub wasn’t very deep, but it allowed him to float a bit without having to sit down. Jaskier closed his eyes and just let himself go. 

He didn’t know how long he was like that, gone, not moving, locked in a bubble of silence without wanting to go out into the outside world again. Thinking of the sorceress’ words, her dying mother, Fryderyk’s black blood, and Geralt. Geralt above all, and the words written on his arm, said with evident anger but which by Destiny meant the maximum expression of affection and love that Geralt felt for him.

I don’t care about your songs if you’re dead

He hadn’t had much time to think about the phrase, not really. After Geralt had left him behind in the storm to kill the monsters that infested the sewers of that city, he had returned to the inn in shock, almost without realizing it. That night he hadn’t slept, worrying about how he could tell Geralt that he was his soulmate, even though Geralt didn’t have a mark on him with Jaskier’s words. Before Cintra, Jaskier had dreamed of that possibility, had thought about situations, had conceived scenes in his head, in which Geralt said his words, Jaskier said Geralt’s, and they both accepted their mutual feelings and were happy in their own way. Before Cintra, when Jaskier was younger and more naive, he would not have hesitated to tell Geralt about the mark. 

But after… 

After having seen him run away from Destiny again and again, after having heard him say that Destiny was only an excuse for those who believed in it wanted to feel better with his bad actions, after having found out that witchers did not have anyone’s words…

After all of that, Jaskier wasn’t sure of what he should do. And he didn’t want to deal with it either.

Not yet.

The sound of the door and heavy footsteps of leather boots made him open his eyes and stand up a little. Through the increasingly dissolved cloud of steam, Jaskier saw Geralt walking toward his bathtub with a bundle of clothes under his arm. The witcher seemed to have an expression on his face halfway between exhaustion and surrender.

"That butler of yours told me you were here,” he grunted, dropping his clothes not far from the tub. 

Jaskier knew, knowing Lucjan, that the man had probably smelled Geralt two miles away and pushed him into the therma with a broom so he would not have to touch him. The bard snorted and shrank against the wall of the bathtub even though it was big enough for three people as big and wide as Geralt to get into. He kept his arms, especially his left arm, underwater, hidden under the layer of soap and bubbles, aware that… that now Geralt could see his mark if he wasn’t careful. Jaskier blinked, not quite sure if he was ready to tell him, right then and there, before Geralt could catch him and demand an explanation, in case Geralt cared enough about the subject to demand an explanation, of course.

He held his breath, looking up from the water and the foam. And saw Geralt taking off his shirt, still grunting about Lucjan, and leave it lying next to the pile of clean clothes. Jaskier blinked again, watching him, watching as his skin pearled with steam and sweat, and made his muscles, covered in scars, seemed to swell with the heat. Watching as the wolf medallion caught the light of the torches and twinkled between his pecs. 

Jaskier swallowed, dry, hard, and turned around, slowly, before he could see Geralt peeling off his pants. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he always felt it as if it was that way. He rested his arms on the edge of the bathtub, and his chin on his arms, being terribly aware of the rubbing’s sound the clothes were making as Geralt was taking them off. He heard a couple of soft taps, the boots being thrown on the floor, then the noise of the belt loops. The pants. The underwear. Jaskier closed his eyes. Then he heard, felt, how Geralt was getting into the water, on the other side of where he was, with a grunt of pleasure.

His cock twitched. 

Jaskier swallowed again, trying to think of something far away from anything erotic so he couldn’t get hard. But he failed. He remembered that one of his fantasies in his youth was fuck with Geralt in a bathtub. He saw himself riding the witcher, with his big and calloused hands gripping his hips, panting and moaning in his ear, against his collarbone, kissing and licking his neck, biting a nebula of hickeys, rough, harsh.

He pressed his lips.

“Jaskier,”

His eyes snapped open but he didn’t move. Jaskier felt something tightened his guts, his throat. He knew Geralt could smell the arousal in someone. He licked his lips, without facing him, his eyes on the wall, feeling tense, his left arm burning.

“Hm?” he hummed, softly.

He heard water sounds, maybe Geralt was shifting on his seat, maybe he was wetting himself, cupping soap with his hands and… He didn’t know for sure, he didn’t look. It was a large hesitation, one in which Jaskier could feel Geralt golden eyes fixed on his back. Then he heard a weak groan, a deep sigh.

“Do you want to talk?” Geralt said.

Jaskier frowned, confused. He wanted to reply that they were talking already.

“What?” he croaked instead.

“About… how do you feel,”

Geralt tone of voice was weak, full of worry. It made Jaskier looked at him over his shoulder. Geralt was still seated across the tub, watching Jaskier with softness, his bulky arms resting on the stone edge. Jaskier knew that was an open stance. He gulped a ball of air and steam. He moved an inch away from the bathtub wall and put his arms in the water, keeping his left arm carefully hidden behind his body. Then he turned around, facing Geralt. His arms in his lap were still difficult to see because of the foam. He breathed in, deep, and looked up. And then he got lost because he couldn’t suppress the need to slid his eyes along Geralt broad chest. The medallion was almost touching the water, there, between those dreamy and damned pectorals. Geralt snorted, amused.

“My eyes are up here,” he mumbled, leaning forward a little.

“Uh,” Jaskier blinked.

And he felt his whole body vibrating, writhing, burning in a terrible hell. He opened his mouth to reply but then he saw the cocky smirk Geralt was curving with his also damned and perfect lips he wanted to kiss, and he felt so embarrassed that, without realizing what he was doing, he splashed Geralt in the face. Geralt coughed and barked a laugh, a pristine, sincere, pure laugh, that gave Jaskier years of life. 

The bard felt his chest filled with a warm cloud of cotton and sunlight. It made him think of all the times they had camped together in spring and summer, in open clearings in the forest where they could play at finding stars in the night sky. He remembered some of those nights when Geralt had shown him the constellations and told him the stories that accompanied those stars. He remembered the nights, by the light of the bonfire, when Geralt had read him his bestiary so Jaskier could compose his songs without putting himself in danger. He remembered the afternoons, with the sun not fully set, when they had trained together and Geralt, after beating him every time, had taken care of his little wounds, like the scratches made by the rapier guard, the scrapes from falling to the ground, the cuts that Geralt had made to him without wanting to.

He remembered the soft, tender looks Geralt had given him when he was concentrating with his lute, humming some new song, and Geralt thought he wouldn’t notice.

Jaskier felt his eyes stinging, wet with tears.

Oh, gods, I would love him even if I didn’t have his mark 

He blinked very quickly, frowning, and plastered a fake smile before Geralt could notice, if he wasn’t noticed yet.

“Alright, I didn’t see that coming,” the witcher said, letting out a joyful sigh.

Jaskier shrugged. Geralt’s gesture grew dark a little, just a little, and more with sadness than resentment or harshness.

“But seriously,” he said. “If you want to talk… I know we don’t usually do it but…”

Jaskier smiled weakly and looked down. If there was one thing he needed and didn’t need at the same time right now it was Geralt fussing about wanting to talk about feelings. 

It was ironic.

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier sough. “I’m sorry, I had been a pain in the ass these weeks,”

“Not at all, if you don’t count all the times you tried to punch someone bigger than you when you were drunk,” Geralt curved a tiny smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier huffed, pretending to be offended, but he smiled too, still looking down. “I know it is an awful way to mourn someone,”

“Indeed,”

“It’s just… I hadn’t thought about my father for years, not in a close or familiar way, and finding out that he was dead and that… that would probably lead to my mother’s death as well…“

“It’s hard,”

Jaskier nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered, feeling vulnerable as if his heart has been ripped off and it was floating in the water, at plain sight. “But it’s not just that, it’s everything else,”

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier paused. His left arm throbbed, beating with a soft bump. He knew Geralt had heard his now faster heartbeat because the witcher stiffened against the stone wall of the tub, wary.

“Well, Geralt… I’m the only son of my father,” he said. “That has to mean something, right?”

Then Jaskier looked up and locked eyes with Geralt, who seemed suddenly conscious of that fact as if it was the first time that idea had crossed his mind. Geralt raised his chin a little, frowning.

"Right," 

Then he was the one who looked away first. Jaskier closed and clenched his hands in fists on his thighs and looked away too, turning around again to rest his arms on the edge of the tub. He listened to Geralt splashing around, probably rubbing himself with one of the sponges the servants had left beside them. The water was almost cold after he had been lazing around for so long, but Jaskier didn’t care. Soon he heard Geralt standing up, getting out of the bath and drying himself with one of the wool and linen towels. He also heard the new rubbing of the clean clothes against Geralt’s body. He heard the belt loops, he heard the boots, like an inverted loop. It was almost torture.

Then a throat-clearing sound rumbled, and he looked up. Geralt was standing in front of him, fully dressed and with a small towel on his shoulders to dry his hair. He was dressed in blue and gold and maybe his clothes weren’t, and wouldn’t be, the most elegant in the castle, but Jaskier knew, because he knew, that Geralt had, was, trying for him. And that warmed his heart a little. Geralt was extremely gorgeous when he tried.

"Aren’t you coming?” Geralt said.

Jaskier grimaced. He couldn’t move, he shouldn’t move. If he did…

“No, go ahead, I need a little more time,” he replied.

Geralt stared at him silently for a couple of seconds, then he exhaled a long breath, almost a grunt, turned on his heels and walked away. And Jaskier gulped, with a thick lump stuck in his throat, and felt his face burning.

 Then, finally, the tears rolled down his cheeks.

* * *

When Geralt arrived at the great hall dinner was already served. A high table with four seats arranged, located next to the wall opposite the main gate, was full of food already, and two people were seated at it: the captain of the guard who had received them that morning, and a young woman with long black hair. And then, placed along the rest of the space in the room, there were several tables also long and crowded with the viscount’s knights, some guards who were not on duty, probably many of the fortress’s peasants who had already finished their work for the day, and passing travelers who were offered hospitality in the castle.

The atmosphere was warm and lively, with men and women laughing, eating and drinking, making jokes and telling stories, the children running from table to table, with some of the dogs chasing the kids or fighting over some old bone that could still be gnawed on. The servants were going around, serving drinks or more food. A couple of bards, near the central chimney and the main table, were playing their instruments. Geralt stood still at the threshold of the gates, a little overwhelmed by the cloud of noise until Lucjan, in all his grace and dignity, took pity on him and led him to the main table. As he passed, some of the diners elbowed each other and whispered, but if Geralt’s heard well, he was sure that those words were not hostile.

“Jaskier hasn’t come yet?” Geralt asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the butler replied, indicating that his place was the farthest from the central position at the table, which corresponded to the viscount. The captain was seated at the right of that spot, and the woman at its left. Geralt seat was at the black-haired woman’s left.

Geralt replied back with a grunt, and sat down at the table, taking a sip from the goblet that was in front of him. He immediately wrinkled his nose and looked at the liquid. He groaned. Wine.

Next to him, the woman giggled.

“You know you can ask for anything you want, right?” she said.

Geralt tilted his head and looked at her. She was beautiful, with her purple eyes, her wavy hair falling over her shoulders, her red, full lips, and her formal black dress. Geralt smelled her curiosity and interest, but he did not look down beyond her chin. He was curious too. Aside from her emotions, there was… The witcher curved an understanding small smile and looked straight ahead.

“A sorceress,”

She smiled back.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she replied and took a sip from her own goblet.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Geralt raised his cup, drawing the attention of one of the servants, a young woman. The girl was about to pour him more wine, but Geralt clicked his tongue. “No, bring me an ale, the best you have,” he said. 

The servant nodded and left to fulfill the request. Geralt let out a tired sigh. Then he offered his cup to Yennefer, who accepted it without objection and poured the content into her goblet.

“I know who you are,” she said, in a casual tone. 

“Yes, everyone here seems to know who I am,” he replied, unamused.

Her smile spread a little more, delighted, and returned him his cup.

“I have heard the songs, written and sung by the next Viscount of Lettenhove himself,“ she continued. "I really expected you to have fangs, or horns, or something,”

Geralt huffed a chuckle.

“I had them filed down,” he mumbled, looking at her, cheeky. 

Yennefer snorted softly, drinking. Geralt looked away again. The servant returned then and filled his goblet with ale from a small barrel, which she left on the table, at the empty end next to Geralt. He appreciated it, so he could pour himself when he wanted to. He drank half of his cup in one gulp. The ale was good, very good. He thanked someone for that.

It was rare to be seated at the head table of a nobleman, without that nobleman being present. As time passed and Geralt drank and ate as he hadn’t been able to for weeks, he started to think about where Jaskier would have gone or where he would be. He didn’t think anything had happened to him, because in a castle full of servants one never had any privacy, but. He really began to worry when the maids began to remove many of the empty plates and pans and bring in the desserts. Yennefer seemed to share his thoughts because her gesture grew more serious with each passing hour and Jaskier still did not appear. 

“I told him to rest a little before dinner, not to skip it. He needs to do normal life,” she muttered behind his goblet.

He looked at her, equally serious. He could smell the concern in her, among resignation and her personal scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

“Do you know where he is?” he asked.

She grimaced, looking back at him. For a moment Yennefer didn’t respond, tilting his head, curious again. Geralt saw her frown slowly crease.

“No,” she replied. “But maybe you do,”

“What?”

“You know him better than I do, better than anyone in this room. Not even Captain Fryderyk knows him as well as you do now, not even his mother if she could speak,”

Geralt looked away, uncomfortable, a little nervous.

“I don’t think he came out of the fortress, but in his present state… It’s dangerous to leave him alone too long,” Yennefer said then.

“Have you read his mind?”

“No, not on purpose, I didn’t need to. I’m sure you can smell his suffering too,”

Geralt wrinkled his nose a little, clicking his tongue. Yes, he remembered the bitter, sharp smell of anxiety and despair. But he didn’t think it was that bad, even with all the drinking and tavern fighting.

“Well, what he usually does when he wants to stop thinking about anything?”

“Drink,” he replied quickly, frowning. “Drink as if the world was going to end the next day,” he said with a tired grunt. “Fuck,”

Geralt got up.

“You’re going to get him,” Yennefer said, and he got up too. “I’m going with you,”

Geralt was about to protest. That was something he had been doing on his own for quite some time, he didn’t think he needed the help of a stranger. But he smelled, stronger than before, the concern in her, and did not reply. The two of them circled the table and headed for the doors leading to the kitchens, followed by Fryderyk’s gaze.

“If we were in a village,” Geralt commented as they strode forward, quickly. “Jaskier would be in the tavern sticking his head in a bucket full of ale,”

“I see,” she said. “I assume he would also look for ways to get physical pain,”

“He got into fights, how do you know?”

Yennefer pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“Physical pain reduces mental pain, or at least it’s easier to assimilate and ease,” she explained. “I’m afraid Lady Pankratz is not the only one who is ill in this castle,”

Geralt glanced at the sorceress before peering out of the doorway of the central kitchen. Inside the room, the cooks, helpers, and servants were still working, but with less speed and fervor than when Geralt had been there in the morning. He entered a few steps, followed by Yennefer, who picked the cherry from a cake that was on one of the tables.

“Has anyone seen your young lord?” he asked, raising his voice.

He didn’t even know if the servants knew what aspect Jaskier had. Some of the men and women looked in his direction and a confused buzz of questions and comments rumbled throughout the already noisy kitchen. A maid came up to them with a basket of eggs.

“I think we did see him, a while ago a man with wet hair came and greeted us as if he’d known us all our lives, and then he ransacked the winery and took a couple of bottles,”

“Yes, he was the old viscount’s son, his father did that too,” An older man added. “He looked like him, the same lost eyes,”

Geralt gritted his teeth.

“Where did he go next?”

“That way,” the man pointed to the side door that Geralt had entered hours earlier.

The witcher left without saying anything. Outside it was almost pitch black, despite the burning torches of the fortress. For Geralt that was not a problem. He took a deep breath, trying to catch the scent of Jaskier. It was easier when he had not bathed for days and his natural scent was stronger. With all the soap he had seen, and used, in the baths before, he would have to look for the freshest, cleanest smell in the area. That wasn’t a problem either.

But they found him earlier because of the noise.

Near the stables, a lively group of guards was drinking, cackling, and shouting happily. And among their voices, the one that stood out the most was one that Geralt knew very well.

“… and then he said: I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to my horse!”

A burst of laughter erupted as Geralt and Yennefer slowly approached them. When they got close enough, they saw Jaskier sitting in a barrel with a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. He was wearing his shirt out of his pants and untied down to about half his chest, and Geralt noticed how some of the men were casting suggestive glances at him. A rough, burning feeling ran through his body and almost made him growl. Yennefer put a hand on his arm, and when he looked at her, the sorceress quietly shook her head.

That was when Jaskier saw them.

“Geralt, my friend! Come, let me introduce you!” he exclaimed, taking a sip from the bottle before continuing to speak. The crowd of men cheered, looking at the newcomers as well. Some looked at Yennefer from top to bottom, before they realized what a dangerous look she had. “Boys, this is Geralt of Rivia, the famous and mighty White Wolf whom I have accompanied through countless adventures!” The group applauded again. It was clear they were drunk too. “And you,” Jaskier said, tilting his head, looking at Yennefer. He blinked. “I don’t remember your name, but you’re the sexy witch, right?”

Someone whistled. Yennefer huffed.

Geralt took a step forward.

“I think it’s time to go,” he said, low, hoarse.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

“What? But we’re having so much fun, right, guys?!”

The men backed up their words with a new round of laughter and words of encouragement. One of the guards clapped Jaskier’s shoulder, as the bard took another sip of wine.

“You’ve had enough fun,” Geralt grunted, gritting his teeth again.

He didn’t know why he was getting angrier than when they were in cheap taverns. There shouldn’t be anyone there who could do him any real harm. Surely by now the whole castle that the son of the late Viscount had returned home. And yet…

Jaskier pouted, clicked his tongue and stepped off the barrel. He took his last drink from the bottle before leaving it in the hands of one of the guards, without looking away from Geralt.

“I’m sorry, boys, when he makes that face…” Jaskier walked towards Geralt, a little clumsily but without zigzagging. “… I better listen to him, or I’ll be sorry later, won’t I?”

Geralt raised his chin a little. The bard had stopped a few inches away from him and the witcher could smell the alcohol. Also the pain and his little faded personal scent of dandelions and wood oil. Of all the times he had had to deal with drunk Jaskier, this was the first the bard had been so arrogant. He was not even drunk enough to be unable to walk, or to thrown up, or to fall asleep anywhere he might have found. No. He had picked up a bottle and drank with other people, people he didn’t know and didn’t know him, and he hadn’t even picked a fight as he had done before. Geralt was a little skeptical, as well as upset.

“All right, enough, let’s go,” Yennefer said, taking Jaskier by the arm and pulling to make him walk. 

Jaskier snorted a small chuckle, and let himself go as the group of men said goodbye to him. Jaskier returned the goodbye with joy. Geralt followed them like a guard dog.

“Wait, wait! I remember your name already!” Jaskier said. “It’s Yendoline, isn’t it?”

Yennefer sighed long, still leading Jaskier by the arm. They entered the keep through the side door of the kitchen and quickly passed through the hall until they reached the stairs. 

“You almost got it,” she answered, sounding a little less tense.

Jaskier giggled.

“I can’t believe that after all these years I have to take care of dumb nobles again,” Yennefer muttered.

Geralt heard his words and felt a new wave of curiosity. He didn’t believe that a viscount needs the guidance and advice of a mage or a sorceress, so Yennefer must have been there for another reason. Then he remembered Jaskier’s mother and her illness. Soulrotting. Something even magic couldn’t quite cure. Geralt sough.

“Well, you don’t have to, I’ll take care of him next time,” Geralt said.

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen you, feeding his drunken ego,” she replied, sarcastically.

“I didn’t want to start a fight,”

“You wouldn’t have done it, he was looking forward to you taking him away, in your arms if I may add,”

“What?”

“Hey, hey, are you guys talking about me?” Jaskier whistled, laughing. 

Geralt frowned.

“Why do you care so much? You don’t know him,” he said to Yennefer.

The sorceress helped Jaskier up the last segment of the stairs to the floor of his quarters. The corridor was empty and cold, lonely.

“I have my reasons,” she said, sharp.

Geralt wanted to push her further, but they soon reached what must have been Jaskier’s room. Yennefer opened the door and let Jaskier go, looking at the witcher.

“Watch him while I go to my room, I’ll bring him a remedy so he won’t be hungover tomorrow,”

“Sure,”

Yennefer walked down the hallway, leaving them alone. Geralt sighed again, feeling even more tired than before. Even with the time he had spent in that bath, the exhaustion of the journey, both physical and mental, and the tiredness of the day, were taking him. And he hadn’t even begun the hunt.

The hunt…

He followed Jaskier into the room, leaving the door ajar. The bard seemed to have calmed down a bit, and now he was muttering unintelligible things as he sat heavily on the bed and lay on his back with his arms outspread. Geralt approached him cautiously and contemplated him silently for a moment.

The grief was there, inexorable, inevitable, eating away Jaskier like a worm, sucking up to his energy like a parasite. Geralt felt helpless, unable to do anything. That sorrow, that pain, was a monster he didn’t know how to fight.

Slowly, he knelt down in front of Jaskier and began to unbuckle his boots to take them off. It was something he had done many times those last two weeks: make sure he didn’t get hurt, no more than Jaskier himself did with the alcohol, taking him to a safe bed, taking off his boots, leaving him lying on the bed, tucking him in with a blanket, making sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. Help him to sleep, sometimes with his witcher’s magic. And the next morning, give him breakfast and something for his headache.

Again and again, not knowing how to break the loop.

“You can’t break the cycle,”

Geralt looked up and saw Yennefer slowly approaching the bed and the small table that accompanied the headboard. Geralt took off Jaskier’s second boot.

“Not at the moment, at least,” she added, with a little sadness.

She had left a bottle full of blue liquid on the table and watched the bard gently, almost… almost affectionate. Geralt placed the boots under the bed and pulled Jaskier’s legs up to it. The bard whimpered and curled up like a ball on his left side. Geralt opened the chest at the foot of the bed and dug through it, finding a quilt that must have been worth more than Roach and his entire bag of coins put together.

“When will he break it?” he asked.

Yennefer shrugged a little, grimacing.

“I don’t know, it depends a lot on the person, whether he’s strong or weak, whether he’s willing to fight… In his case, the illness has just started to bloom and maybe he can get over it with help,”

“I understand…”

“This is not soulrotting, there is always hope that he will recover, but he will need time and patience,”

“Things I don’t have,”

Yennefer was silent for a moment, staring at Geralt as the witcher tenderly wrapped Jaskier in the quilt and made him rest his head on the pillows. She also noticed the weak caress he left on the bard’s forehead and cheek.

“He’ll need you,” she whispered.

Geralt stood up, glancing at Yennefer, but then he looked back at the bard.

“When his mother dies, Geralt, he will need you,” Yennefer added.

There was something in his voice that made Geralt uncomfortable and nervous. That woman, that sorceress, what the hell was she doing? Why did she care?

“What did he tell you?” he grumbled.

Yennefer paused.

“Enough,” she finally said. “Although I didn’t need him to tell me anything either, it was sufficient for me to see you together,”

Geralt grunted and looked away from Jaskier, facing the window covered with delicate curtains, through which the moonlight filtered faintly.

“You have no idea,” he said. “You’ve known us for hours, you can’t have a damn idea about what’s going on,”

“And you? Do you have any idea what’s going on with you two?”

Geralt turned around and glared at her, puzzled and somewhat wary. She had a scowl, her lips pressed and her arms crossed. She was irritated, indignant. Why? Geralt tilted his head. They looked at one another silently for long seconds, so long that it seemed as if time had stopped. He tried to smell anything more from her, but it was all resentment and hostility around the sorceress, more even than the lilacs and the gooseberries. And he knew, he was sure, that she was trying to read his mind more deeply.

Then she spoke, slowly, with a low, restrained tone of voice that still denoted her wrath.

“I know what it is to think that I don’t deserve anyone and yet desire someone with all my strength, but at least you have him, witcher, and you want to waste it,”

Geralt blinked, now more confused than ever, and watched as Yennefer left without saying anything else. She didn’t close the door on her way out. Hr blinked again.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s voice made him forget about the sorceress. He went to the edge of the bed that Jaskier was facing and sat on it. The bard babbled something that Geralt didn’t understand so Geralt put one hand on his shoulder, covered by the quilt, and squeezed gently.

“Sleep,” he said, with a murmur.

Jaskier licked his lips and sipped through his nose. Geralt smelled his wet cheeks.

“Have I thrown up?” Jaskier asked, without opening his eyes.

Geralt smiled softly and stroked his hair. As he brushed his forehead unintentionally, Jaskier curled up a little more.

“Not a drop this time, I’m proud,” Geralt replied.

“Good,” Jaskier whispered.

Slowly, little by little, Jaskier fell into a deep sleep. Geralt listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart, still too fast for a human at rest, his breathing sometimes cut off by tiny hiccups. Geralt stroked his hair a little more and then left his hands in his lap, staring at him in silence.

Jaskier was, in human terms, an adult, but for him, he was still too young, and he still thought of him as the boy he had been when they met. Geralt made a grimace that no one would ever see, an unhappy and lost gesture.

“Sorry If I don’t have words for you,” he whispered. “I know it’s what you want, but I think…” he hesitated and took a deep breath. The alcohol was still there, but it was fading already. The buttercups, the oil, the fresh scent of the soap… made him think about the old days. “I guess it’s better this way," 

Geralt curved a tiny smile, sweeter but equally painful and turned around on his seat. Then, slowly, rolled up his right sleeve and stared at his inner forearm.

There, on his pale skin, there was a bright stain that occupied almost the entire inside of his forearm as if someone had dropped a lot of paint on it. Most of the pigment was blue, a dark blue that, if Geralt remembered correctly, looked like the blue of the clothing Jaskier had worn at Posada many years ago. Above that blue were smaller and erratic spots, red, yellow and gold, that formed a nebula. And above these, tiny turquoise specks that dotted the rest of the stain. 

It was all remained of his old soulmark after the Trials. 

He remembered the appearance of his soulmark. Maybe not the words itself but the style of the handwriting, the colors. He remembered how the words were shaded, with a beautiful gradient that gleamed with the moonlight. He recalled when he was a child still in training having fantasized about his soulmate before he had known that witchers could not, should not, be bonded to anyone, and that the Trials would erase his mark for that purpose.

Geralt rolled down his sleeve, hiding the deformed mark, and stood up. He looked back at Jaskier, who was sleeping soundly and clinging to the edges of the quilt. He felt a terribly overwhelming, warm sensation that made his legs tremble and his fingers tingle. He swallowed. And he turned away from the bed. He left the room quietly, and closed the door, slowly, until he heard the click of the deadlock. Then he strode into his own room and lay down on the bed without undressing.

He knew he needed to sleep, but by the time the dawn broke and the sun rose over the horizon, Geralt was still awake. With no energy to face other people that day, he took off his evening clothes, put on his witcher’s uniform and his armor, and hung his swords over his shoulder.

By the time the castle began to really wake up, Geralt was already halfway up the mountains.

[mikauzoran]

LuXY/Lukadrien/Lukadrienette: Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter Three

@luxyweek

Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter Three: Collaboration

Luka couldn’t believe it.

While he still didn’t necessarily like XY’s music, he had to admit that it was definitely more listenable nowadays. No longer was it trite, banal, and annoying. It was still repetitive, but the repetition was more like that in the works of Philip Glass or John Adams where it meant something and gradually evolved and moved, unfurling like a flower on a time-lapse film. It was catchy, modulating to explore different key areas before finding tonal resolution.

It still wasn’t anything Luka would choose to listen to over, say, Pink Floyd, but he did find himself humming snatches of XY’s tunes periodically after listening to them.

The thing that had him the most incredulous was that XY had actually looked into some of the composers that Luka mentioned in various interviews and took inspiration from their work. It wasn’t the plagiarism of old but the acceptable practice of quotations taken from other works just like well-known composers had been doing in the genre for hundreds of years now.

And XY had taken the themes, the snippets, and modified them himself. He sequenced motifs up and down, inverting them and truncating them. Clearly, XY had been paying attention that one time in an interview when Luka had gone on a fifteen-minute tangent about the theme of the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and how Beethoven had taken the handful of notes in his theme and reconfigured them over and over to create astounding variety, lyricism, and emotional impact.

XY was nowhere near Beethoven’s level, but he had still managed to take quotations from classical music as well as original themes he had seemingly come up with himself and employ a similar process to what Beethoven had done so that the music changed and grew out of itself like Pegasus springing from the head of Medusa.

Luka thought that maybe a collab would be possible after all. Now, he just had to call XY and make the arrangements.

…But how did you call the guy who’d gotten you akumatized a decade ago whom you’d also made out with the previous week? The closest thing he’d ever had to a normal interaction with XY was the conversation at the party, but that hadn’t exactly been quote-unquote “normal”.

Did he just dial the number XY had given him and say, “hey, this is Luka Couffaine calling about the collaboration you wanted to do”? Pretend like the saliva swap and the snuggling and the talking about Luka’s messed up relationship with Adrien and Marinette and their son hadn’t happened?

Did he just play it cool? Keep it professional?

Did XY expect something from Luka? Was the kiss purely an experiment, or was XY thinking that some kind of relationship was going to happen between them? XY had said that he’d wanted Luka. What did that mean? Was it purely sexual?

Why had Luka let himself get into this complicated situation?

He’d been trying to be supportive of a guy attempting to figure out his sexuality in his late twenties…and XY was hot when he wasn’t saying stupid or insulting things. He had dumb hair, but he was attractive, and he’d been kind of nice with all the things he’d said about admiring Luka’s music. And Luka had been feeling down, and the alcohol hadn’t helped, and Luka had just wanted someone to kiss him senseless and help him forget that he wasn’t always happy with life.

Luka could feel himself on the verge of doing something stupid like inviting XY over to supposedly talk about their collaboration but really to see if they’d end up making out again. At the very least, maybe XY would say some more nice things like how he liked Luka’s chord progressions or how Luka had gorgeous eyes.

Luka sighed as he slumped onto the couch and stared at his phone as if he hoped it would give him answers.

Maybe he should ask Siri.

“Siri, what am I doing with my life?” Luka queried, fully expecting the robotic voice to come back with online articles for the boardgame Life or some kind of chicken recipe.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Siri replied in a tone that could pass as apologetic if you squinted.

“That makes two of us,” Luka chuckled wryly. “Thanks anyway, Siri.”

He took a deep breath and dialed Marinette’s number.

“Luka!” she greeted brightly. “Hey. How’s it going? Hold on. Let me put you on speaker…. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” he assured, a smile coming to his lips merely at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Chanson.”

“I was just getting Hugo ready for his bath,” she explained and then lowered her voice as she addressed her child. “Gogo, it’s Uncle Luka on the phone. Can you say, ‘Hi, Uncle Luka’?”

“Papa!” Hugo cried with joy, and Luka could practically see his son lifting his arms up for the phone, thinking they were FaceTiming and wanting to see the picture.

Luka could also practically see the way that Marinette was wincing at the epithet.

“No,” Marinette gently corrected, urging, “It’s ‘Uncle Luka’.”

“Papa!” the two-year-old shouted again.

“Hi, Gogo,” Luka greeted warmly, wishing that he could see his baby’s face. “You know, Marinette, I don’t mind that he calls me that.”

“I do,” she sighed, voice high and tight. “I wish Adrien hadn’t taught him that. What if he calls you that in public? People are going to think I’m a slut! They’ll think I cheated on Adrien, that our marriage is in trouble. I need people focusing on my talent, Luka, not my love life. If my brand is ever really going to take off, if I’m ever going to prove myself…if I’m ever going to get out of the shadow of my husband’s father’s brand and prove I’m not just riding on Adrien’s coattails…”

“Chanson,” Luka cooed. “Hey. Take a deep breath and relax, all right? You are so amazing, and the whole world is going to realize that someday,” he comforted. “You’ve just got to keep hanging in there, okay?”

“Maman?” Hugo called in concern, tugging at her pant leg.

Marinette took a deep breath and picked him up.

“Right. It’s okay. Maman is okay,” she shushed, bouncing her son and moving him from side to side. “It’s just stress. I’ve got a deadline coming up.”

Hugo frowned, trusting the anxiety that was coming off her in waves over her reassuring words. Even though he was young, Hugo was very attuned to people’s feelings.

“Thank you, Luka,” Marinette added belatedly. “Sorry. I’m kind of a mess. Adrien’s doing Hamlet, and he won’t be home until late, so I’m trying to cook dinner, get Hugo cleaned up, and work on this project, and it’s not happening.”

“It’s okay, Marinette. You don’t have to be a superhero all the time, you know.”

She let out an ironic laugh. “Luka, I’ve had to be a full-time superhero since I was fourteen. It gets kind of hard to turn that mentality off after a decade.”

“Point,” he conceded. “But you know what you’ve got at your disposal?”

“What?” she hummed.

“A team,” he reminded. “Why don’t I come over and give Hugo his bath and make dinner while you get some work done?”

“Oh, Luka,” Marinette breathed, sounding genuinely touched. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. But thank you. You’re too good to me.”

“Chanson, I am sitting around my apartment feeling like a wreck. Please let me come over and be useful. I want to take care of you.”

Marinette was easily sold on the arrangement, and it was a nice evening.

Marinette got her work done while Luka got to spend quality time with his son and the woman he loved. They had a peaceful dinner together, and then Luka played with Hugo for a bit before putting him to bed.

Luka had intended to go home afterwards but ended up staying the night.

Adrien got home a little after midnight, traces of stage makeup still on his skin as he slipped into bed, snuggling up to Luka and wrapping himself around Luka from behind.

Luka returned to his flat after breakfast and immediately despaired at the silence and solitude of the place.

He thought about calling XY and asking him out to coffee.

He actually fished out the business card XY had given him and dialed the number, but the call went to voicemail.

Luka covered his disappointment with professionalism: “Hey, this is Luka Couffaine calling about a possible collaboration. If you could give me a call back, we’ll discuss details.”

He thought about going out to get a coffee at a café by himself just to get out of the house, but the idea no longer seemed appealing.

 “Dude, you live on a boat? That’s, like, hella whack!” XY exclaimed, and Luka couldn’t discern whether that was a compliment or a slight.

“It’s technically my mother’s,” Luka explained. “I have an apartment over in the sixteenth arrondissement,”

—not far from Adrien and Marinette’s house—he omitted.

“but I grew up here and still come and go pretty much as I please. My sisters—my biological sister and her wife—my sisters still live here, though.”

XY nodded as he stepped down off of the gangplank and onto the deck, surveying his surroundings. “It’s kind of a dump.”

Luka cringed, reminding himself that even though XY was hot and had improved personality-wise over the years, he was still completely tactless and oblivious. It wasn’t his fault he’d been brought up poorly and didn’t know that he wasn’t supposed to say things like that.

“My mother’s name is Anarka. We believe in chaos, leaving junk lying around, and affogatos,” Luka informed, motioning for XY to follow him down below deck.

XY frowned. “Like those green fruit things?”

Luka was surprised that XY knew that an avocado was a fruit. Perhaps it was just a lucky guess. “Affogatos are an Italian dessert where you pour espresso over gelato…and sometimes add amaretto. My mom’s a big fan. She dated this Italian guy once and totally got hooked on them, so now they’re kind of a family tradition. Like hiding chocolates in each other’s socks for Valentine’s Day.”

XY continued to stare at Luka, completely nonplussed. “Your family is weird.”

Luka shrugged, leading XY into the main cabin and motioning for him to have a seat on the wraparound couch. “All families are weird. The truly weird ones are the ones that aren’t.”

XY looked like he was still trying to puzzle that one out when Luka asked, “May I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, I want an avocado,” XY declared.

Luka didn’t bat an eye. “With or without alcohol?”

XY shifted on the couch, looking almost uncomfortable. “Without. I don’t want—I don’t think we should be drunk today,” he elaborated. “You know. Because we’re working and stuff.”

Luka nodded, mentally noting that he needed to be sober the next time he kissed XY.

He added an additional note concerning the fact that he was thinking about a next time.

“Two affogatos without alcohol coming right up.”

As he started the espresso maker and moved to get out the gelato and glasses, Luka inquired, “…Did you get the chance to listen to those pieces I texted you about?”

XY (his left arm hooked around the back of the couch so that he could twist and watch Luka making the drinks) nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I did. You picked some really good songs for us to take as inspiration. I think we could get a really good blend of our styles going if we kind of pattern our mix on elements of those songs. Like the Tarantula one.”

It was really Saint-Saëns’s Tarantella, Opus Six, but “tarantella” literally meant “tarantula”, so Luka was willing to let it slide.

“I really dug the theme from Tarantula. If we take the theme and kind of rework it and speed it up, I think it would be a sick bassline. Like, kind of like…” XY paused, a guarded expression coming to his face, as if he were afraid of Luka judging him or shooting down his suggestion. “Have you ever heard DJ Jack’s remix of Pink Elephants on Parade?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Luka admitted, carefully pouring the espresso over the gelato. “Could you pull it up?”

“Yeah, sure,” XY agreed happily, getting out his laptop and hopping on YouTube for the track. “This part,” he indicated about fifty seconds into the song. “I was thinking a really driving, pounding bass would be good.”

Luka nodded, considering the idea as he brought over the affogatos and set them down on the makeshift coffee table. It wasn’t exactly his style, but that wasn’t the point of the collaboration.

“Yeah, that could be good,” he encouraged, taking a seat on the couch beside XY.

XY looked relieved as he pulled up his sound editing software. “I was actually messing around with the idea last night so I’d have something to show you.” He pressed play on a track labeled “hairy spider beats” and looked expectantly at Luka.

He let Luka listen for about twenty seconds before nervously asking, “What do you think?”

XY’s mix was still audibly related to Saint-Saëns’s theme, but it was much more “inspired by” than “plagiarism”. He’d taken the notes (sometimes turning them around on themselves or dropping them down a third, sometimes rearranging, sometimes splitting apart) and sped them up, giving them a driving, electronic pulse.

“That actually sounds pretty neat,” Luka replied sincerely. “I can tell you’ve really come a long way as far as music theory and composition, Xavier-Yves. Nice work.”

XY beamed at Luka’s praise, his heart swelling with pleasure and pride. “It was nothing,” he assured, playing it cool. “I mean, I am hella dope after all. Music theory has nothing on me. I kicked its butt.”

“Yeah,” Luka agreed with a chuckle. “I can see why people like your music nowadays. It’s still not really my favourite genre, but I can tell you’re onto something.”

XY hesitated before curiously inquiring, “…Why did you call about collaborating if you’re not really a fan of what I do?”

Luka shrugged, training his eyes on the laptop screen. “I don’t know. Listening to your music, I just kind of felt like there might be something there, so I decided to give it a chance and see what happened.”

XY nodded slowly, studying Luka’s expression in profile. “All right. Good answer.” He turned his attention back to the project at hand. “So. I was thinking, we could use this or something like it as the base and layer other stuff over it. Like…you know in that Corn on the Cob song you sent me—”

Danse Macabre. Saint-Saëns again, Opus Forty. It was one of Adrien’s favourites.

“—how in the beginning it’s really quiet as the clock strikes midnight, but then all hell breaks loose as the dead rise from their graves and start partying?”

“Yes?” Luka was intrigued to find out where this was going.

In Danse Macabre, about thirty seconds in, after everything up to that point had been pianissimo, the dynamic suddenly shifted to forte, and the loud, powerful notes really blew the listener away. Luka remembered that that part had been very striking the first time he’d heard the piece.

“I was thinking we could do something like that. Not the same notes,” he explained, “but the same effect. We could have the song pulsing along, but then, all the sudden, the bass drops, and we wait a beat, and then you come in really loud with—I don’t know—whatever you end up using if you want to go with your guitar or maybe the violin or, I mean, what don’t you play?”

Luka blushed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, there’s a difference between being able to make an instrument produce sound and actually being proficient. I can play simple melodies on a wide variety of instruments, but I really only consider myself able to play the guitar, violin, and piano.”

XY snorted and rolled his eyes. “Dude, you’re definitely selling yourself short, but whatever. If you can make an instrument produce sound or play a simple melody or whatever, I can record it and splice it up into a killer mix. No one’s going to know that you’re not ‘proficient’ by your own standards.”

Luka hummed thoughtfully. “Point. I’m used to creating music that has to be reproduced live, so I didn’t think—” He cut himself off abruptly as an idea occurred to him. He turned to look at XY with wide, hopeful eyes. “Do you think we could use a glass armonica?”

XY tipped his head to the side. “What’s that?”

“Go back to YouTube, please,” Luka requested, practically buzzing with excitement. He never got to use this instrument for anything, but it had such a cool sound.

He instructed XY in what to search for and what to click on, and not a minute later, XY was staring at the screen, watching the demonstration in amazement.

“Dude,” he breathed. “It sounds like the souls of the dead being all spooky up in our business. We have got to fit that in somehow. At the very least, it would add some neat harmonies.”

Twenty minutes of watching videos featuring glass armonicas later, they got back to their collaboration piece.

“You know, another thing I’d like to fit in if we can is a quotation of the Dies Irae,” XY remarked, completely knocking Luka for a loop.

“What?” he asked, thinking he’d misheard.

“The Dies Irae,” XY snorted. “You know what I’m talking about. You’ve talked about it in several interviews, and it’s quoted all over that Tatter Tots song you sent me the other day to prep for our collab.”

Totentanz. Franz Liszt, S. 126 (because Liszt didn’t use opus numbers).

“Sorry. Right,” Luka confirmed. “Sorry. I was just…”

…surprised that you, one, knew what the Dies Irae was called; two, pronounced it correctly; three, butchered Totentanz’s title; and four, actually listen to me when I talk.

“…astounded by what a good idea that is,” Luka recovered, realizing that his true thoughts were either rude or showing his hand too much about how much it meant to Luka that XY had paid that close attention to Luka’s interviews.

“You have a lot of good ideas, Xavier-Yves,” Luka added, watching a cute pink tint rise in XY’s cheeks.

“You bet I do.” XY puffed out his chest slightly. “I didn’t used to, but now I do. I have a lot of good ideas because I’m not an imbecile anymore.”

Luka felt his stomach twist slightly, recalling the way Bob Roth had talked to his son at the party the week before.

It reminded Luka of the way Adrien had internalized the erroneous beliefs that he was needy and whiny and difficult after years of hearing Gabriel perpetuate those lies. Adrien only believed it because it was what Gabriel had taught Adrien about himself, either directly or by implication.

Luka could see how Bob Roth calling his son an imbecile for years on end might ingrain the belief into Xavier-Yves’s psyche too.

He took a deep breath, reached out, and rested a hand on XY’s forearm. “Hey.”

XY’s eyes went wide like sundials as his gaze locked with Luka’s.

“You were never an imbecile,” he informed gently yet firmly. “You were just in a situation where no one ever gave you the opportunity to show off what you could do, and that’s not your fault.”

XY gulped and then forced himself to look away before the urge to kiss Luka got any stronger. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right…. So…the Dies Irae…”

“Right,” Luka agreed, slowly retracting his hand. “The Dies Irae…”

 Hours flew by as they worked on their project, and, before they knew it, their stomachs were growling.

“Would you want to go get dinner?” XY asked tentatively, trying to get a feel for where they stood with one another. “With me, I mean. My treat, since you supplied the snackage and refreshments today. I owe you for that avocado. That thing was good; I see why your family believes in them.”

“Right?” Luka chuckled, partially out of genuine amusement but also to buy a little time.

XY was definitely asking him out on a date. What was he supposed to say to that? He’d gone into this whole collab thing with the intention of keeping an open mind and seeing what became of it, but… What was he doing? He didn’t know. He legitimately didn’t know what he was doing with his life, so if XY just wanted random make-outs when convenient, maybe that was fine, but if XY were serious, if he had any kind of feelings for Luka… Luka didn’t want to lead XY on. After all, he wasn’t emotionally available for an actual relationship and all that involved, so…

He took a steadying breath, getting his apology together in his head before he opened his mouth and replied, “Sure. I would be down for hitting up a bistro or something, if you’re paying.”

XY’s face lit up just enough for Luka to realize that XY was expecting something to come of this—whatever it was. Friendship?—acquaintanceship between them.

Luka needed to be careful.

…But he’d really enjoyed kissing XY after the party. It had been nice to know that Luka had been the only person on XY’s mind. He hadn’t had to share XY with anyone like he did when he was with Marinette and Adrien.

But if this really was XY’s first experience with romance with someone he was legitimately interested in, Luka needed to keep his head on straight. He was an absolute mess, and he knew it, and if he didn’t keep his wits about him, he was going to ruin the concept of love for XY.

That was kind of a daunting responsibility.

 Dinner was actually fairly normal, like any other dinner he’d had between friends…sort of. At least, it didn’t feel like a date. Well, besides the part where XY had insisted on driving and opening the car door for Luka. While the gesture had seemed romantic at first, Luka was starting to suspect that it was really because XY didn’t want anyone touching the car besides him.

It was a hideously purple 1982 DeLorean with gullwing doors, and it was XY’s baby.

Apparently, XY was a car person. Luka learned this when he happened to make a comment about the car over dinner and was then treated to a fifteen-minute-long gushing rant about automobiles.

It was a learning experience, and Luka, who didn’t really care so much about cars, didn’t have much to contribute.

Thankfully, after fifteen minutes, XY realized that Luka hadn’t said anything in a while and thought to ask about Luka’s hobbies. Luka talked about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, and he could tell he was going a little over XY’s head, but XY asked questions and seemed like he genuinely wanted Luka to keep talking, so Luka figured it was okay.

It wasn’t really a “normal” dinner between friends, but it didn’t feel like a date either.

They returned to the Liberty afterwards so that XY could pick up his belongings, and as he was packing up his laptop, he hesitantly remarked, “So…the other night…”

Luka tensed. “…Yeah?”

XY licked his lips, tentatively looking up to study Luka’s expression. “The kiss.”

Luka squirmed slightly, fingers itching for a guitar to strum to calm himself. “Yeah?”

“You remember that?” XY inquired nervously.

Luka winced. “I wasn’t that drunk.”

XY shrugged. “I mean…but you were drunk, so—”

“—I remember,” Luka cut him off before the misunderstanding could go on any longer. “I remember, and I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what I was doing. I voluntarily kissed you.”

Whether or not that had been a good idea, that still remained to be seen, but Luka felt he’d been sober enough to consent to a kiss, and he didn’t want XY worrying about that issue.

“Oh,” XY replied thoughtfully, looking back down to his laptop, strapping it into his satchel. “Okay. So…you knew what you were doing, and you…you wanted to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Luka answered with conviction, leaving no room for doubt.

XY breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Because I didn’t think of it at the time, but I was thinking about it later, and my dad always tells me not to do anything with girls when they’re drunk because that leads to lawsuits, but I started thinking that I shouldn’t have kissed you when you were drunk either, even though you’re not a girl.”

“Normally, that’s a good practice to follow,’ Luka confirmed. “But I wasn’t drunk. Not that drunk…. But, yeah. Don’t kiss drunk people in the future,” he sighed, beginning to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“So…” XY slung his satchel over his shoulder and studied Luka careful. “If you hadn’t been drunk, would you still have kissed me?”

Luka blinked. He didn’t know.

If he hadn’t been drunk and tired and feeling kind of down…maybe he would have gone down to the lobby and asked at the front desk for his own room. Maybe he would have stayed but turned down XY’s proposed make-out and snuggle session.

Luka couldn’t honestly say.

He grimaced and answered helplessly, “Maybe?”

XY nodded, taking a deep breath and letting that response settle in. “All right.”

“Sorry,” Luka mumbled, shame burning in his cheeks. He could tell that he was royally screwing this up, and he felt awful.

He was a bad person for dragging XY into his complicated relationship with Adrien and Marinette.

“It’s all right,” XY sighed, sounding bummed.

Luka scrubbed at his face with a hand. “No. It’s not. I’m sorry. I was kind of a wreck the other night. I’m kind of a wreck in general. I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” XY assured, waving away Luka’s apologies. “I mean, I was kind of kidding myself. You’re…You’re you after all.”

Luka dropped his hand from his face and frowned, unsure if he should be getting defensive. “What does that mean?”

XY shrugged. “Like, you’re all smart and stuff. We don’t have a lot in common, not even our music, so… It was kind of dumb to think you’d be interested in me. But it’s cool, so whatever.”

XY turned to go, but Luka caught him by the arm.

“Xavier-Yves, it’s not like that,” Luka rushed to explain, not knowing quite what to say, only that he needed to say something. “It’s not… I’m not… I mean, I’m not that smart.”

XY snorted, rolling his eyes. “Dude. At dinner you told me how you’d learned Russian so that you could read thousand-paged books. For fun.”

“Well, you taught yourself how to build cars,” Luka volleyed, grasping at fog.

“Yeah, but I’m not smart,” XY scoffed, pulling his arm away from Luka. “I can’t talk about literature and art and stuff like you.”

“Xavier-Yves, there are many different types of intelligence,” Luka huffed in frustration. “Just because you’re not book-smart, that doesn’t mean you’re dumb, and who’s to say that my type of intelligence is any better or worse than yours? You have your own strengths, so don’t discount them just because they’re not the same as mine. If we were on a drive and broke down in the middle of nowhere, your type of intelligence would be a hell of a lot more useful than mine.”

XY stared at Luka for a beat, taking all of this in. Slowly, he began to nod. “All right. Okay. Soooo…?”

He looked at Luka expectantly.

Luka looked down at his feet but then forced himself to look back up and maintain eye contact. “So…I think you’re attractive and kind of interesting, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

XY’s cheeks started to glow a soft, rosy tint. “O-Oh yeah?”

Luka nodded. “Yeah. I’d like to hang out again.”

XY gulped. “So…could that maybe translate to you eventually kissing me sober?”

A wave of guilt washed over Luka.

He had ruined this guy’s first kiss.

Luka took a breath and stepped in, pressing his lips lightly to XY’s. He lingered for a moment but pulled back before XY could get over his surprise and take things any further.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t sober the first time,” he whispered. “Maybe this could eventually become something, but I’m an emotional mess right now, so I don’t want to lead you on or turn this into some kind of friends with benefits thing if you’re looking for a serious relationship. I’m sorry, but I just want to be honest with you.”

XY nodded neutrally as he stepped back. “Yeah…. Okay. I get you. I…all right.” He sighed, running a hand through his spiky locks. “Honestly, I’m just kind of glad to know where I stand with you. I can work with being attractive and interesting.”

His ego was quickly bouncing back as he readjusted his satchel on his shoulder and moved toward the door, turning back to shoot finger guns at Luka. “I’m still planning on making you fall in love with me. See you later!”

Luka stared at XY’s retreating back until he disappeared abovedeck.

Juleka found her brother ten minutes later, still standing there and contemplating his life choices.

[emospritelet]

Festive prompt : Fragile verse - 54 “You look - festive”

I’m still trying to finish up my festive prompts, so this is chapter 2 of 3 of this teacher/student Rushbelle. Last time, Belle wanted to talk about the night of passion they shared before the start of the school year, and Rush wanted her to forget the entire thing. It’s Christmas Eve, and a knock on Rush’s door brings an unexpected visitor. Please check AO3 for tags - Belle is 18.

[AO3 link] [Chapter 1]

x

Rush realised he was staring, and blinked twice.

“Miss French,” he said coolly. “What are you doing here?”

Belle pulled a face, glancing around uncomfortably.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said. “I couldn’t bear sitting in the house watching my dad drink until he passes out. Again.”

“Yes, but why come here?” he asked. “Surely your friends are all out celebrating.”

She sighed, mouth flattening.

“Yeah, they are,” she said. “That’s kind of the problem. They’re all out dancing and singing Christmas songs and having the time of their lives.”

“And?”

“And I don’t think I can put on an act for the whole evening,” she said. “I figured you were probably as lonely and miserable as I was, and you wouldn’t care if I wasn’t smiling and happy and full of the festive spirit. You gonna let me in?”

Rush sighed heavily.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, well, neither is drinking alone, brooding over shit you can’t fix and letting yet another Christmas pass you by while you dwell on the past and wonder when the hell your life went down the toilet.”

His mouth twitched.

“Have you been looking through my window, or something?”

“Didn’t need to,” she said, and put her head to the side. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Well then.”

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling awkward.

“You know, my neighbour is having a party,” he said. “Why don’t you go and knock on his door? He’d welcome you in with open arms, I’m sure.”

“The guy with the top hat?” She smiled ruefully. “He yelled out of the window that I was gorgeous and offered me a drink.”

“Well then.”

“Like I said, not really in the party mood.” Belle shifted from foot to foot. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see, but we kind of left things on a - weird - note, and I wanted to fix it. You’re the only person I know that can understand how I’m feeling about everything. Sorry if that means I make you uncomfortable.”

Rush let out a sigh. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault. None of it’s anyone’s fault, really. A mistake, that’s all.

“You don’t,” he said. “It’s - it’s not your fault I’m uncomfortable, is it? It’s the situation.”

“I guess.”

She looked thoroughly miserable, and Rush could feel himself wanting to do something about it, wanting to help her. He stepped back, holding open the door.

“Alright,” he said. “Come on in.”

Belle smiled briefly, and stepped past him into the apartment. He closed the door behind her, wondering what the hell he was doing. She was shrugging out of her coat, and beneath it she wore a knitted red dress trimmed with white faux fur to match the hat on her head.

“You look - festive,” he remarked, and she shrugged, looking around the apartment.

“More than can be said for this place,” she said. “Don’t you celebrate?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Fair enough.” Belle draped her coat over the arm of the couch and sat down, looking up at him expectantly. “You got anything to drink?”

“Your fake I.D. isn’t gonna work on me this time,” he said, in a dry tone, and she rolled her eyes.

“Come on, it’s Christmas, give me a break.”

“I’ve only got whisky.”

“That’ll do.”

Rush shrugged, and went to pour her a glass, topping up his own. Belle took the glass with a smile of thanks, taking a sip and wrinkling her nose a little at the taste. Perhaps she didn’t like it. Perhaps she would decide that Jefferson’s party would yield more in the way of distractions, and leave. He wasn’t sure whether it would be a relief or not. She slumped onto the couch, whisky sloshing in the glass, and after a moment of debating whether he should take the chair, he sat down next to her.

“So,” she said. “This is your Christmas Eve, huh?”

“Beats last year,” he said.

“What did you do last year?”

“Drank myself into oblivion, mostly.”

“Oh.” She raised a brow, followed by her glass. “Well, the night is young.”

Rush barked a laugh at that, and took a sip of his drink.

“I’m not gonna repeat it, don’t worry.”

“Don’t care if you do,” she said. “I’ll just put you in the recovery position and bugger off home.”

“Good to know.”

“Just don’t expect me to clean up after you,” she added. “Get enough of that at home, thanks.”

Rush wasn’t sure whether their conversation was amusing or depressing, and decided to change the subject.

“Have you made any decisions on college yet?” he asked, and her mouth twisted. She took another drink.

“I’m staying in Boston.”

“Oh, well, Boston’s a good university,” he said. “What are you gonna study?”

Belle was silent for a moment. She took a drink of her whisky and sat back, not quite looking at him.

“I’m not,” she said. “At least - at least not just yet. I’m gonna look for work. Things have been pretty tight lately, and I can’t really afford college on top of that, you know?”

“Oh.” He took a sip of whisky. “Any idea what job you want?”

“One that pays actual Earth money, for sure,” she said. “Internships may be the way to a bright future, but they’re only for people who’ve never stressed over making rent or putting food in the cupboards. So I guess I’ll be learning how to make coffee and serve up burgers and fries real soon.”

That was a shame. He knew how daunting the thought of a large student loan must be, but it seemed a pity to let such a bright young mind wither under the strain of holding down whatever minimum wage job she managed to get.

“What does your father say about it?” he asked, and she sighed. 

“Given the terrible state of the college fund he was supposed to be keeping for me, I doubt he’s given it much thought.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing it didn’t sound so trite.

“Well, I wouldn’t be the first person who had to make their own way in this world,” she said, with what seemed to be an attempt at positivity. “Isn’t this supposed to be the land where anyone can make it if they try hard enough? Or is that just what it used to be?”

“I’m not sure it ever was,” he said, taking a drink. “Not if you start with nothing, anyway.”

“Yeah.” 

Belle lapsed into silence, gazing into her drink. The muffled sound of Christmas music was coming through the walls from Jefferson’s party, punctuated with shrieks of laughter. It made a strange contrast to the heavy atmosphere in the apartment.

“Will you celebrate tomorrow?” he asked, and she pulled a face.

“I’ll cook a turkey and trimmings, and Dad’ll eat it,” she said. “He might even do the washing up, if his hangover isn’t too bad. Then I guess he’ll drink his way down another bottle of cheap bourbon while he watches terrible television and falls asleep in his chair.”

“Sounds like a difficult situation for you to deal with.”

Belle sighed, sitting back.

“He’s not a bad person,” she said. “Just - kind of lost. Broken. I guess it’s hard to see a way out when you’re looking at a wall the whole time.”

“Doesn’t help you though, does it?”

“Why do you think I’m here, and not there?” she asked wryly.

Why are you here? Why are you really here?

“Has your father considered getting any professional help for his grief?” he asked, and she took a sip of whisky, sending him a long look.

“Have you?”

Rush pulled a face, and she gave him a knowing smile.

“I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“Not sure whether talking would help,” he admitted.

“Talking almost always helps,” she said. “Better form of therapy than drinking.”

“Or casual sex with strangers?”

Belle’s mouth flattened.

“That wasn’t therapy,” she said. “It was - solace, I suppose.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I suppose it was.”

Silence fell again. He finished his whisky, and debated whether to pour another. A pleasant warmth had settled in his body, a light-headed looseness as he began to relax. Belle drained her glass, licking her lips.

“If you’re having another, I wouldn’t say no,” she said.

Fuck it. What harm can it do?

He got up to fetch the bottle, pouring a measure for each of them, and sat down next to her again. Belle stretched out her legs with a sigh, sinking further back into the cushions.

“You said you moved up here from California,” she said. “Do you miss it?”

“The weather here matches my mood more,” he said, and she chuckled.

“Well, I guess there’s that,” she said. “Will you go back?”

“Eventually,” he said. “It’s only a sabbatical.”

“Has it helped?”

He thought about that for a moment.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “But it’s still too early to go back. Maybe I’ll stay another year, if I’m needed.”

“You could always try somewhere else,” she suggested. “Another university, I mean, not a school. Total change of scene. You could go back to Scotland.”

“Maybe.”

He rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the light gleam in the amber depths of the whisky. Jefferson’s guests were now singing Happy Holiday, loud and off-key but cheerfully, and it was making him feel even more morose. He curled his lip a little, lifting his glass to take a drink. Belle glanced across at him.

“Do you want to go to bed?” she asked, and Rush almost choked on his whisky.

“What?” he spluttered, eyes watering.

“Never mind.”

She settled back against the cushions, chewing her lip, and Rush put down his glass, wiping a few stray droplets of whisky from his shirt. There was a moment of silence before she turned to look at him again.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Rush stared at her, and she met his gaze, raising her chin a little as though preparing to counter whatever argument he could come with. 

“Is this you seeking more solace?” he asked, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Maybe. Is that bad?”

“I’m not sure you should be seeking it with me, that’s all,” he said. “Why don’t you find someone your own age?”

“Because I know with you it’ll be good, that’s why.”

Rush grumbled under his breath.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly.

“Two times in four months isn’t exactly a habit, is it?”

“Belle…” He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face.

“Is that a no?”

Rush slumped back, turning his head to gaze at her. She had put down her glass and turned onto her side a little, nestled on the couch with her knees drawn up, big-eyed and sad. He felt a powerful urge to protect her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. There was a less altruistic urge there too, an urge to kiss her sweet mouth, to pull her into his bed and lose himself in her soft heat again. Belle reached up, one warm hand cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking over the stubble with a soft, rasping sound.

“If you don’t want me, just tell me to go,” she whispered, and he shook his head.

“I can’t do that,” he said softly.

“Then can I stay?”

Rush swallowed hard, his heart thumping. She licked her lips a little nervously, and his eyes followed the pass of her tongue, watching the gleam of saliva on her plump lower lip. He badly wanted to kiss her, and she seemed to sense it, her breath coming harder, her eyes growing dark. He reached up to stroke a stray hair back from her cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, and Belle leaned into his touch, nuzzling his palm as her eyes locked on his.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He leaned in, fingers sliding into her hair as his mouth found hers, his tongue gently sliding between her soft lips. The taste of her sparked a memory of having her in his bed, of being deep inside her, feeling her clench around him as she came. He let out a low groan, deepening the kiss, and Belle ran her hands up his chest and shoulders to sink into his hair as her tongue stroked against his. She moaned, shifting to press herself against him, and the kiss grew messy and frantic, his lips sliding against hers as his cock hardened in his jeans. Belle pulled her mouth free with a gasp, and he tried to catch his breath, hands cradling her head and his forehead pressed to hers. He could feel her breath, cool against his wet lips, and her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“Take me to bed,” she breathed. “Take me to bed and fuck me hard.”

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Much Ado About Boosh

Author: xThursdayNextx

Year: 2009

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Howince

“How dare you, sir! We share a true and unique bond.” “Do you really,” Vince said sarcastically, chewing gum, pulling a face at Howard across the counter. “Yes indeed.” “Have you kissed her then?” Vince enquired. “I’ll take that as a no,” he added smugly, when Howard avoided the question. “Just because we choose not to leap headlong into a physical relationship…” Howard drew himself up, glaring back at Vince, “Like some people…” “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean!” Vince protested, bristling under Howard’s supercilious stare. “You know perfectly well. You no sooner speak to a girl than you have your tongue down her throat.” “Well what am I meant to do with a girl, have hour long conversations about philosophy like you and…what did you say her name was?” Howard mumbled something Vince couldn’t quite catch and looked shifty. “Oh lordy,” Vince’s face broke out into a grin, “You don’t even know, do you? Howard, have you ever actually even spoken to her?” Across the shop floor, Naboo shook his head. “These two are doing my head in, Bollo. There’s got to be something we can do to stop this constant bickering.” “Uh-huh,” Bollo agreed. “Hang on a minute,” Naboo clutched Bollo’s arm with one hand, the other flying to his temple. “Bollo, come with me, I think I’m having an idea.” “I got a bad feeling about this.” * “Alright, Naboo? Bollo said you wanted to see me.” “Sit down, Vince.” “What’s up?” “Vince, it’s about Howard,” Naboo said seriously. “What about Howard?” “You’ve been a bit mean to him recently.” “Aw, only a little bit. We’ve all been a bit mean. He does ask for it. And you’ve got to admit, it is pretty funny.” Naboo lapsed into a smile. “Yeah, it is pretty funny… I mean, no,” he corrected himself, resuming his serious face, the one usually reserved for Shamanic rituals and the days the rent was due. “Vince, the thing is… Howard’s in love with you.” “He’s what?” Vince pulled a disbelieving face. Naboo rolled his eyes. He should have pencilled in more time to go through things with Vince, he’d forgotten how slow he could be. “Howard. Is in love. With you.” “With…me? Are you sure? I mean, people do tend to fancy me, I can’t help that, but… Howard?” “Here’s a poem he wrote.” Naboo handed Vince a slip of paper. On it was one of the poems Howard had written about Mrs Gideon, with her name tippexed out and Vince’s name scrawled on in Bollo’s handwriting. Vince read it, eyebrows reaching new peaks of being raised in horror. “This is too weird,” he said, flinging down the piece of paper, “I’ve got to get out of here.” Scrambling to his feet he fled the room and the flat. * “Naboo, Naboo, have you seen Vince? He’s meant to be helping me out in the shop and I haven’t seen him for three hours. It’s my tea break!” “Sit down Howard,” Naboo instructed. “What’s wrong?” “It’s about Vince.” “What’s that little tit-box done now?” “Howard, listen to me. Vince is in love with you.” “Oh I should have known he… Wait. What did you say?” Howard’s head jerked up in surprised confusion. Naboo rolled his eyes, he’d thought Howard was a little quicker on the uptake than Vince, but clearly that was not the case. “Vince is in love with you,” Naboo repeated patiently. “Oh. Oh.” Howard seemed to contemplate this for some time. “Poor little man!” he exclaimed at last, “Pining for me all this time, covering up his longing with insults about my person and clothing. Well, I can’t say I blame him. I mean, I do have a certain rugged charm and a magnetic personality which must be pretty difficult to resist but I never imagined…” “Yeah, Howard, do you mind doing this little monologue on your own time? It’s just that I’m a bit busy.” “Oh, right. Sorry Naboo. Thanks for telling me. Guess maybe I should be a little bit more patient with him from now on, eh?” “Yes! Now you’re getting it.” Naboo shook his head at Howard’s departing back. Now, finally, maybe he would be able to get some peace from their constant bickering. With any luck they would be feeling too awkward to say anything more to each other than ‘pass the salt, please’. For about a day and a half of bliss, it all worked brilliantly. Awkward, as he’d predicted, Vince and Howard barely spoke to each other. Giving each other sly, appraising glances whenever they thought the other one wasn’t looking, jumping each time the other came near them, apologising excessively if they went to go through a doorway at the same time, or reached for the biscuit tin together. “Cup of tea?” “’S alright, I’ll get it.” “I insist.” “’S fine, honest.” Before silence reigned again. Howard couldn’t help noticing that Vince was unusually quiet. No stories about talking wardrobes or racoons stealing his straightening irons. He also couldn’t help noticing that Vince kept looking at him from beneath his fringe. He felt unaccountably sorry for him. For he, too, had known the pain of an unreciprocated feelings, once upon a time. Perhaps he had been a bit hard on him, recently. It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit nicer. Then the train of thought failed to stop in the station and kept chuffing along…what if he were to ask Vince for a drink? Strictly as friends, of course. Talk to him and let him know that while he respected him as a friend, it could never be more than that. Let him down gently. Yes, that might be a plan, he mused. Vince couldn’t help noticing that Howard seemed unusually thoughtful. He could feel his eyes on him whenever he wasn’t looking. Well creepy. He wondered with a curious fascination how long this whole thing had been going on. He remembered Howard telling him about some unattainable girl just the other day. Had that all been a cover for his love for him? He cast his mind further back with a bit of effort and remembered Howard in a cave in the Arctic telling Vince he loved him. Quite a long time, then. And although it was really, hopelessly funny, Vince forced himself not to laugh. He almost felt sorry for him, actually. Vince was startled from his thoughts by the appearance of Howard, closer than he’d expected, coughing politely. He jumped a little. “Vince, I…” Howard stalled. “I wondered if you wanted to go for a drink tonight, after work?” Vince’s eyes widened. Was Howard asking him out on a date? Shit, his brain cell screamed. “Look, Howard, the thing is, I…” Vince looked up. At his best friend, looking at him all nervous and awkward. He couldn’t just break his heart, could he? Maybe he should go, let him down gently. “Alright,” he conceded. “Just a drink, yeah?” “Just a drink,” Howard said, a little less firmly than he’d intended. * Vince downed three rum and cokes without even looking at Howard. Howard, perched awkwardly on the edge of the leather bench, polished off two and a half bottles of beer before gathering up the courage to speak. “Look, Vince,” he said suddenly, “The thing is, you and me, we have very different… feelings. And I can’t help what I feel and you can’t help what you feel. But we’ve always been friends, haven’t we?” “Yeah,” Vince said in a squeak, “We have.” He swung round to look at Howard. “And sometimes friendships turn into… something more. And sometimes they… don’t.” “Most times they don’t,” nodded Vince seriously. Howard thought he could detect a note of sadness in Vince’s eyes and felt a pang of pity. Awkwardly, he placed a friendly hand on his arm. “The important thing is, we know what we want, right?” Vince felt himself shiver. Howard was coming on to him! Oh god, what should he do? Be kind but firm, that was it. “I know what I want, Howard,” he said firmly. Howard felt a jolt at this seeming declaration of desire. Must have it bad, poor little man, he was trembling under Howard’s touch. Howard withdrew his hand with a sigh. “You don’t want me,” he said softly, “I’m older than you and we don’t like any of the same things. I’m not fashionable enough. I’d only embarrass you.” Hopefully this would be enough to persuade Vince of the folly of his love. He looked down, not wanting to see the rejection in Vince’s eyes. Vince, however, felt suddenly sorry for him after this little speech and now laid a hand on Howard’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, Howard, 50’s not that old! And clothes don’t matter. Well, ok, they really do, but underneath all that you’re a good looking guy. You’d make a great catch!” “What if I don’t want to be caught?” Howard replied, tensing up at Vince’s reference to what was underneath his clothes, acutely aware of Vince’s hand on his shoulder still but not wanting to be too forceful in his rejection, he didn’t want to hurt Vince’s feelings more than he had to. Their eyes met then, and Vince felt his heart ache for Howard. It didn’t seem funny at all, now, just sad. Had Howard been waiting for him all this time? Was that why he never had a girlfriend – or boyfriend? Why he kept wittering on about unattainable women? “Howard,” he said seriously, “You’re a great guy. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” And surprised himself by meaning it. “Thank you Vince,” Howard said, swallowing nervously at Vince’s proximity, “It’s really kind of you.” “I mean it,” Vince said, reaching for Howard’s hand with his free hand and squeezing it. “I know,” Howard said hoarsely, still unable to get the words ‘don’t touch me’ to pass his lips. He found he couldn’t bear to hurt Vince, not when he was so vulnerable. “You’re a great guy, too, Vince,” he said honestly, “You’re funny, and sweet and caring and… and beautiful. I mean every word.” And he really, truly did. Just then, Howard thought, if it was possible to make yourself love someone, he wished he could make himself love Vince. Vince licked his lips nervously, an idea forming. Surely it wouldn’t hurt just to give Howard a little kiss. A little kiss wasn’t a big deal. Just to show him that he was worth something. He leaned in slowly. Howard couldn’t move. Vince was going to kiss him. Vince! It was all kinds of wrong, but still, he couldn’t move, couldn’t protest. One little kiss wouldn’t hurt, surely. Their lips met, softly bumping together. It was unusual, Howard reflected, but not unpleasant. In fact, it was quite nice. Maybe even something he could get used to. After all, Vince loved him, they were already friends, Vince was quite pretty and it wasn’t, if he was brutally honest with himself, as if people were exactly queuing up to go out with him… Experimentally, he flicked out his tongue, tasting Vince’s lips. He felt rather than heard Vince gasp and allow him entrance. He deepened the kiss, one hand reaching carefully out to touch Vince’s hair, ever so slightly. This action seemed to jolt Vince back to his senses and he pulled away with a gasp, eyes dark with a mixture of desire and surprise. “Well, that was…” He breathed. “Yeah…” Howard agreed, resting his forehead against Vince’s. Vince shivered. “Howard, I’m sorry…” “I’m not,” Howard said, and kissed Vince again. Vince made a small eep of surprise but surrendered to the kiss. It was, after all, just a kiss. Just an ‘I love you but not in that way, sorry’ kiss. It was Howard that pulled away this time, leaving Vince wondering at himself. “Um… I think that’s… sorry.” Howard shuffled away. He couldn’t go any further, he couldn’t. He needed more time to assess the situation before crossing any more boundaries, that much was for certain. “It’s ok,” Vince assured him. He hadn’t minded Howard kissing him. He liked kissing, and Howard wasn’t half bad. But something somewhere beneath his epicurean surface, Vince recognised that kissing your best mate who was in love with you, just because it felt nice, was a little bit wrong. Vince didn’t wrestle with moral dilemmas too often, but even he knew that that might count as leading Howard on. Somehow, however, he didn’t seem to be able to stop. The next day, they were just finishing cashing up in the shop when Howard gave him an awkward peck on the lips, which somehow turned into a full-blown snog without either of them really intending it to happen. Howard, having got a taste for it, was pretty eager. And Vince, much against what little better judgement he had, found himself giving in. That week they found themselves kissing in the stockroom whenever Naboo and Bollo went out. Holding hands beneath the counter. Cuddling in doorways. “Cup of tea, dear?” It was quite easy, really, this going out lark, Howard decided. It wasn’t really that hard to be nice to Vince, after all. Vince blushed and looked embarrassed every time he asked, but Howard remembered his hands on him in the stockroom, the taste of his lips, his breathless sighs. “Tea’d be nice, cheers,” Vince said timidly. This really should stop. But it was kind of nice, having Howard be nice to him for a change. Not to mention the feel of his arms around him, his lips on his, the way he knew the exact spot on Howard’s neck which made him moan loudly if he licked and nibbled at it. The trouble was, all that was rapidly becoming not enough anymore and they both knew it. When they rubbed frantically against each other when they kissed, when the cuddling in the doorway turned to groping, when Vince’s hand holding Howard’s under the table slipped from his grasp and climbed up his thigh, they both knew it was getting out of hand. “I want you, Howard,” Vince whined, as Howard kissed his neck, hands running over his chest beneath his shirt. They were in the kitchen, pressed up against the fridge, trying not to arouse the suspicion of Naboo who was in his room. “Come to bed with me,” he whispered, breath hot against Howard’s ear. Howard swallowed, his head spinning as he considered. “Ok,” he said quietly in a small voice, “Yes. Ok.” Holding hands Vince led him into the bedroom and pulled him down onto the bed, straddling him. Slowly he unbuttoned Howard’s shirt and kissed his chest. Howard wrapped his arms around him and sighed against his ear, “God, Vince…” “I want you so much,” Vince said, breathing ragged. “I… I never thought…” Howard panted as he pulled Vince’s top up over his head, “When Naboo told me you were in love with me, I never thought I would ever feel the same, but I lo…” “Hold on,” Vince splayed one hand on Howard’s chest and held him back, the romantic atmosphere splintering sharply. “What did you say?” “When Naboo told me you were in love with me?” Howard repeated, confused. Vince climbed off him and clutched his shirt to his chest. “Naboo told me that you were in love with me!” Vince protested. Howard gave him a sick look, feeling as though someone had reached down and pulled out his intestines through his throat. And that’s never pleasant. Vince grabbed his hand and pulled him off the bed, dragging him shirtless into Naboo’s room. “Naboo!” Vince yelled furiously as he burst in, followed by a bewildered and dishevelled Howard, “You told me Howard was in love with me!” “And you told me Vince was in love with me!” Howard put in. “Oh. Yeah, I did.” Naboo remembered, looking up from his hookah. “Why?” Howard cried. “To get you to stop bickering with each other all the time,” Naboo shrugged. “But the amount of work you’ve got done this past week I think I might as well not have bothered.” “You…” Howard’s hands clenched with anger. “This is unbelievable!” “So…you weren’t in love with me, then?” Vince asked at last, turning to Howard, voice flat. “No, not at all, I…” “Fine,” Vince snapped, “Good. I don’t love you either!” And he stormed out of the room. Howard and Naboo were still standing there when they heard the distant slam of a door. “Thanks Naboo, funny joke, haha,” Howard said, sick at heart. “It was pretty funny, yeah,” Naboo smiled and then looked serious again as he took in the wounded look on Howard’s face. “But answer me one question; if you weren’t in love after all, how come you both came in here with your tops off?” He peered curiously at Howard. “And how come you look like you’re about to cry?” * They didn’t speak to each other for two days. Any of them. Not even ‘pass the salt’. It was all wounded looks and resentful glares. After that Naboo decided it was worse than when they were bickering and took off with Bollo on his magic carpet for a holiday. Late that night, Howard was sat on the edge of his bed, getting undressed when Vince shuffled in and sat down beside him. “Alright?” “Not really,” Howard replied. “Howard?” “Yeah?” “The other day. We were going to have sex. Weren’t we? “It certainly seemed to be heading in that direction, yes,” Howard said bitterly. “And you hadn’t done it before?” “Not properly,” Howard admitted, repressing some memories he’d rather not recall involving Eleanor and Tony Harrison. “And you… you didn’t love me, but you did all that stuff, making me cups of tea and you were going to let me… you know, even though… I mean, you did all that, for me.” “Yes.” He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Vince. He felt a soft hand slip hesitantly into his. “Howard?” At last he turned, to find Vince looking at him, eyes full of need. Vince leaned across and his lips brushed against Howard’s. “Could we just pretend?” Vince whispered, “That we were still… just for one night? Please. I can’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t we just pretend?” He kissed him then, sweet and tempting but Howard wrenched away from the kiss. “No,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t pretend, Vince.” He closed his eyes. It hurt too much to even look at him. Vince gave a disappointed sigh and the bedsprings creaked as he got up to leave. He paused at the door. “You did it before,” Vince called from the door way. “When you thought...You did before.” Something in Howard snapped. “That was different! Because I cared about you, you idiot! I thought you loved me. I just wanted to make you happy. I thought I could love you back, that we could be together, properly. But you, what were you doing? Just messing around? Just jumping into bed with me even though you knew how much it would mean to me, just for… for what, for fun?” “It wasn’t like that!” Vince protested. “You’re just a stupid little tart!” Howard yelled, “I can’t believe I ever thought I could have loved you!” Vince slammed the door on his way out.

[exalok]

44 with Corvo/Daud please?

(sorry about the wait!!!! and i outdid myself againit might not follow the prompt very accurately though, and there is a whole lot of sad incoming; i will attempt to write happy things nextwarnings: canon-typical violence, nsfw, Daud for worst fuckin relationship management skills)

—

Kaldwin’s Bridge was…

For months, Corvo had struggled to put into words what, exactly, he felt when he looked down.

Once, he had been reminded of hiking to a mountainous ledge above Karnaca. Seeing the city, the parts he knew to be his and he was chased from as a child, spread like a tiered slope below him… but no. Kaldwin Bridge was no mountain—at most, it was like the edge of a cliff, though colder, perhaps. Grayer. Sometimes, the grand structure swayed under him with a hollow, groaning ripple of sound.

The wind, at least, was familiar.

It had been even grander than everyone had told him, the first time he saw it—and exactly as lonely as he needed, after his mother died. The knot of that loss still stung when he breathed.

The metal stung his palms as he climbed, and the breeze tugged at his coat, damp and chill, carrying the smell of the river; he was getting used to the difference between the smell of the Grand Serkonan Canal and that of the Wrenhaven, thick and oily.

His eyes were fixed at the top to map his way. He noted, most of his focus on not falling, that the Bridge’s heights were less unoccupied than usual.

The other man didn’t turn when Corvo stepped up onto the last platform. His hand, however, was conspicuously tucked inside the front of his jacket. The hair prickling at Corvo’s nape told him it wasn’t just for the cold.

“Hey,” he said, friendly as he could make the word when the wind snuffed out most sounds, and sat at a careful distance overlooking the edge. Gangs were mundane to someone who’d grown in Batista, and Gristol gangs couldn’t be all that different; nothing would happen if he kept polite. “I don’t often see anyone else up here.” He glanced over.

Gray eyes—the man’s head had tilted just enough to shoot him a look. The sharp line of his cheekbone cut against the clouded sky. Corvo observed that he’d withdrawn his hand, that he had on an Academic’s robes under the jacket, and that he was, under the wary hunch and the thick break in his nose, confusingly pretty.

Corvo was staring. Polite. He went back to watching the long, winding rush of the river far below.

“Likewise,” the other man said, and Corvo perked immediately at his accent.

“You’re Serkonan?”

He squinted, suspicious, but still he said, “Yeah. Cullero.”

“Karnaca. I’ve never been to Cullero.”

A twist of his mouth, his eyes drifting back to the void and the city stretching out.

“… There’s a lot of vineyards,” he said, deadpan. Corvo snorted.

They lapsed into silence. Corvo didn’t mind—silence was what he came up here for, silence and distance. It wasn’t so much that he had less free time—being a guard had kept him well-occupied—but spending much of his workday bumping elbows with the Court, its side-eyes, its nagging whispers, left him desperate for anything but eyes on him. Six months now, and he was nowhere nearer making himself a place among them, even with the title of Royal Protector under his belt.

His jaw clenched. He had an inkling no amount of time would make a difference.

“You’re at the Academy, right?” Corvo asked to distract himself from the thought. He had leaned back on his hands, his feet dangling out over empty space, entirely unconcerned with appearances. If there was anywhere he needn’t care about upholding the image of a Royal Protector, it was here. When he glanced over again, the other man was looking back—gray eyes steady, measuring. “What is it like?”

“Busy,” he said, biting and concise.

Corvo huffed. “I’ve heard you keep creatures from all over the Isles—Pandyssia, even—and that you study magic. Is that true? Or do the Overseers reach even there?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” The words were precise, cutting, but Corvo wouldn’t have gotten this far if he let a little intimidation work on him. Still, when he reached for his reasons—my mother used to tell me stories—he found himself keeping the words back.

His teeth clicked together. He shrugged. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Mm.” The other man watched him a moment longer; as the suspicion left his face, his eyes grew no softer, but went dark with a strange curiosity. He curled forward, his chin propped on his fist, contemplating the gray expanse of the city. “The animals are all hunting trophies; mounted, donated, and left to gather dust in the Great Hall. No magic that I’ve seen.” His lips pursed in thought. “We dissected a corpse yesterday, though.”

“A corpse.” What did the Academy have need of a corpse for? The man spoke with a vague detachment, beyond the dispassion of someone who had already seen his fair share of dead bodies.

“Murder victim. I think the lecturer has an arrangement with the Watch,” he added, giving no further explanation. The corner of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a second, the motion reaching the corner of his eye—then he turned to Corvo, all business again. “And you? Taking a winter vacation? It doesn’t even snow here.”

Corvo shook his head, and paused, considering his answer. There had been no drawings of his face printed in the paper when it was announced who had been chosen as the heir’s Royal Protector, and if this man didn’t know, then Corvo wasn’t keen on finding out how much his attitude would change on finding out.

“… I’m here for work. Got a contract as a personal bodyguard.”

The other man regarded him a short moment. “Condolences.” When Corvo turned to him, confused, he smirked. “In my experience, no one who can afford a personal bodyguard is pleasant to be around.”

Corvo’s smile twitched open with a laugh.

When they parted, Corvo asked his name, and by the time Corvo reached the ground climbing down after him Daud was already gone.

There was no sign of him the rest of the week: Kaldwin’s Bridge stood empty, a high whistle of wind Corvo’s only company.

Those few evenings off were odd, and instead of steadying him, they left him feeling off-balance. It was entirely different, somehow, from when he found himself thinking too deep of his district in Karnaca, or his mother’s face through the window, bent over her sewing work. Once, he spent an hour staring down into the growing dark, and realized when the brightest stars sparked overhead that he’d been waiting, and watching for a drab jacket and short-cropped hair.

His hands had been stiff with cold. The climb down was a harrowing one. Back at the Tower, he decided he would forget about it.

The week after, on the same day, there came a voice below his feet as he stood at the bridge’s highest accessible spire. “Hey! Bodyguard.”

He looked down. The man in the Academy robes waved from the lower platform. Corvo smiled.

Daud kept to a tight schedule, and the dorms were often strictly regulated; this was one of the few days he could make his way up here. He liked the heights, he said. It reminded him of home.

“Yeah,” Corvo answered, and tried to remember whether there were mountains around Cullero.

There was a shiny new scar on the back of Daud’s hand, slick and red like a burn.

“Krust acid,” he said when Corvo asked. They’d been studying the chemical properties of the stuff, and he hadn’t been careful enough tipping it into the beaker. “Chemistry isn’t my specialty.”

“You have specialties?”

“Sure. The Masters generally have one, sometimes two. That’s how sponsorships work.”

“What’s yours then?”

“Nothing,” Daud said, and grinned dark and narrow. “I’m a disappointment.”

Corvo laughed, a little uneasy, but Daud didn’t seem to hold it against him. He only stared back out across the river. The sinking sun, reflecting off the river in great colored splashes of light, edged his eyelashes and the line of his nose in ochre.

If he had been a painter, Corvo thought, he might have known how to… keep it, some small piece, more solid than a memory—but memory would have to do.

They happened across each other again, of course. Every time, Corvo pretended it was a pleasant surprise, and that he hadn’t entirely expected Daud to be there. (Sometimes it was, and he hadn't—but it wasn’t often.) The other man would look at him a little askance, and quiet, like he knew. Like he didn’t mind. Hope tangled with perception and Corvo was never really sure how much he believed what he wanted to see.

The days grew colder, and Corvo climbed.

“And your work?” Daud asked once, having detailed the procedure for extracting whale oil. Strange and complex words swum around Corvo’s head, sounds detached from meaning. He had been tentatively imagining moving closer, so there might be less than a foot of space between them.

“My work?”

“Your charge. Any assassination attempts recently?”

Corvo felt the sharp ratcheting of tension in his own chest like an electric shock—had Daud guessed? Corvo still hadn’t told him the truth of his position, and though he no longer believed it might inspire violence it seemed so awkward to mention it now, and he had seen too many turn fawning after his appointment to entirely trust it would change nothing between them—

He let his caught breath go, forcing himself to relax. Something had flashed across the man’s face, maybe at Corvo’s telling pause, but there was no accusation in the words.

Corvo could tell him, maybe. He would undoubtedly find out, anyway; the heir’s Protector would be as familiar a face as the Emperor’s in due time—but his reluctance held. This place, this man—they were far from the life he’d been dropped into. He didn’t want that distance to close.

“Smooth sailing for now,” he said; then, thinking of the Parliamentary hearings and the council meetings and the endless amount of dignitaries he’d been introduced to and told to stoically receive, he added, “A lot of posturing, mostly.”

“Isn’t it always.” Corvo shot him a glance, uncertain what he meant. Daud gestured vaguely at the district below them. “High society.”

Corvo shrugged. “More because of her father than her. She’s only thirteen.” But learning fast. She kept to the sidelines less and less, though the Emperor didn’t tolerate any interruptions. They were mirror images when they stood side by side: backs straight, heads high with a noble tilt, not the military stiffness he knew—but in terms of ideas, even he could see the friction in their difference. He let himself smile a little.

When he glanced over at Daud he caught only the tail end of a fixed and searching stare.

“Corvo,” Daud said, and Corvo almost startled. Since Daud had only given him one name, he’d done the same, but the using of it was rare enough he still found it a surprise. “How long until your contract ends?”

“… A while,” Corvo decided. It took effort to tell himself this wasn’t entirely an untruth.

Daud turned back to him. His eyes were the exact same color as the overcast day. “I��m leaving at the end of winter. Thought I might go on a tour of the Isles.”

For a moment, Corvo only watched him. He had switched the jacket to a short, scuffed blue coat sometime in the last week. It was getting too cold for anything else.

“I might not understand much of what you tell me, about what you do in the Academy,” he said, picking the words out slow, “But I don’t think you’re doing badly enough they’ll kick you out after one season.”

“You can come with if you’re interested,” Daud continued, staunchly ignoring him.

“I’m serious. That last exam, the one you said—you told me it was the only one you failed, why would they—”

“There are wolves if you go deep enough into the Tyvian steppes. We could see a pack if we get there during the thaw—”

“Daud—”

“You like this city as much as that?” he sneered, gaze flat and dismissive, and Corvo looked at him helpless and lost.

“My job isn’t one I can exactly walk away from,” he said finally. Daud snorted.

“You climbed up here. What can anyone do to stop you?”

Corvo didn’t answer. For a while, silence rolled between them like morning fog on the Wrenhaven, thick and weighted. A hiss as Daud breathed through his teeth.

“I’m bored of the Academy,” he said. “At the end of Ice, I’m catching a boat to Dabovka.”

The sky fell slowly into dark.

A couple more evenings passed, their conversations careful, passed between them like something too heavy, too delicate. Some days Corvo didn’t even try climbing up; the end of Ice loomed, and he imagined it liked a butcher’s knife poised over the cutting block, ready to cut them apart. He knew it was foolish, knew that his mother being an ocean and an island away had made no difference to the sickness of her leaving—and still, he wanted distance to cushion the blow.

But then—the Empress—

His charge was distraught. He hadn’t seen her crying, and she didn’t walk the Tower with reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks.; at most, her voice was a little weaker—but he hadn’t gone through months of the same without being able to recognize grief in someone else’s face.

The girl refused to speak of it, and so when evenings came there was nothing he could do but escape.

On the last day of Ice, he climbed the bridge and found Daud there, sitting at the edge of the platform, still in his coat though the weather was warming. Corvo waited, a hanging second, for him to turn and either glare for the weeks-long absence or invite him closer with one of those quiet looks.

Daud did neither. Corvo should have expected it; he sat anyway, a long meter between them.

Below, the Wrenhaven was high with meltwater from inland. Every hour for the past four days the bells of the clocktower had tolled the death of the Empress, and they did so again now, clear and ringing. Perhaps the city didn’t mourn—the Empress had never been a popular one, mostly absent from the front of the scene, dwarfed by her husband—but it wasn’t about to forget that it was meant to.

Corvo didn’t look over at the sound of shifting. If Daud left, he would only be back in his old loneliness, exactly as far from the world as he needed.

“You look like a sick dog,” Daud said, and Corvo almost laughed. The blunt edge of his words might have hurt more if Corvo didn’t welcome them. “What happened?”

“You dissect many sick dogs, in your Academy?” he asked, and curled his own lip at himself. Too acerbic. Too— Too much. His breath formed a ball in his throat, hard to breathe around and unpleasantly familiar, reminding him of times he had bubbled with something unnameable and the pressure had forced tears from his eyes.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He didn’t want to have to explain his stupid not-secrets. He wanted—

He wanted, strangely, to speak of his mother.

Why now? Because someone else’s had died? Four days the bells had rung for this one, and he hardly knew whether his had a grave, or if he’d visit it someday. Below him, gray and opaque, the river. He imagined speaking her name, and it falling from his mouth like a krust-pearl into the river.

(He remembered the Duke saying, How would you like to work in Dunwall, Lieutenant? and didn’t know what he had looked like but it must’ve been a right fool when he said, Your— Your Grace, I’d be honored, and his mother had wrung her hands and pinched his between them and she’d kissed his cheek on the dock before he left. He hadn’t looked back. His eyes had been on the horizon.)

Words crowded his tongue and he clenched his teeth around them. Daud was leaving, he thought with a sour surge of anger that dulled just as quick. He didn’t need any of this to weigh him down. Corvo held himself still, hunched, his hands clenched together, until his stiffness turned to trembling with the cold.

Daud said nothing more, and left first, as the mist curled along the Wrenhaven.

*

He doesn’t think he’s seeing things.

By which he means he doesn’t think he dreamed the figure he has been seeing in the corner of his eye, perched on chimneys or, when night falls, the dark tops of lampposts, since he first caught sight of it in the high struts of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He just isn’t sure where it disappears to when he turns. If he’s right, it followed him until he passed the gates of Dunwall Tower once. He’s been on guard since.

It’s always the politics. Jessamine may mock his distaste for it, but he understands enough: strange furtive figures around the seat of power mean bad news for the royal family. Whoever it is might be after Euhorn, or after Corvo’s charge—there was all that trouble around rights to the throne the year before, and an opponent might get rid of his heir now that Euhorn had lost the Empress and was making no moves to remarry— Or maybe it even has to do with those two, Roseburrow and Sokolov, and the whale oil—

Corvo shrugs it off. He understands, for the most part, but he can’t stand any of it. Euhorn’s Protector and the Tower Guard are aware of the problem, and he’s staying alert. That’s as much as he can do.

He still isn’t ready for it when, sitting at the corner table in his favorite pub and looking out the window, he hears the chair opposite him dragged out for someone to sit in. The reflection in the glass gives him a long red smear, dark-topped, and two pale lumps that must be hands lying on the tabletop. Unarmed.

He turns with his hand on his sword, just in case, and his breath catches hard.

He knows that face. Those eyes. They’re still that overcast gray. The break in his nose is even worse, though.

“Did you get in a bar brawl in Tyvia?” he asks, eyeing the still-angry scar bisecting Daud’s face from brow to collar. It’s knotted and swollen, no more than a few months old, but the eye underneath still sparks when Daud smirks. Undamaged.

“A couple,” Daud says, thumbing the scar. “But this is from the steppes.”

The movement highlights the bandages wrapped around his left hand, and Corvo follows it back down to the table. “What, did a wolf try to bite your face off?”

The smirk widens, shows teeth.

Corvo, in a fit of uncharitable impatience, wants to call what he feels an unpleasant discomfort. He’s had two years to settle in his own loneliness, to get used to this gray and colorless city, to its rain and its spitting wind, its wary isolation. This is— Daud, shouldering in, imposing himself like he had imposed his quiet and his presence in that short winter two years ago—

Corvo snorts, and leans back in his chair. He wants to be angry; but the truth is, seeing him grin like that, harsh, but more freely than he’s ever seen before—it hurts in places Corvo has grown used to finding numb. Stings. It reminds him he’s here, like the soreness after sparring.

And in any case, Daud had never been a great imposition.

“It took you two years to travel the islands, then.”

Daud settles, and some of the wildness sloughs off. The steady measure of his gaze is familiar in an aching way. “Almost reached Pandyssia.”

“Almost?”

“Ran across a storm. The captain thought the Outsider must have sent it, and decided to turn back.” He’s itching the back of his hand, the one covered in bandages. Corvo jerks his chin at it.

“What happened?”

“Climbing accident,” Daud answers, too light. Corvo narrows his eyes. So he has been following him. Daud meets the suspicion with a level and unreadable look, and for a long minute says nothing more, like he’s waiting for Corvo to pin him with the accusation.Then: “I had an inkling, back then, but I wouldn’t have guessed you were guarding the Emperor.” Still that same tone, weightless, off-hand, like they’re discussing the rain outside, or the watered-down quality of the spirits in Corvo’s half-full glass. “Or his daughter. Wasn’t it a girl? Thirteen? Fifteen now.”

Corvo says nothing. He’s not sure what he could say. That he hadn’t been used to being so watched by the public eye? That he’d wanted something, anything that wouldn’t remind him of the turn his life had taken, for better or worse? Something only his own. It’s hard to come by, in a place like Dunwall Tower, and with that title tied to his ankle, dragging around behind him.

“Is there a point to this?” Corvo asks instead, because this is his day off, and even if his heart flip-flopped unfairly in his chest at the sight of that face, this sounds too much like it’s edging on a threat for him to ignore.

Daud makes a noncommital noise. His eyes have drifted off to the well-lit room beyond them, where people are starting to stream in as the evening stretches into night. The bandages go tight across his knuckles as his injured hand clenches.

“Walk with me,” he says, and in one movement he is out of his chair—then he pauses, eyes flicking back, like he’s waiting.

Corvo looks at what’s left in his glass, and looks at him. There’s no expectation in his stillness; only an abiding calm.Corvo follows.

Outside, the sky hasn’t yet decided to rain, but the fog makes certain the air is unpleasantly damp anyway. The thin puddles Daud strides through will have frozen over by the end of the night. They walk side by side, and Daud can only be considered to lead by the fact that Corvo can just barely recognize the turns they’re taking.

“Where are we going?” Corvo asks after they pass a street name he doesn’t recall and Daud still hasn’t said anything.

The look he gets is less focused than he’s used to seeing, and that more than anything lets him believe it when Daud says, “Nowhere. Just walking.”

The fog is a muffling shroud. They can see each side of the street, but that’s it; both ends are thick with white. Sounds come through soft and muted. Sometimes, heavy steps echo down from branching streets, and Daud deftly leads them off into another passage. He makes hardly a noise when he walks.

“Never seen fog this thick anywhere but here,” Daud eventually says, voice low.

“People say the Outsider calls it up from the river,” Corvo adds. “That you can get lost in it, and end up in the Void.”

“Ghost stories for children,” Daud sneers, but his mouth is quirked up like he’s telling a joke. “The Void looks nothing like this.”

Corvo watches him, careful and curious. “Did you learn that in the Academy?”

“In a fishing village off the West coast, actually.” The smirk hitches higher, then vanishes, and his mouth is again cool marble. “I don’t even remember the name.”

They continue in silence, and though Corvo doesn’t pry he wonders. Late-night wanderers pass them by in layered jackets and coats pulled up against the damp. The street names are familiar again. Far off, the clock rings the tenth hour, and Daud jerks like he’s come out of a dream.

“I should go,” he says. He turns—Corvo grabs the sleeve of his coat.

He wants to say something and doesn’t know what, so when their eyes catch he can only grit his teeth—twist his hand, release, ungraceful with a reluctance he doesn’t fully understand. Daud catches his wrist.

He says nothing, for a moment, then: “I know where to find you.”

When the sound of someone approaching startles Corvo into turning, the hand on his wrist lets go, and as he reaches back Daud is gone. The street is gray and fog-lined and empty.

Two City Watch men come slowly by on the cobblestones; Corvo greets them with a wave of his hand, and goes home.

“You’re getting soft,” Daud says the next time he shows up at Corvo’s pub table. “Complacent.” He’s still wearing the red coat. Corvo, knowing it’s hopeless, can’t help but notice how much more solid Daud looks under it—the broad square of his shoulders, the depth of his chest. He swallows it down with his drink and raises his eyebrows.

“And where is this coming from?”

It’s unsurprising when Daud doesn’t answer, instead baring some of his teeth in a half-snarl and looking away, to the busy center of the pub. Corvo calls for a beer and slides it across to him. That gets a sharp little glance, edging on suspicious.

“It’s good,” he shrugs, and as he reaches for his own glass Daud snatches it from the table. Sniffs it. Drinks. The beer is unceremoniously pushed back into his open hand.

“You never climb anymore,” Daud says, watching him over the rim of the glass.

Corvo doesn’t release the sigh he can feel building in his chest and takes a sip of the beer. It is good. He, at least, will appreciate it.

Daud’s eyes narrow. “I guess you’re comfortable, serving the highest of high society. Soft bed? Food to your liking?”

This is a little too much. Corvo rolls his eyes. “I don’t like the talking and lies and secrets,” he says, pointed, “But yeah, Dunwall Tower has a great cook, and the oxblood steak is to die for.” He meets the glare head-on, refuses to look away. After a minute, Daud seems to settle, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, heavy breath.

It’s getting loud in the pub. Usually, Corvo lets the noise wash over him, tucked as he is into this corner, a little ways away—but the tension is sliding back into Daud, stiffening his neck as he hunches over the table again.

“Come climb with me,” Daud says, only just avoiding urgent.

“It’s raining.”

“Is that going to stop you?”

Corvo levels him with a look that brooks no argument. “We can walk. But I’m not climbing.”

So they walk. Corvo pulls his waxcloth over his head; his official outfit has no hood, and he’s had to make do on evenings like this. Umbrellas are inconvenient if he wants to keep his hands free. Daud’s coat has no hood either, but he seems to pull one from the jacket underneath, and it covers him just as well.

For a time, they move forward, directionless beyond Daud ducking into long alleyways for no reason Corvo can see, guiding him through passages he’s hardly paid attention to into parts of the city he isn’t sure, even after two years, he has ever seen—then back to the streets he has come to know, never lost or misplaced. Rain falls in sheets over their heads, onto the road, swelling the gutters with grimy water. It stings where it lands on his face and hands.

It’s unseasonably warm for the month of Darkness. Still, he feels himself grow dull and stiff with cold—dull enough that he barely reacts when a sure grip closes on his arm and drags him, forceful, into the dark of an alleyway.

“What's—” he starts, before a bandaged hand comes across his mouth.

Daud’s gaze is fixed on the end of the alley, gold with the light of the lampposts. “Quiet.” His voice can barely be heard over the sound of the rain.

They stand, still, rainwater dripping down Daud’s nose where he doesn’t care to wipe it if it means he must move, until three Watchmen pass coming up the thoroughfare. They remain unnoticed. After a handful of minutes, Daud seems to sweep his eyes around and relax, and they step back out into the street.

Daud pulls his hood down lower and wipes the rain away. Corvo glances up to where the three Watchmen are disappearing into the night—and if he doesn’t ask, he does wonder.

“Your disappearing trick,” Corvo says as they follow the incline of a boulevard down to the river. Daud bumps into him on accident when he turns. They’ve been walking close, so they can hear each other over the rain. “How did you do it?”

“What trick?” Daud asks, but instead of questioning his voice is harsh and dismissive.

“I turned and you were gone.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Corvo knows that isn’t it, and finds himself warming as anger starts to stir in his chest. “I looked away for a second. You’re not a card someone can hide up their sleeve.”

Daud’s jaw goes stiff, his mouth a thin, taut wire.

“I had—help,” he bites out.

Corvo makes a derisive sound. “You had help.”

“I can’t tell you,” he snaps, and his shape goes rigid under the coat. “Stop asking.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Daud whirls on him, blocking his way, says: “What difference does it make?”

His gray eyes are edged, like glass, or the sheen of a razor.

Corvo stops. He knows there is a sword, hidden inside Daud’s coat; he has seen the shape of it as Daud walked. He also knows there is more, out of sight. Daud has that impression about him: there is always more. He braces himself like he might for a fight, and sees Daud answering it, stance for stance.

“Are we friends, Daud?” he asks.

He can see the confusion flicker, bright and momentary, before it’s snuffed out. Daud’s breaths are strangely heavy. Corvo doubts it could be fear—yet it isn’t quite like anticipation.

“No,” he says, finally. “We’re not friends.”

It’s strange. There is nothing to suggest that Daud isn’t sure of himself: he’s straightened his back, and his eyes meet Corvo’s without flinching. The words sound like they should be the end of something.

Corvo loosens, and reaches out, slow; he sees Daud stop himself from jerking away, and sees, too, how some kind of tension drains out of him when Corvo’s hand closes on the high point of his arm, though Daud reflexively seizes his wrist.

“I work for the Kaldwins,” Corvo says, and neither of them has looked away. “I know how to keep a secret.”

There is a long stillness. Corvo realizes, distantly, that the rain has stopped.

Daud pushes Corvo’s hand off him.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, and Corvo lets him walk away.

It’s on the way from the Tower to the pub, in a deserted road, that a hand presses firm into the small of his back. The elbow he throws is caught in an iron grip.

“Walk with me,” Daud says, and Corvo huffs out his exasperation but lets go of his sword.

“That was a dangerous thing to do,” he mutters as he is lead—this is far from the aimless wandering he’s used to, Daud catching street names with sharp eyes and directing him, steady, in a direction that’s becoming more and more obvious by the minute.

“I’m sure,” Daud answers, and the hand drops from Corvo’s back. His skin rings with the memory of pressure. Almost absently, as Daud brushes past into an alley just slightly wider than his shoulders, Corvo notes the darker spatter across his lapel. It’s new, a darkish brown. It slots into the rest of the picture Corvo has been building with a distressingly simple click.

He remembers, distinctly, his first impression: how certain he had been that Daud was part of a gang. Daud always had an uncomplicated opinion on corpses and their usefulness.

Corvo stops in his tracks, and it takes Daud a moment to notice and turn back, a question in the curve of his frown. He gestures for Corvo to follow. Corvo doesn’t.

“You missed a spot,” he says instead, pulling on his own coat. Daud looks down at the bloodstain, then back up at him. Corvo doesn’t know what that look in his eyes means, or how to interpret the way he tucks his chin into his chest, just a moment, before straightening.

“We don’t have all night,” he says, but doesn’t keep going. Corvo takes a few slow steps forward. Daud turns. Corvo follows.

“Where are we going,” Corvo asks, and Daud glances back as though to make sure he hasn’t stopped again.

“You know where we’re going.”

“Tell me.”

“We’re nearly there,” Daud says instead, and yes, Corvo can see it: Kaldwin’s Bridge, its high metal peaks, sprouting from between the buildings ahead like dark bones. Daud ducks into an alcove, the shadowed pit of a building’s doorway, just out of sight of the one guard standing at the foot of the bridge. He tugs Corvo in after him. The space is close, and their knees bump together when Daud shoots a look out then back up, at him. His face is grim.

“Climb with me.”

Corvo looks at him and feels heavy, slow; a heartless kind of tired.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks, and the weakness in him shows even through the half-smile he forces. Daud stares. His absolute stillness, strangely, seems to say what kind of idiot are you more than I’ve been found out.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it on the way,” he says, low but clear, unmoving except for his mouth and the flick of his eyes across Corvo’s face.

Corvo lets his expression go neutral. “I could take you in a fight.”

“Then I wouldn’t fight you,” Daud answers, unhesitating. He pulls up the thick sleeve of his coat; strapped to his arm is a compact machine, like a small folded crossbow. “I’d shoot you from a rooftop. You barely react to seeing me anymore.”

Of course he could, Corvo thinks, looking into Daud’s gray eyes, of course this Serkonan man with his unpracticed smile and his rough hands would be the one who held his death most surely—

Corvo takes his wrist, turns it to look at the mechanism in full. It’s well-made. Perhaps not very powerful at long distances, but accurate, he thinks, enough to hit somewhere bad. “You won’t deny it then.”

“No,” Daud says, like he knows exactly what Corvo is talking about. He must. There aren’t many ways to misunderstand this conversation. “But I’m not going to kill you. I meant to ask—” And there he stops, as though the next words are harder to admit to than being a killer. He glances out at the guard again, or the bridge. A short, irritated hiss. “This would be easier up there.”

“No one else is listening,” Corvo says, and it’s true: the sky has been dark for some time, and though windows are lit there is no sign of anything, or anyone, but them in the lee of this street—and still, Daud hacks a laugh, like he’s in on a joke Corvo can’t see.

He pulls his sleeve back down, and Corvo lets go.

“I could be…” Daud starts; he’s evasive, darting looks between the pools of gold where light reflects in the road. “I could be useful,” he decides, and his eyes fix back onto Corvo’s. “To your employers. The royal family.”

It’s a bold move, Corvo supposes; bold enough Euhorn might even appreciate the guts it took to make the offer. He doesn’t know what, exactly, motivates his answer.

“They don’t believe in those kinds of methods.”

Principle, or selfishness? They’ve never given him cause to think they would call on a hired killer—but perhaps some small part of him simply doesn’t want to know whether they might.

(Perhaps— Perhaps another, smaller part of him—

He has so missed having something the Kaldwins didn’t know about.)

“None of my clients had a problem with them,” Daud says, wry, and Corvo tries not to read disappointment in the shift of his shoulders, “However noble their blood.”

Then his eyes narrow, and he adds, as though he’d seen the thought written clear on Corvo’s face, “I’m not giving you names.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Corvo answers, and relaxes against the inside of the doorway.

The space is growing warm around them despite the chill. Daud is still looking at him.

“Climb with me,” he says, and Corvo breathes in deep.

“Alright.”

It’s been two years since he last went up there. He isn’t worried about being up to the task—sword practice keeps him well in shape, and he doesn’t doubt his own strength—but that old ease he’d had as a child facing the tiered rooftops of Karnaca has dulled, and navigating the struts of the bridge isn’t the thoughtless exercise he remembers it being. In the privacy of his own head, he might even admit it’s daunting.

Still, they make their way up, Daud at the head, and when they reach the highest platform—so familiar, even now—the shrieking wind freezes the sweat under Corvo’s coat. Daud sits at the edge, exactly where he always had, and waits until Corvo takes his own spot before he speaks.

“I thought it was worth a shot,” he says, looking out to the river.

Corvo takes out his cigar box. It’s a small comfort, but he thinks he needs it. “You took that shot. What now?”

He expects there to be a pause, or simply a growing silence, but Daud says, “Now I keep going.” The curl in his lip could be a sneer or a smile. It’s a little bitter, a little tired. He glances over at Corvo’s hands. “We can’t all be Royal Protector to the fucking Kaldwins.”

Corvo holds out the box, open to show the neat row of rolls, but Daud gives a short jerk of his head. Corvo lights his with a match from another pocket.

“You never smoke?” He knows he sounds surprised—the rasp in Daud’s voice sounds exactly like that of the dockworkers Corvo remembers crossing in Karnaca, rubbed raw with smoke, sometimes acheful to hear. Daud eyes him, quiet, chin propped on his fist. His eyes are pricked silver with the city lights.

Before Corvo can react, Daud has pinched the cigar between two fingers and brought it to his own mouth. He’s staring at the glowing tip, the curve of his lips unsure around the end—and then he takes a drag that trickles back out from the corners of his mouth in thin, fast-blown wisps. A noise rumbles up from deep in his chest.

“I did,” Daud says, the rest of the smoke gusting away on the wind. “Used to be in a gang. Everybody smoked.” When he sucks on the end again it’s almost delicate, his brow furrowing as though in focus. “I didn’t like the taste.”

Corvo doesn’t know what he looks like right now—his organs feel like they’re trying to climb up where his lungs are meant to be, and he has to swallow, certain otherwise that his voice might break. His throat clicks.

“So you changed your mind since?”

Daud’s eyes meet his. The pinpricks of the city lights are gone; all Corvo can see is the hot glow of the cigar, flaring as Daud breathes in, then reaches out, the movement calm and telegraphed, until his hand wraps itself in the front of Corvo’s coat and pulls him forward, implacable, merciless. Corvo catches himself on one hand, the platform ringing with it.

There is the brush of lips on his, faltering. The brief taste of cigar smoke as his mouth opens.

He can see entirely too much of Daud’s face—his eyes, somehow dark, and the painful line of his scar, and another over his left eyebrow, and the precise displacement of the break in his nose—when Daud says,

“Maybe I’ll get used to it,”

and pushes him back until he’s sitting, again, in the same spot—now cold—as though nothing happened at all.

Daud takes another drag, frowns and works his jaw, and hands the cigar back.

Corvo takes it. Wants, in an unhinged, desperate way, to grab Daud by the bloodstained lapel of his coat and finish what he just started—but to be here, holding this, the taste of more than smoke on his lips, he must have misread all that has lead up to it, and he thinks—the thought is so clear, like the moon through still water—he thinks that anything and everything he does, right at this moment, will be bloated with a meaning he can’t even begin to understand.

He finishes the cigar, and throws the stub out over the edge to fall somewhere in the river.

They don’t speak for a long time. Corvo has stopped paying attention to the ringing of the clocktower. At some point, Daud gets up.

“Are you leaving?” Corvo asks, unable to keep it down, and Daud looks back to him.

“Even I need to sleep, Corvo,” he says, and Corvo decides it will have to make do for a promise.

He spends the week scanning rooftops, and catches sight of Daud only once: on the first day, perched on a high chimney like a misplaced gargoyle. As soon as Corvo turned to look he darted out along the eaves and disappeared.

When he goes out to the pub, nothing happens on the way. No one comes to sit at his corner table. The woman at the bar smiles, and says he was missed last week, and when Corvo asks about a man in a red coat her face goes blank and she shrugs and shakes her head. He leaves his drink half-finished, and goes back out into the cold.

Footsteps behind him. He doesn’t stop to consider them.

“Running from something?” says Daud, and then Corvo has him flattened against a wall, fists in the shoulders of his coat, hauling him up on tiptoe with the bricks probably digging into his shoulders. Daud has a vise grip on his arms, panting in what must be surprise, while Corvo’s breaths heave around the weight of every action he’s considering. He loosens his hands, and Daud slides back to his feet. His fingers ache.

“Jumpy,” Daud says, but rather than amused his tone is careful, checking him over like he’s expecting to find marks. Corvo drags a hand through his hair with a huff, doesn’t even try to explain himself. Fingers brush, cautious, against his back; and when he doesn’t jump away, the palm presses in. He must be imagining its warmth through the layers of his clothes. “Come on.”

It’s the only difference, that hand, steady on him, and the more it settles there the more unsettled he becomes. He knows last week happened. He repeats it to himself: He knows. He knows. He thinks he mostly controls the tremble when he pulls the cigar case out and takes one, brings it to his mouth, lights it. It tastes the same as it had then. He glances at Daud.

Daud is looking back. Corvo breathes out a cloud.

In one movement the cigar is plucked from his hand, and Daud is taking a drag, something like a challenge in his eyes.

The street is empty. Sometimes Corvo remembers Daud telling him he knew what the Void looked like, and wonders if he went there; if that’s where they go, on these walks, when the entire city seems drained of its people. Corvo pinches the cigar between two fingers as Daud breathes in again, lifts it away, and throws it aside. His fingertips burn from being so near Daud’s mouth.

His lips are cold, though, when Corvo takes him by the arm and drags him somewhere dark. Cold, then not; warm, red with biting, damp with the steam of their close breaths. Corvo cups the raw angles of his face and dips into his mouth again, just pressing lips at first, then his tongue, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. He tastes of cigar smoke, bitter and hot.

Corvo doesn’t take more than one step back before Daud has him flipped and pinned in the dark of the doorway, arms boxing him in.

“We’re not done here,” he rasps.

Corvo chokes on his own breath as a solid thigh pushes up between his legs.

They use their hands—callused, numb with the cold, but tender enough when they grip side or bicep or thigh, or slide over skin, mapping the hollows of muscle and bone—and sometimes, though rarely, their mouths. Corvo has kissed the acrid taste of his own come from Daud’s tongue. Daud has made him writhe, uncontrolled, with only deft fingers and the bite of his teeth, Corvo’s howling muffled by the leather of his glove.

The city’s mass wraps around them in those moments like a shell: closed off, protected. Nothing can touch them but their bodies. Corvo feels himself swallowed by shadows, and even the light glances off of them.

In the month of Ice, as Dunwall prepares for the old Empress’s memorial, Corvo warms his hands in Daud’s pockets while they trade damp breaths in the lee of a building. Daud rolls his hips; Corvo’s fingers clench, digging into the meat of him, and there is a stuttered gasp in the crook of Corvo’s neck, the weight of a well-used body pushed up along his.

“Come with me,” he says, and pulls away, though his hand remains curled around Corvo’s wrist.

Corvo follows after. The night curves over their heads.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come with me.”

Daud had said, himself, that he needed sleep, and Corvo can only suppose that this would be done on a bed, in a room, somewhere tucked away. It still manages to be a surprise that Daud has a pair of keys, and that these keys fit into a pair of locks, and that the door they open gives way to a tiny two-room apartment in the middle of a seedy district.

The kitchen looks largely unused. The bedroom is dark, its only window shuttered. He can still see the bed, a lumpy shape barely lit through the open doorway, over Daud’s shoulder when he is backed up against the bedroom wall.

“Corvo,” Daud says, hands splayed on the wallpaper, and his eyes are a little too wide, his breaths a little too short, and Corvo grabs him by the side of his belt and the back of his head and drags him close, taking all that he wants from Daud’s mouth.

“I want you to fuck me in that bed,” he says, brute words sweet on his own tongue, and Daud snarls and bites his lip.

The mattress is stiff and sagging under his back—his coat, his vest thrown to the floor, his boots kicked off the end of the bed as Daud advances on him in shirtsleeves and breeches—but comfort matters little when Daud’s hands close on his ankles and pin them to the sheets. His shape is huge in the thrown light of the doorway. He crouches there, between Corvo’s bent knees, and undoes Corvo’s belt.

“Get on with it,” Corvo grunts, catching an ankle in the back of Daud’s leg and tugging, and the breath rushes out from him when Daud looms, one arm braced on his chest, and kisses Corvo’s impatient mouth.

“Let me take my time,” he says, and slings the belt out into the dark.

When Corvo is naked, gangly and shivering on top of the blankets and his cock half-hard in anticipation, Daud slides his palms up the concave of his stomach, lines his fingers up with the ripples of Corvo’s ribs and kisses his sternum.

“Skinny bastard,” he mutters there. His breath is a hot, damp wash, and jolts a fresh wave of shaking out of Corvo, who yanks on the back of Daud’s shirt. There is no restraint left in him. He wants Daud’s whole body on him without delay.

“Tell me you have oil,” he growls, and it’s in Daud’s hand, not oil but a metal tin of thick grease he spreads on his fingers, slick and shining in the dregs of hallway light.

“Turn over,” Daud says, and Corvo answers,

“No,” tilting his hips up, bracing with his legs, Daud’s free hand coming up to steady him. “No, like this.” Daud’s eyes in the light: gold-touched, less metal than water. He wants it like this.

He touches himself through it, his own heavy breathing loud in his ears. The first breach is a strange and foreign pressure, but even if it’s been some time he has done this before; soon he’s up to two fingers, breaths wheezing from him at every firm push, propped up on one elbow so he can watch the way Daud’s shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt. He makes no sound when he works. Corvo wonders, half-delirious, whether he’s this quiet when he kills.

“Now,” he says, dropping back to the mattress and fisting his hands in the sheets by his head, “Daud—” He pushes back on Daud’s pressing fingers, but it’s clear what he wants.

“One more,” Daud says, pulling back, and Corvo almost snarls, slinging a leg around Daud’s hips, jerking him closer.

“Now.”

Daud obliges. Everything but his shirt is discarded, and his cock hangs thick and red between his thighs, wet at the tip. Corvo glances to it and back up, and he can see Daud’s face is red, too, flushed from his chest up to his ears, the tilt of his head nearly demure. Their eyes meet in the dark. Very deliberately, Corvo cants his hips.

Daud fits just right in the spread of his legs, broad shoulders but narrow hips, and the stretch when he presses slowly in makes Corvo want to keen.

He doesn’t. Daud does: the first noise he’s made beyond words, thin and warbling and glorious. The rush, victory or adrenaline or helpless crushing want makes him clench hard and Daud bends his forehead to Corvo’s stomach, hissing muffled curses into his skin.

Winter is like a fever—he’s too hot inside for how cold his skin is—Corvo grabs at Daud’s thighs, fingers digging in, and his body flexes like he can force a rhythm. Rough hands close on his waist. The drag of Daud’s cock out of him, the gradual thrust back in—he huffs a weak breath, pushing into it, and his cock leaves a wet trail on his belly when the next thrust rocks him.

“Faster,” he gasps—fuck, he wants all of it, the heat and the friction and that strength keeping him still as it needs but that killing focus is staring down at the meeting of their bodies, the steady too-shallow slide, rather than applying itself to fucking him out of his mind—

He knocks his heel against Daud’s tailbone, wriggles and strains closer, “Come on—” and Daud pushes him flat with a hand on his chest but it isn’t enough—

His body moves for him—Daud grunts when his back hits the mattress and shouts, reedy and desperate, when Corvo finally sinks down onto him, full, sweaty and buzzing, and takes himself in hand. The arch of Daud’s throat, his head near hanging off the bed, is a gorgeous thing. Corvo fucks himself with hungry jerks of his hips, hissing through his teeth at the burn, and Daud makes high shocked sounds that thrum through Corvo’s fingertips when he lays his hands there, at the dip in his shoulders, just below his neck. Daud’s hands scrabble for purchase on the spread of Corvo’s thighs. It’s all he can do to hold on.

When he comes, the sounds cut off sharp, and his nails rake red lines down Corvo’s sides.

Corvo rolls his hips again and bears down, but all that does is make Daud wince, his panting breaths catching for a second. Fingers press, light, at the red lines; the touch stings, but he doesn’t mind.

“Get up for a second,” Daud says, and when Corvo moves off him he shifts fully onto the bed, sprawled flat and languid.

Corvo’s still hard and not a little envious. When he palms himself, Daud has the gall to smirk.

“Come up here,” he says, and Corvo begrudgingly lies down next to him to bite the smirk away, but Daud shakes his head. He worms an arm under Corvo’s side and gets a hand on the meat of his ass. “Up here,” he says, eyes bright.

Corvo hesitates—then he’s on his knees, Daud’s head between his thighs, one hand curled tight around the base of his cock because, just for a moment, he’s certain he’ll come just from the sight. Daud takes hold of his hips, thumbs stroking. He’s eyeing the lines he left there.

Then he looks up, into Corvo’s face. He says, “Well?” His chin tips up like an invitation.

Corvo fists a hand in his sweat-tousled hair, pulls just enough to draw up his head, and feeds his cock to Daud’s open mouth.

At first he rocks in shallow, breaths short as he watches Daud’s tongue flick out to follow when he withdraws, and he can’t help the low whine when he sinks back in, soft and wet, sucking pressure, a bare hint of teeth when Daud swallows and his tongue pushes up. His heart beating wild, Corvo tucks the thumb of his free hand in alongside his cock and watches, Daud’s lip pulled aside, as he thrusts red and heavy into his pink and glistening mouth. Daud gasps something through his nose, swallows again.

Corvo grabs his hair with both hands, pins him to the mattress and lets himself fuck in deeper, until Daud’s eyes water and his throat clenches and he makes soft choking noises, his nails cutting into Corvo’s skin, pulling him still closer. Corvo braces an arm against the wall and spends with a feeble little cry.

Daud’s throat keeps tightening in small, convulsive motions around him; he shivers through it, grinds his hips into Daud’s face until pleasure turns to discomfort and he withdraws. Daud has gone a deep, precious red, gasping ragged breaths. Corvo crawls down the solid shape of his body so he can kiss his wide-open mouth.

“I taste disgusting,” Daud warns, crushing him closer with an arm across his back, one hand around the back of Corvo’s neck.

“You should know—by now—” Corvo says between searching kisses, “I really couldn’t care less—” and Daud relaxes under him wholly, limp and pliant, eyes closed and stroking down Corvo’s back like he needs to be gentled. Neither of them moves to turn off the light in the hall. There, faintly silhouetted, they share lips and tongues, a strange hesitation in every rough press of Daud’s mouth.

Corvo tangles their legs, pulls the blanket over them both. Daud lets him. He’s a little bony in places, but radiates heat, and the hollow of the blanket warms up fast.

On the cusp of sleeping, Daud shifts under him.

“Won’t they miss you at the Tower?” he asks, his voice still rough. A thrill makes Corvo shiver to know he is the cause.

“I sleep in the barracks still,” he says, burrowing in the crook of Daud’s neck. “I’ll have rooms when Jessamine is Empress.” Daud scratches fingers through his hair, and cradled as he is he quickly falls back into sleep.

Sometime in the night, he wakes to Daud pulling himself away, and grabs for his wrist on reflex.

“I need to piss,” Daud says low, pulling him off not ungently. “Go back to sleep.”

Corvo curls in the warm spot he’s left, huddled in the covers, and does.

In the morning, the bed is empty.

Bells ring. A year ago, Beatrix Kaldwin died in childbirth. They call the city to mourning.

*

Corvo had left unbothered, and in too much of a hurry to return to wonder that Daud was gone with no warning; impulse was in his nature, as was a certain disregard for other people’s worry. The memory of that night kept him up for days. More than once, he waited for the rest of the guards to fall quiet and brought himself off in his hand, the images sharp-edged in his mind.

On his next evening off, he sauntered off to the usual place and waited, sipping on whiskey, at the corner table. When he finished, he called for a Potterstead ale. Then he lingered outside in the drizzle for half an hour, glaring at the rooftops. Waiting.

Daud didn’t show. The evening left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

When the same happened a week later, Corvo started to wonder whether something had gone wrong, asking himself: Did killers for hire take travel contracts? Had he gotten injured? He spent hours staring at the bunk over his, listening to the guards shift in their untroubled sleep.

The third time, Corvo went out into the city. He thought he remembered where Daud had lead him—could only hope he hadn’t been waiting on a dead man, some wound too serious to heal striking him down— Would Corvo find him there, an old body in a corner, forgotten? Had he made it back at all? —and after getting lost twice he found himself in front of the battered old door.

He knocked. There was no answering sound. When he tried the handle, the door swung open, unlocked.

Inside, the floor was covered in dust, and his boots left great dark streaks in it where the floorboards showed through. The kitchen was much the same, no more used than when he had first stepped foot in the place. The bedroom window was still shuttered. He even thought the blankets were the exact same shape he had left them in upon leaving, three weeks ago.

Grief was a familiar creature—yet it did not touch him here. First he wondered if Daud had really been so petty as to abandon his home just so Corvo wouldn’t find him there. Then it hit him that it was just as likely Daud had taken the keys off one of his fresh corpses, and found the place well-kept enough to invite Corvo in. The thought flayed him with rage.

He didn’t cry. He did, however, tear the mattress apart.

It’s not a time he remembers fondly. Two winters, two heartbreaks. The realization that grief can come in many shapes. Many of his decisions in the years that followed were questionable at best, but he is glad enough for how some of them turned out.

Emily will be three years old in a week. The look on Jessamine’s face when she looks down upon her daughter is softness and joy and the fierce, protective light of decision. He only regrets, when he lets himself, that she had to be born into politics.

It’s as they’re taking the avenues back from a social function at the Boyle sisters’ that he sees it. He hardly knows how he noticed: it’s a speck, small and indistinct, black on gray.

As the tall spires pass in the carriage window, his eyes go straight up and catch on the figure perched at the very top of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He knows who it is. There is nothing in his sight or his past to convince him it waves when he looks, but he is just as certain it does.

When they return to the Tower, he tells Jessamine there’s an errand he needs to run; makes sure there are guards posted on the roof and at every exit in case this is a trick. Then he goes out into the streets, to a pub he hasn’t visited in years.

The woman at the bar is a different one. He asks for Old Dunwall. His table, tucked in the corner, is already occupied, though the man in the seat is positioned to be as far out of sight of the room as he can.

Corvo sits opposite. Notoriety isn’t something he needs to worry about.

The coat is worn now, the color faded to something like old blood—it’s been ten years, after all—and the sword is no longer hidden. No one he let see him would dare call him into question. His eyes, though—

(There is still a pang of loss when Corvo meets them, but it’s weak. Just an echo, really.)

His eyes are unchanged. Flat gray, serrated. The scar running jagged down his face is faded with age, and there are bags under his eyes, not yet dark with lack of sleep. Corvo’s mouth twitches at the uncharitable thought that there probably isn’t enough in the man to feel regret.

“You look—alright,” Daud says, and the knowledge that he’d meant to say ‘good’ is as violent as a blow to the face. Corvo can feel his teeth grating, but lets the tension go with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t answer. The narrow line of Daud’s mouth twists, crooked. “I had a question.”

“Then ask,” Corvo says, not quite snappish.

The look Daud levels him with is a measured, considering thing.

“Do the royal family’s principles still hold?”

Some part of him wants to be furious. Corvo’s hand drifts to his sword, pointed but unthreatening. “I’m the wrong man to ask for a job.”

Yet rather than offer that long-forgotten, sardonic little smirk, Daud nods, his eyes darting to the room and the street outside the window. “Don’t need to ask any more,” he says, off-handed. “Kill enough people, the offers come to you.”

That’s a wanted criminal, sitting across from you, Corvo reminds himself. He should be arrested. If Corvo draws his sword fast enough, he could stab him in the space between ribcage and clavicle, or the soft meat of his stomach—pin him to the chair.

He drinks his whiskey, his weapon heavy on his hip.

After a silence, inordinately cold in the warmth of the pub, Daud rises. His fingers linger a moment at the edge of the table.

“Keep an eye on your new Spymaster,” he says. This close, Corvo can smell it: Daud smells of cigar smoke. He might even know the brand.

When Daud leaves through the front door, no one looks up to see him go.

Corvo finishes his glass and returns to the Tower. It’s late; Jessamine is already asleep. His own bed is cold.

The rest, as they say, is Void.

[suspendedsatellite]

edge (1/1)

title: i stood at the edge

pairing: Gen, Past Magnus Bane/Camille Belcourt, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

rating: G

setting: Canonverse

word count: ~3000

summary: Snapshots of Magnus’s relationship with Camille throughout the years, and an introspection on all that happened between them.

“If I could hate you, I would find myself drowned in this shallow sea.”

It’s not that simple.

His fingers curled around the cold metal railing of the balcony, the wind almost strong enough to send shivers up his spine. Magnus’s thoughts were at once too loud and too hollow, echoing back and forth in the recesses his mind.

It wasn’t something Raphael or Simon could possibly understand, the weight of memory on nights like this. Not quite guilt, nor regret…just a sense of longing and sorrow for a fleeting time that had long passed. For a woman that neither of them had ever met.

(For the man that he used to be, and the man he would never be.)

No matter how many years passed, he would never forget the emptiness of that night. Not when it still clung in the corners of his being, blurring out the edges of his thoughts.

---

On one of the highest rooftops, Magnus looked over the city of London. The only sound around him was the chilly, early spring wind whispering through spaces between the buildings.

Most of the taverns had cleared out already, and the cabbies had all returned home in the early hours of the morning. It would still be quite a while before the sun rose– perhaps if he looked a little more carefully, he could find the nooks in the alleys where the night children were reveling in their scarce hours of freedom. A few wolves would be stalking through the streets, the young ones not yet able to control their transformations.

But what did it matter, if there was anyone down there at all? Not one of them would ever see him.

(And why should they? There was nothing worth finding here.)

If he took just a few more steps, off this ledge…that was all it would take to break this silence. Living for just a single moment, one breathless fall, before fading. None of it would matter. Forgotten, from a world he never belonged in anyway.

(Who would ever know?)

“You know it probably won’t work, right?”

A honeyed voice broke into his thoughts, and he spun around to see a woman leaning against the brick pillar of a chimney, the details of her features hidden by the shadows. In her hand was a wine glass, and as she tilted to take a drink, he caught the faint, unmistakable scent of blood.

“I’ve seen a couple of them try it, but your magic tends to kick in right before you hit the street. Fear’s a rather potent trigger.”

“What do you want?” Magnus glared at the intruding vampire as he felt an annoyance creep into the empty calm from moments earlier.

“Hmm. Nothing much, just a show. And in case it worked out for you, I was thinking I’d get a nice meal. Warlock blood’s pretty hard to come by.” Her nonchalant tone didn’t have even a hint of unease, which meant she was probably fairly powerful. Magnus found himself impressed despite himself.

“Well, you’ve rather ruined your chances then, haven’t you? Should’ve stayed quiet.” The moment was officially over now, and Magnus walked back away from the edge. He shook his head– it had been a stupid thought, a momentary lapse of logic.

(One that happened far too often these days.)

She looked up at him for the first time, allowing her beautiful face to catch the moonlight. Her eyes seemed to glow, framed by thick lashes that contrasted sharply with her unearthly pale skin. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders, a few strands picking up and flowing in the breeze as she walked slowly over to him.

For a second, he forgot how to breathe. Magnus had seen many stunning beings of every species over the years and he was immune to the effects of a vampire’s encanto, but the way this woman commanded the air around her left him enchanted nonetheless. When she stopped in front of him, he could do nothing but stare.

“It’s alright. I think your pretty face might be worth a bit more than a drink.” Her crimson red lips formed words that he barely caught in his stupor, but as she moved her hand up to cup his face, he jerked back in surprise.

Her laughter was like the sound of bells.

“You poor thing. I wasn’t going to scratch you for a taste, don’t worry.”

It was his turn to grin now. This was a game he knew how to play.

“I’m sure you weren’t, but one can never be too careful. I wouldn’t want a lovely lady like you to get hurt.”

Her elegant eyebrows rose in confusion, and, for the first time in weeks, he laughed. Lowering the glamour on his eyes, he let his magic flare around him. Magnus was pleased when her eyes sparked with a wild hunger instead of the fear he was so used to seeing whenever he used his magic.

The magic inherited from the blood of a Greater Demon.

“You’re full of surprises aren’t you? You should show that off more often. I wouldn’t mind getting…burned a bit, for a taste.” She let her lips open, giving him full view of her tongue as it traced the edges of her perfectly white fangs.

“You play a dangerous game, my lady.”

This time, he didn’t draw back when she approached him. He let her trail her nails lightly across his arm, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Darling, I’ve got nothing but an eternity of boredom waiting for me. I like living as close to the edge as I can. Especially since this one’s a whole lot more fun than the one you were dangling from.”

She leaned in close to his ear and lowered her voice to a sultry whisper.

“What do you say to some company tomorrow night? Somewhere out of this dreadful cold?”

Magnus wasn’t sure what he wanted, but in that moment, nothing was more alluring than the warmth in her voice. He felt her lips curl into a wide smile against his neck as he nodded.

---

“Magnus. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to come to this.”

He glanced up and felt his heart break a bit at the look Raphael was giving him. How could he regret anything when the living proof of what he had saved was standing right there? No matter how much he owed Camille, he would never be willing to trade away the family he finally found here.

“Raphael, dear, you have nothing to apologize for.”

Raphael might not ever understand his feelings, but he respected Magnus deeply. He knew a little too much about the complicated past Magnus shared with Camille, and would have kept his silence this time as well if it weren’t for Aldertree’s threats to his clan. Over the years, Raphael sought his help less and less frequently, and Magnus wasn’t sure if that was something that should make him happy.

The scared, uncontrolled young vampire had become the leader of an entire clan, overturning the most dangerous woman either of them had ever known to earn that title. Magnus was so proud of Raphael, but a part of him realized that now he was no longer needed.

This was probably what parents felt like when their children left home, he thought.

No matter how much time passed, though, he wanted Raphael to know he had a place to return to. That was one thing that wouldn’t change.

“Really.” He added when Raphael turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. “Camille went too far, and she should have known that.”

“She was important to you.”

“Yes.” He wouldn’t lie. “She was, a long time ago. And maybe even now.” Magnus gripped Raphael’s shoulders gently, turning the vampire towards him.

“But I would never choose her over my family.”

---

“Magnus Bane! What are you doing with that vermin off the streets?”

Camille’s lovely face was twisted in a vicious sneer as she looked down at the young vampire lying on their couch. Magnus suspected this might happen, but he had hoped she would at least offer some pity for her own kind.

Thank god Raphael was out cold.

“His name’s Raphael. He dug his way out just last night and would have razed the town. He’s already killed two mundanes. I had to get him somewhere before the shadowhunters found his trail.”

“You could’ve just taken out the problem down there instead of bringing this filth into our home.” He was left incredulous at what she was suggesting.

“Camille, would it kill you to show some sensitivity? You know what he’s gone through.”

Her coldness was one thing he had never expected after the first time they met years ago. He knew she was a ruthless woman, but she had also pulled him out of a darkness that nearly swallowed him. Looking at the unconscious vampire, Magnus was reminded of himself years ago when he still feared his own powers.

Camille, however, saw none of this. Instead, she scoffed.

“Life’s tough, sweetheart. Especially for nightchildren. If he can’t dig himself out of his own problems, that’s not my business. Or yours.”

“He’s a child.” It was true. The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen or so.

Camille sighed and put her arms around Magnus. Her skin felt icy, even through his clothes, and the scent of blood clung to her.

She had been hunting.

Magnus wondered if anyone had died tonight.

Probably not.

Unlike Raphael, her control was perfect, and the only deaths at her hand were dealt intentionally. It was a level of mastery that Magnus had always admired, but sometimes he wondered if that was why she held so little sympathy for other downworlders.

“You’re still so soft-hearted.” Her tone was sweetly exasperated now. “You have to learn to nip the weak ones at the bud before they become the burden of an entire clan down the line. It’s our way.”

Magnus turned to her, eyes hard.

“It’s not my way, Camille.”

---

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Ragnor appeared at his side late that night. Despite drinking an entire bottle of his strongest wine, the memories refused to fade from his mind. It figured that tonight, all the spirits of the past would come to haunt him.

“I thought you left for good that time, after the wedding. At least you’re a ghost that’s welcome here.” Magnus played along, just as he always had. Surely he was allowed his own private delusions after the day he’d endured.

“Am I, truly? You never seem to listen or take my advice.”

“I humor you often enough. And you forget that last time, at least, I followed through.” Magnus grinned, remembering the triumphant kiss with Alec in front of a crowd of wide-eyed shadowhunters.

“A good thing you did.” Ragnor chuckled. “That boy’s been good for you.”

Magnus poured another glass of wine and set it in front of Ragnor’s chair, even though he knew his friend would never be able to touch it. Ragnor’s eyebrow rose, and the two of them stared at each other.

“I wish you were here.”

“No you don’t. You’re just upset about Camille and wish you could replace her ghost with another.”

His heart clenched. He wondered if Ragnor would truly believe that if he were here now.

“That’s not true, Ragnor.”

The ghost’s expression softened.

“No? I suppose not…a pity then, that I can’t join you now.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that soon the illusion would be gone, leaving him alone again.

“I…I’m so sorry.” He didn’t know if he was apologizing to Ragnor, Raphael, or perhaps even Camille.

Was there anyone he hadn’t failed?

“What should I have done?” He whispered.

But he was right– when he opened his eyes again, there was nothing but silence from the empty seat across from him, the glass of wine on the table sitting untouched.

---

“Ragnor, listen–”

“No, Magnus, you listen to me. You promised me, when you came here ten years ago, that you put her behind you. Now she shows up and crooks her finger at you and that’s it?”

“It’s different now.”

“Bullshit. You’re going to help her hide the bodies, and then what? Sleep with her, throw some parties together, wait a few decades for her clan to do this all over again?”

“I can’t leave them to the Clave, Ragnor!”

“And why not!?”

“She has Raphael this time. He’s the one who called me.”

Ragnor fell silent at that admission.

“…How did Raphael end up there?”

Magnus sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. That was the same question he had been asking himself for the last few months ever since he found out.

“Camille brought him over three years ago. He didn’t talk to me about it, probably because he knew about what went down between us.”

Ragnor sighed.

“Magnus, that’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been caught in this mess.”

“He wanted a clan, and god only knows what Camille promised him.”

“I should have warned him.”

“And you think he’d listen?”

“I should have tried.”

(I should have given him a home.)

---

“What was she like?”

Magnus glanced over at Alec, about to deflect the question and the argument that was sure to follow. But he realized that there was no judgment or doubt in Alec’s eyes this time, just simple curiosity.

“Sorry, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” Alec scratched his head and looked away. “It’s just…I guess I’ve always wondered.”

“Why I was with her, you mean?” He laughed a bit half-heartedly. “Sherman asked the same thing when he and Raphael asked me to find her.”

“Simon.” Alec corrected half-heartedly. “And yeah, I guess so. What did you see in her?”

Magnus chuckled, then bit his lip, thinking carefully before he spoke again.

“Alexander…it was a different time. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was ancient history, almost literally. I was a different person back then. And so was she.“

(But that wasn’t really it, was it?)

"Though…maybe not quite as different as you might expect.” Magnus added.

Alec remained quiet and his gaze patient as Magnus struggled to find the right words.

“She was powerful in a world that was determined to hunt her down.” He recognized the nostalgic reverence in his voice, so different from the scorn he usually carried when he spoke about her. Perhaps it was easier to admit to this now that he knew those words would never be twisted against him.

(Perhaps time could make these memories kind again.)

“I was ashamed of who I was. I had the blood of both my parents on my hands before I was ten years old. An abomination and a murderer, and I was reminded of that every day by the silent brothers that named me and raised me.”

“Magnus–”

“No, it’s fine.” He hated talking about this part of his past. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it fine.”

“Maybe not.” Magnus shrugged off his boyfriend’s concern, unable to look Alec in the eye. “But time dulls things, and I’ve…made my peace with it now. Camille was one of the people that showed me how.

“She was selfish with all her toxic indulgences, but so beautiful in all of it. She didn’t even need an encanto to have downworlders and mundanes alike bowing at her feet. Might as well have been Queen of the Downworld.” Alec rolled his eyes at that and Magnus laughed.

“Glad to know some things don’t change.”

“Ah, yes, the eternal beauty of the undead.”

“I meant the indulgences.” Alec frowned. “Overindulged in the end with that den of hers.”

“She certainly became more…reckless.”

“That’s one way to put it. I’d call it cruel.” Alec’s eyes were just a little colder when they looked at Magnus this time, the protective shadowhunter in him showing through.

Magnus sighed.

“Alexander…shadowhunters aren’t exactly kind to people like us. The seelies create their own realm, but vampires, werewolves, and warlocks like me…we’re forced to find our place in the war between the shadowhunters and demons.”

“That doesn’t justify murdering mundanes for sport or keeping them as slaves for their blood.”

“No, it doesn’t. And I’m not trying to justify or forgive her, Alexander. But in a world that didn’t allow her a single freedom, that was disgusted with her simply for who she was, she was fearless and strong enough to throw it back in their faces.

“And she taught me to do the same. To wear my cat eyes with pride and take my place as a high warlock of the downworld.”

Alec was silent, and Magnus was afraid he said too much.

“Alec, I don’t approve of anything, anything that she’s done here it’s just-”

“No, Magnus, it’s okay, I know.”

---

“Camille, it’s not that simple. You know that I love you but I can’t do this anymore.”

“You’ll regret this Magnus. Raphael’s already left, and Ragnor and Catarina will leave you too.” She glared at him for a moment before her bitter words turned sweet.

“You’ll come back to me, Magnus. You always will. You fancy yourself a High Warlock now, but we both know you’re still just the lonely boy standing at the edge of the London skyline, waiting for me to call you down.” Her words struck a chord in him, and for a moment, he shivered, as if feeling the same chilling wind of that night again.

“No, Camille. I’m not.”

---

The sunlight was already creeping in from between the curtains by the time Magnus opened his eyes. A soft breeze drifted in from the balcony, like an old friend calling to him.

“Magnus?” A soft voice, hoarse from sleep, broke the silence.

“Go back to sleep darling. Sorry I woke you.” Magnus pressed a kiss against Alec’s forehead. As he attempted to rise, however, an arm wrapped around him tightly.

"Stay. Please?”

“…Of course.”

(It still called him sometimes, in a gust of wind so cold that it froze him down to the very bone. But he had a place to return to now, far from that distant edge.)

---

author’s notes: This was largely written back in April, 2017 based on a lot of headcanons for me on Magnus and Camille’s relationship. I wanted to take a more nuanced look at the way he might have felt for her, and…this is what happened. I found it again recently so I decided to publish it here, but I’ve been out of the loop with the SH canon for quite a long time now, so apologies if any of these details have now been jossed by canon.

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: In The Aftermath (Chapter 3)

a/n: I don't think I’ve ever been screamed at so much as I have over the ending of the last chapter. I wish I could apologise, but I’m not sorry. I delight in your agony, in fact. Bwah hah hah. 

It doesn’t let up much either, I fear. This one is definitely going to be angsty. Also mysterious, and I hope I can keep track of all the threads of it. Enjoy, and please keep your questions and theories about the curse coming! 

(This chapter contains allusions to a non-consensual relationship, due to the circumstances of the curse. If this is triggering for you please proceed with caution!)

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M (and earning it in this chapter!)

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

In The Aftermath: 

Killian Jones, over the course of his long, long life, had experienced many things he wished he could forget. At times he felt steeped in bloodshed, in the violence and cruelty that had defined him for centuries, both as perpetrator and victim. He had been inches from death more times than he could count, had been stabbed and shot and beaten, and wielded as a weapon by those even more villainous than he. Yet the memory that haunted his dreams more than any other was not of battles or murder or treachery, it was of the icy, claw-like hand of Rumplestiltskin as it plunged into his chest and gripped his heart, threatening to tear out what he had no right to touch. There were still nights when he jerked awake in a cold sweat, breaking free from dreams in which the crocodile had finished the job, had ripped his heart from his chest and crushed the life from it. 

Watching Emma introduce Walsh as her husband, Killian sincerely wished he had. All the torments he had suffered at that demon’s hands, or those of Pan, or Cora, or any number of others over the long tread of the centuries, not one of them matched this, the sensation of his still-beating heart torn from him not by his most hated enemy but by the woman he loved. 

It’s the curse, he reminded himself, forcing the reminder through the red haze of hatred and fury swimming before his eyes. Only the curse. It’s not real. 

Which did nothing to alter the hideous reality of Emma standing before him, smiling into the eyes of the creature responsible for their current miserable circumstances. The hideous reality that he had no power to stop her, to change this. Not here. Not yet. 

And so Killian did what he had always done when he found himself overpowered, outmatched, backed into an impossible corner. He survived. He forced down his pain, buried it as deep as it would go and prepared himself for action. 

It was a measure of how far he had already travelled down the path away from villainy that this action did not take the form of ripping Walsh apart, and damn the consequences. Such impulses, as temporarily satisfying as they may be, had never ended well for him in the past. The bigger picture, he reminded himself. You have a plan. Stick to the bloody plan. 

Not to mention that this realm tended to frown on violent homicide. Another thing that had taken some getting used to.

So he arranged his face into a polite smile, grateful for the hours of practice that helped it slide naturally into place, nodded at this man who had stolen so much from him, shook hands and took his leave. The moment his back was turned to them the mask fell from his face, replaced by a fearsome determination. “Henry!” he called.

The boy turned, his cheerful smile fading to nothing as he took in Killian’s thunderous expression and the straining tension in his posture. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s your mother,” Killian snarled, no longer able to keep the rage from his voice. “She’s married to Walsh.”

“What?” Henry stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and Killian hustled him along with a hand on his shoulder. “But how?”

“It’s the curse, of course. Someone has a bloody vicious sense of humour.”

“Does he know? I mean, does he have his memories?”

“I’m not sure. No, lad, don’t look!” Henry turned his head back, looking chastened. Killian put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, partly in comfort, partly to ensure he walked quickly. “We mustn’t attract attention,” he said. “What we need is to get back to the shop and reconnoiter. Marshal our resources and make a plan. Come, hurry now.” 

Arriving back at their new residence they collapsed on the sofa and sat in silence, lost in thought as the minutes ticked by. Finally Henry spoke. 

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” replied Killian, feeling frustrated and useless. “I don’t know that there’s anything we really can do, other than stick to the plan. Though it’ll be a damn sight more difficult now to pull it off.”

Henry lapsed into silence again, but his face wore the expression it got when he was thinking hard. “We need to find out how much she thinks she loves him,” he declared finally. “I think that might tell us how strong the curse is.” 

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Well, I’m spitballing a bit here, but I think we might be able to gauge the strength of the curse based on how strong the cursed relationships are.”

Killian considered that, and nodded. “All right, I’m following so far, tell me more.” 

“Okay, so like under the first curse, my granddad was married to Kathryn, but he didn’t really love her. He thought he had memories of loving her, but his real feelings were for my grandma.”

“Yes, but wasn’t that because David was in a coma and wasn’t given his cursed memories until he awoke and Regina was able to— to download them?” Killian struggled to remember what Emma had told him of the circumstances under the first curse. “So they would naturally be weaker than memories that had been created by the curse, when it began?”

“Maybe, but I think it’s because Mom was already in Storybrooke, already weakening the curse. It wasn’t just my grandparents, everything started to change when she got here. I think if she isn’t certain of her cursed feelings for Walsh then it may be a sign that this curse is weakening. We need to know that. We need to… to test the limits of her cursed feelings. To test them against her real feelings.” He gave Killian a sidelong glance, reluctant to meet his eyes. “If you see what I mean.”

“Aye. You’re saying that what I have to do is seduce a married woman.”

“Er— yeah. I guess.”

“Well, it’s not as though I’ve never done that before.” Killian sighed and ran his hand over his face and through his hair, forgetting for a moment who he was speaking with. “Though I confess I feel rather less enthusiasm for the venture than I once did. Not to mention that no version of Emma, cursed or not, is going to be terribly receptive to the idea of adultery.” 

Henry snorted a small laugh, and Killian looked at him sharply, feeling a twinge of guilt. He should definitely not be speaking so frankly of such things in front of the boy. Henry was so precocious that Killian sometimes forgot he was only thirteen. “What, lad?”

“It’s just ironic.” Henry shrugged. “You and Mom committing adultery with each other.” 

‘Indeed, though I fail to see any humour in the situation.” 

“Gallows humour, isn’t that what they call it?” 

“Ah, but when you have actually stood on a gallows with the noose around your neck, even that humour doesn’t inspire much of a laugh.” 

“Wait, you were hung?” Henry’s eyes widened in fascination. 

“Hanged, lad, and aye very nearly.” 

“Wow, okay you have got to tell me that story!”

Killian found himself smiling, cheered as he always was by Henry’s bright enthusiasm. Although he greatly enjoyed entertaining the boy with tales from his pirating days, heavily sanitised of course, the case of his near hanging was one that would not easily be scrubbed up for teenage consumption. “Perhaps later,” he said vaguely. “For now I believe we have established our plan for the moment, distasteful as it may be, and there is still rather a lot of work to be getting on with in the shop.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,” grumbled Henry. 

“No such luck, my boy.” Killian clapped him on the shoulder, forcing cheer he did not feel into his voice. “Look lively, now! We have bookshelves to arrange!” 

That evening Killian took his time falling asleep, both because his mind was too agitiated for easy slumber and because he knew Emma would be waiting for him in the dream, and he feared what he might do when he saw her. Fury still simmered like a noxious potion in his gut, and anger management had never been his forte. 

He indulged in a long shower then spent nearly two hours attempting to read, forcing his attention to remain on the pages though the words danced before his eyes and refused to be absorbed by his brain. Gradually, despite his determined efforts, his body relaxed and his eyes drifted shut and he is in their bedroom, there among the familiar beloved surroundings as though nothing has changed, as though he could stand here assailed by memories of all the times they have made love in that bed and not feel the wrenching pain of all that has been taken from him. Emma is perched on the edge of the bed, waiting, looking apprehensive. With a snarl and a wave of his hand, Killian tears them away, brings them to the living area of his new abode, an acceptably neutral venue although its edges and corners are indistinct, his memory of the place too inexact to replicate it precisely. They are firmly clothed, clad in their typical styles. They need to talk, and he does not wish to attempt conversation whilst distracted by her naked form.   

She sits beside him on the couch and says nothing, waiting for him to speak. 

“How?” he says after a long silence, his voice an agonised croak. “How can it be him? How can he be here? I thought we’d dealt with him!”

“He did say he wasn’t easy to get rid of.” 

“Emma, you pushed him off the bloody roof! He turned to dust!” 

“Maybe that doesn’t destroy them, it didn’t in the dream.” 

“Flying bloody monkeys, of all the demonic things! And now you’re married to one!”

“Curse married!” she cries, her careful composure finally breaking. “It’s not real, Killian, you know it isn’t!”

“It’s real enough when you’re living with the bastard,” he snarls, “when you believe he’s your husband.” 

“Babe, I’m—” 

He winces as the endearment he secretly adores pierces his heart. “Don’t call me that!” His voice breaks. “That’s what you called him.”

She slides closer to him, reaches for his hand. He lets her take it, though her touch burns him. “Killian, my love, my soulmate, the only man in my heart,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry, but I tried to tell you. You had to have suspected this.” 

“Aye,” he says bitterly, “I suspected you may be— involved with someone under the curse, but I thought it would be Baelfire! He at least loved you once. He at least is a man. The idea of that heartless monster in your bed, touching you, touching my—”

“Shhhh,” she soothes. “Don’t think about it.” 

“How the bloody hell can you possibly expect me not to think about it!”

“I just don’t want you to dwell on it!” she says, irritation creeping into her tone, her own anger and frustration and guilt seeping through. “You know how you get when you brood. It just makes your darkness harder to fight, and I need you to stay in the light, Killian. For me and for Henry, and for yourself. We have to stick together, fight this together. But we can’t fight anything if you hold on to anger. Believe me when I say I hate this situation as much as you do— more, even, as I’m the one who actually has to live it— but we can’t stop it unless we stay strong, and stay together.”

He knows she is right, and though it does nothing to lessen his fury he is able to push it down again, and to take her in his arms. She sighs in relief, snuggling close. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he whispers. “I promised not to falter, and at the first challenge here I am, faltering.”

“It’s not faltering, you have a right to be angry. I’m freaking furious. I hate being stuck in this and I hate how much it’s hurting you.” 

They sit wrapped around each other for a long time as Killian debates whether to ask the question he needs an answer to, not wanting to disturb their pleasant moment but knowing he has to ask. He swallows hard, loathing the words as he forces them from his throat. “Do you love him?”

She buries her face deeper into his neck and he can feel tears leaking from her eyes. “I— I think so. I’m so sorry.” 

Even though he knows they are speaking of her cursed self, even though he knows none of this is her fault, he can’t stop the fury rising again, this time woven through with ugly streaks of jealousy. 

He clenches his fist, sending the dream whirling around them and they are back in their bedroom, naked, and she is handcuffed to the wrought iron headboard. She gives a startled gasp, pulls experimentally on the restraints then looks up at where he stands next to he bed. He dares her with his eyes to make something of it, knowing that she could whisk the shackles away as easily as breathing, knowing also that she won’t. She nods, and he knows she understands that he needs this, needs to work out some of his frustration and fury on her body. 

He has the hook now, sharp and gleaming in the soft light, and she bites her lip as he brandishes it. She knows he won’t hurt her, but the fact that the potential for pain is there excites her. Captain Hook excites her, and though Killian is sometimes not sure how he feels about that he is grateful that she loves all of him, even the ugly parts. 

He drags the hook up the inside of her thigh and over her mound, tickling the golden curls atop it, watching with dark amusement as she holds her breath and tries not to writhe. She wants the hook on her clit, he knows, he knows exactly how she likes to be touched with it, but tonight he is not in the mood to give her what she wants right away. He wants to torture her a bit first, wants her breathless and helpless, begging for what only he can give. 

He wants reassurance that he is the only man she loves. He knows he is, but tonight he needs to feel it.

He teases her with the hook through her curls a few moments more, applying pressure that has her squirming but not slipping it into her folds. Instead he traces patterns up her belly, around her navel then along the underside of her breast, dragging the sharp tip across her flesh just hard enough for her to feel it, not even leaving the faintest mark behind. Hundreds of years of practice have given him a finesse with this appendage, a delicacy of touch that seems incongruous to the heft and intent of the hook. She is whimpering now, though he doubts she is aware of doing so, her eyes shut tight and her hands gripping and releasing the headboard she is chained to. He brings the hook up to her nipple, circling it with the curved edge before pressing the tip into the centre of the hardened bud. She gasps, and the chain of the handcuffs clangs against the headboard as she struggles against her bonds. He applies pressure that falls just short of pain, and through the haze of her mindless arousal she forces out a single word. 

“More.” 

“What’s that, darling?” he inquires, as though he hasn’t heard her. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No! More. H-harder.” 

His brow furrows slightly. Any harder and he will definitely hurt her, but he complies, increasing the pressure and tilting the tip until it sinks into her skin, not enough to draw blood but barely shy of it. She makes a low, keening noise he’s never heard from her before, part pleasure but part a twisted sort of yearning that springs from the same dark impulses that drove him to restrain her. She is doing penance, he realises, assuaging her guilt over hurting him by bringing pain upon herself.

Part of him wants to let her do it. Instead he pulls his hook away. 

“No—” she whines.

“Swan.” 

“Killian, please.” 

“You needn’t do this, love.”

“Yes I do, I need it—“

“Darling—” 

“Damn it, Hook! I need you to fuck me and not be gentle about it, and you know you need that too!” 

He hesitates. She is right, he is simmering with violence that needs an outlet, but he doesn’t truly wish to hurt her. A bit of teasing with the tip of his hook is one thing, actual punitive pain quite another. Killian is a broad-minded man but true pain has never turned him on. He’s known far too much of it for that. If she is determined to make amends to him —though there are none owed— she can do it simply by letting him have his way with her, putting herself at his mercy and letting him fuck her as he pleases. 

“Very well,” he says, “But we do this my way.” 

She nods eagerly and he returns the hook to her nipple, stroking its curve over the small pinprick of a bruise that has formed there, at the same time biting hard on the other breast, sucking another bruise into her skin. She thrashes beneath him, on-edge and desperate, and he chuckles against her flesh. This is the kind of pain he prefers to give her. She won’t be coming for some considerable time. 

He sucks a line of bruises along her collarbone and the curve of her neck as his hand slips slowly down her body, coming to rest between her legs. He presses the heel of it against her, rocking it gently, stimulating her clit without direct touch. Her heels dig into the mattress as she lets her legs fall apart, wordlessly begging him to touch her properly, but he ignores her plea. His cock is rock hard and aching, his hand already drenched with her arousal, but he pays them no mind, instead licking a trail up her neck, soothing the marks he’s left there, making her shiver. 

“Damn you,” she whispers, but there is no heat behind the curse. “Why can’t you just fuck me?”

“All in good time, my love.” This is torture, after all, and he is a very patient man. 

He reaches out with his mind and manipulates the dream, and shackles appear on her ankles to match the ones on her wrists, spreading her legs wide. He kisses down her belly and over her mound, nuzzling his nose into the wet curls. She is intensely aroused and she smells amazing, musky and sweet, his favourite smell in the world. He wants to bury his face in her cunt and lick it clean. Soon, he promises himself. Very soon.  

He kisses lightly over the damp hair, humming as he gets a taste of her, the vibrations making her buck her hips, her scream of frustration very nearly drowned out by the clang of the shackles against the bedframe. He waits. She is better at managing the dreams than he is, she could put a stop to this at any time, could reverse their places and shackle him to the bed. She’s done it before. But the dream remains unchanged, and he feels a rush of love for her. She understands. No one has ever understood him as she does. 

Slowly he parts her glistening flesh with his tongue and licks patterns through it with just the tip, still teasing, allowing neither of them what they truly want. She is moaning and twisting, straining to bring him closer to where she wants him, her range of movement limited by the shackles on her ankles. He licks deeper, caressing her swollen flesh with the flat of his tongue, dancing around her clit until she screams at him, damns him, and finally begs him in a broken voice to let her come.

This is what he has been waiting for. He drops a kiss onto her curls and sits up, taking just a moment to position himself before plunging his cock deep inside her. She’s so wet she squelches, and despite the tightwire tension in their bodies they both snigger at the sound. Normally the dream smoothes over such things but tonight they are both longing for what feels real. He removes the restraints as he begins to move inside her, and she wraps her arms and legs around him, blanketing him with her love and nourishing him with her strength. He thrusts hard and relentlessly, looping his hook through the iron sworls of the headboard, and she clings to him, letting him ride her, fuck her deep into the mattress. This is what they have both been craving, and it’s not long before they come, crying out in unison as pleasure engulfs them. 

They cling to each other in the aftermath. The dream never lasts long after they finish, and none of their attempts to prolong it have yet been successful. Her arms are tightly wound around his neck and she is crying again. 

“I don’t want to let you go,” she sobs. “I don’t want you to be a stranger the next time I see you.” 

His heart breaks for what feels like the millionth time, and he wonders at the resilience of the organ, how it hasn’t crumbled into dust ages ago. “I know, my love,” he says. “It hurts more than I thought it would. But we will get through this, somehow, you and I. Together.”      

She nods, but her tears are still flowing. He brushes them away with his thumb and smiles reassuringly even through his own agony, groping for the words she needs to hear. “I’ve not believed in much in my life,” he says finally, “But I believe in you, Emma Swan, and I will fight for you. I’ll never stop.” 

“I know you won’t,” she whispers. “I love you so much, Killian.” 

“I love you too, darling.” 

Killian woke with a start, as was common after a shared dream. Less common was waking to the sounds of sobbing from the other side of the wooden divider. Quickly he cleaned himself up with the tissues he’d left on the nightstand for that purpose and slipped on some pajama bottoms, slid his feet into the sheepskin slippers he’d lined up neatly next to the bed the night before, then padded silently over to Henry’s curtain. “Henry?” he said softly, wishing he had a door to knock on. “Are you all right, lad? May I come in?”

There was a moment of silence, apart from sniffling. Finally Henry replied. “Come in.” 

Killian pushed aside the curtain and approached the bed where Henry was curled, his tearstained face pressed into his pillow. 

“What’s this, my boy?” asked Killian gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and brushing the hair from his forehead. “What’s troubling you?”

“I was just thinking about my mom,” said Henry. “And how she’s stuck with Walsh and she doesn’t know what he is. And my other mom, we don’t even know what her life is like now. And my dad, I— I kind of thought he might be with my mom here, but now we don’t know where he is either, and I just feel like everything’s wrong! I’ve got three parents and none of them know me. No one who loves me even knows who I am!” He sobbed again, and buried his face in Killian’s shoulder. 

Heart breaking yet again —how could it keep doing that?— Killian wrapped his arms around Henry and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Henry,” he said. 

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” said Henry, his voice muffled in Killian’s t-shirt. 

“I would never insult you with such a deception, lad. I know I’m not really your father, but I certainly couldn’t love you more if I were.” 

“Really?” The hope in Henry’s voice wrenched at him, and Killian tightened his arms. 

“Of course. How could I not? You’re Emma’s son, Baelfire’s son. Milah’s grandson. Very nearly everyone I’ve ever loved has had a hand in making you.”

“What about Rumplestiltskin?”

“Aye, well, let’s not dwell too heavily on his contribution, hmmm?”

Henry chuckled through his tears. 

“And even if that weren’t the case, I would still love you for yourself. Your courage and your optimism and your imagination have kept me strong throughout this whole ordeal. I truly don’t know what I would have done without you. Something dreadful, no doubt.” 

“No, you wouldn’t’ve,” said Henry earnestly. “Don’t think like that. You’re not a villain anymore, you haven’t been for a long time. A villain wouldn’t have taken care of me all this time, no matter who my parents were. And I love you too. Dad.” 

Killian smiled as tears prickled behind his eyes, touched beyond measure by Henry’s faith. Sometimes the lad was just so much like Emma. He stroked Henry’s back until he fell asleep, then eased himself away, pressing a kiss onto the boy’s hair before he left. 

The next morning they awoke to rain, sheets of water pouring down the large windows of their loft, lightning and thunder cracking and booming off the distant shore. By unspoken mutual agreement and after a quick trip to the grocery store, Henry and Killian spent the day indoors, arranging the shop and preparing for the delivery they expected the next day. In the evening they cooked dinner together, baked fish and vegetables at Killian’s insistence (and which Henry no longer objected to very strenuously; once Killian learned that the spices which in his realm were valued more highly than gold could be had in this one for mere sheets of their odd paper currency, he had taken to applying them lavishly to everything he cooked, vastly improving it in the boy’s opinion) and curled up on the sofa to eat it, watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Henry’s choice. Despite everything, in that moment Killian felt happy. He wanted this to be his life: Henry and Emma and quiet days where nothing happened, no lust for revenge, no looming threats or reasons to hurt people. He missed his ship, terribly, missed the freedom of the open seas, but he didn’t miss being a pirate. It occurred to him that if he’d been able to choose all those centuries ago, that young, upright, wide-eyed version of himself, if he’d had the luxury of choosing the path his life would take he’d have chosen this. A family, a respectable career, a peaceful existence. He knew he’d done nothing to deserve it, but he yearned for it nonetheless, and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to secure it. 

The following day dawned bright and sunny, with the fresh-washed feeling that comes after a heavy storm, and Killian declared that it was time for Henry to go to school. 

“You’re all enrolled,” he said, pouring milk into two bowls of breakfast cereal. “You just need to report to the principal’s office to collect your schedule.”

Henry made an indistinct noise that Killian interpreted as reluctant consent. 

“Do you wish me to walk with you?” he inquired. 

“No, I’ll be fine. I went to that school for years, remember?”

“Aye, of course. It’s still a new start, though.” 

“Yeah,” said Henry rather glumly, mashing the cereal with the back of his spoon.  

Killian wondered what this could be about. Henry was usually quite an enthusiastic student. “Is everything all right, lad?” he asked, attepting a casual tone. 

Henry frowned and thought before replying. “Are you sure I have to go to school today?” he said finally. You don’t need me here for anything?”

Aha, thought Killian. This must be what the books called “separation anxiety,” uncommon in children as old as Henry but not unknown, and quite understandable in this case. It had been just the two of them for so long Henry was naturally reluctant to go off on his own. “I’m always glad of your assistance, but you must go to school,” he said firmly. “And don’t forget, this is part of the plan. You’re our undercover agent, collecting intelligence. Report back to me this afternoon on anything you can learn about the curse and how it’s affecting people. What their new identities are, any hint of who might be behind this. You know what to look for. Your mum and I are relying on you.” 

Henry perked up slightly at this and nodded. “I can have a spy notebook, and write things in code,” he said, his clever mind clearly already forming plans. 

“That’s the spirit,” said Killian, smiling to himself as Henry began to eat his cereal. When he’d finished he collected his backpack and permitted Killian to hug him goodbye before heading out the door, the habitual spring still in his step. Killian watched him through the wide front window, feeling a small twinge when he disappeared around the corner. He missed the lad already. Perhaps separation anxiety went both ways. 

To distract himself, he made a cup of tea and went downstairs to spend a relaxing hour setting up the accounts for the bookstore. It was something he flattered himself that he was quite good at, having discovered to his considerable amusement that running a business was in many ways not dissimilar to captaining a pirate ship. As captain he had been responsible for keeping records of their takings and ensuring that each crewmember received his fair share, while as a business owner he would need to keep records of the store’s sales and he hoped eventually pay himself and any employees a salary. On his ship he had maintained inventories of their provisions, set and enforced duty rosters, made plans for where to hunt their next take — or how to grow his business, to use the terminology of this realm. All of which turned out to be skills he could transfer to the relatively sedate task of running a bookstore. Who would have guessed that all those years he’d actually had a profession that was considered respectable in this realm, he reflected with a smirk. Of course, the reputation for ruthlessness and bloodlust he’d taken great pains to cultivate was not exactly standard procedure for businesspeople in this realm, but from what he’d read about many of the more successful CEOs his methods had been almost tame by comparison.

He was startled from his musings by the sound of the shop door opening, and a voice calling “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Kilian rose and went down to the ground floor, startled into momentary dumbness at the sight of the woman standing hesitantly in the centre of the room. 

“Swan?” he said, once he had found his voice. “What are you doing here?”

[hoodoo12]

Patience head canons

A few things came to me regarding my favorite of @dorklyevil‘s Virtue Ricks: Patience. I combined them with my favorite writing challenge, which is a list of random words you need to use in a sentence. I’m tagging @porkchop-ao3 too because she is stellar at brainstorming.

Be forewarned that these aren’t worth much. Some do have further explanations, and need further exploration. Some are dumb. Some are nothing. But character building is like that . . .

SFW. Patience Rick/reader. Snippets of thoughts, which means not everything is explicitly explained (although if you’re curious, please ask!).

⁂

Veganism “A double cheeseburger, please.”

You did a double-take, which he took in stride.

“You eat meat?”

“Yes. Is that a problem? Are you a vegan?”

“No, no--I thought you were!”

Patience shook his head. “No. I like steak and char sui bao and cedar-grilled salmon. I’m not a vegan. Never have been.”

You filed that away under things that surprised you about him.

Stuttering “Most Ricks,” he explained quietly, “allow their minds to shatter with thought, speeding in a hundred different directions all at the same time. I, however, try to focus and be more deliberate, which is why I rarely stutter or trip over my words. Not that it can’t happen, to be sure, in the heat of a moment . . .”

What does he wear under those robes? You laughed in surprised delight one night, early in your relationship, when you discovered Patience wearing nothing under his yukata. You made a joke about him “being ready for action!” and didn’t think anything more about it because other, more physical things demanded your attention.

It wasn’t until the next time, and the time after that, and again, that you realized he routinely didn’t wear undergarments.

He laughed at your shocked reaction to this revelation.

Scar “Are you ever going to tell me what happened? How you got that scar?”

Patience smiled down at you. “Maybe someday . . .” he teased.

“Come on!” you needled and he laughed, then said,

“You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Your insistent teasing faltered as the meaning of his answer seeped into your comprehension. He sounded like he was joking, what he said was what guys typically said, but you couldn’t help but ask, “You . . . you got it fighting?”

“Finishing a fight,” he corrected.

You tried to wrap your head around this information. This was Patience. He was calm and composed and more likely to wait until the oceans dried up before resorting to physical violence--

He lifted an eyebrow at the expression on your face. “That surprises you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does!”

“Just because I strive to live life slowly doesn’t mean that everyone else is kind and gentle with me, or that I am incapable of defending myself. Or . . .”

He paused and his brow furrowed. His hand went to the very scar you were talking about; the one that when it happened must have split open his forehead and left him blinded by the blood that poured from it. More quietly, more ruefully, he added,

“It doesn’t mean I haven’t made mistakes or gone against my nature. Or that I’ve always been as you see me now.”

It was still difficult for you to fit this information into the puzzle of his life. He saw your continued confusion and gave you a smile. “Is it so odd that occasionally we aren’t ourselves? Wrath’s volatile nature has been tempered somewhat, when he is accompanied by Kindness. No one thinks that is a bad thing. My only fault is that my lapse . . . ended like this.”

He briefly touched his scar again. His smile was melancholy, you realized, because what he called his ‘misstep’ would be considered a grievous mistake, while Wrath’s would be lauded.

Tea “I drink all flavors tea. Black, green, oolong, white, pu-erh. I like kombucha as well. There is a delightful milk oolong that I purchase sometimes, and a cream Earl Grey that is a special treat. I will also occasionally imbibe with what they call herbal teas--”

Boring “--which are not technically teas at all! They should more correctly be called tisanes. Only one plant, Camelia sinesis, produces all the aforementioned flavors of tea; what differs and creates the varying flavors is the processing after the tea leaf is harvested. Black is the most heavily oxidized. White teas are the least, and everything else is in between. To get the highly prized bright green color and intense flavor of matcha, the leaves are shaded so their chorophyll is concentrated, and once collected and dried, they are ground to a powder. Gyokuro are those same leaves, unground, and they are delicious to eat, after the tea they’ve made has been consumed.

“Regarding the herbal tisanes, most any plant can be used, but depending on which part of the plant--leaves versus roots, for example--perhaps an infusion would be a better descriptor for the process. I am partial to a chamomile tisane sweetened with lavender honey before I retire for the evening. Herbals don’t have the caffeine like tea does, and yerba mate is an excellent choice if you wish to avoid the stimulant.

“I have several books on the subject and have taken classes with fellow tea aficionados. I also have a wide variety of loose leaf teas; would you like to try them? I can set up a tasting and explain each one, including the process by which it is made, the correct temperature at which the water should be to brew it correctly . . . I could even set up different types of the same tea--green, for example, and we could explore Japanese versus Chinese, single estate versus something more commercially produced.

“And did you know that some teas are better after their second or third brewing? There is a specific oolong that is best brewed five or six times! There is so much to explore regarding teas and tisanes and I could go on for a very long time about it--”

Feet Patience’s feet weren’t ticklish. He rarely wore shoes, and his soles were calloused and less sensitive than someone who did. Even through the streets of the Citadel, he went barefoot.

“I would rather walk,” he replied with a shrug, when you suggested a portal gun would get the two of you to your destination more quickly. “Portalling is convenient, but then we miss out on so much along the way.”

Fog It made you nervous, so you clutched at his hand and tried to match his long strides. He, sensing your unease, slowed his steps for you. He also shook his hand out of your grip and slipped his arm around your waist. You’d have a hard time explaining your fear, walking in this fog--you’d be loathe to admit it was because you had played too many survival horror video games!--but luckily, he simply understood and didn’t question it or mock you.

Believe “Believe me, he would put my vow to the test ,” Patience chuckled quietly, with a nod to the Wrath, who was simultaneously ranting about something and brushing Kindness’s locks. “‘Ness has some special power, I think.”

Tradition “I may prefer to wear a yukata or kimono, and it may be tradition, but I am not wearing a fundoshi!”

Snow “Look at the snow! It’s really coming down out there.”

“It’s up to your knees out there . . .”

“I guess I should start getting home.”

“Baby, it’s cold outside . . .”

“ . . . you do know those aren’t the lyrics to that song, right?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe just a half a drink more?”

You snorted your laughter at him as you nodded your head.

Adorable He had several thousand hair ties. On very rare occasions he wore one with a tiny bell attached to it, which you found ridiculously adorable.

Pattern “Walk with me?” he asked, so you did.

It was a winding path, with sharp cut backs and turns. It looped around and around on itself; if you closed your eyes and let him lead you by holding your hand, you grew dizzy. Sometimes he made an observation, sometimes you did. At one point it felt right to go up on your tiptoes and walk with your arms stretched outward, like you were balancing on a tightrope.

There were no walls on this path. It was marked by bricks in the ground, and at the very center of it was a small bench. Anyone who didn’t know the path was there would have thought you looked like fools traipsing back and forth, instead of just walking to the bench and sitting down.

But labyrinths were made with twists and turns in a very specific pattern, Patience explained as he sat next to you. They lead into a center, and then back out again. They were a mediation tool, and he hoped you liked it.

Sun You’d walked a labyrinth with him, and let the sun warm you gently while he continued to explain, “Mazes are for getting lost. Labyrinths are for finding.”

Red Patience had several, and of course he had some that he preferred over others, but your favorite yukata that he owned was monochromatic in red, with a very subtle dragon and phoenix motif woven into it.

White His robes may have been different colors, but his belt was always white.

Watch “You never wear a watch.”

“And you always do,” he countered.

Walk Your paces were different—yours brisk and businesslike, his deliberate by habit—but eventually walking together felt natural.

Run “—go!  Put your head down and just go!” The deadly serious tone in Patience’s voice scared you more than anything yet tonight, until you looked in his face and saw the same severe, alarming expression there too.  It was a look more at home on Wrath’s face, not Patience’s.  He grabbed your upper arms in a grip that was so tight it pinched and gave you a push.  “Run!  Don’t stop, don’t look back—just run!”

Formal The fact that Patience kept a formal, neatly attended miniature Zen garden in his room did not surprise you.

Short Patience was tall and you were short, but the height difference never seemed to be a concern or a hindrance.

Horizon Habitually he was up before the dawn, and habitually you wanted to sleep late. But occasionally, Patience would gather you up—swaddled in blankets and all—and carry you out to the porch steps so you could watch the sun creep above the horizon together.

War Those who knew him bought him books on feudal Japan and war; those who really knew him bought him books on Japanese art.

Sarcasm He didn’t use it often—he thought it was rude and he should be above it—but when Patience resorted to sarcasm, it was worth it.

Speed “Nope, never tried anything—not pot or speed or coke.”

Coffee You never saw him drink it, although it didn’t surprise you he had the talent for making some of the best French press coffee you’d ever had.

Oil A sharp, astringent odor assaulted your nose. It took a second, but when you untangled your fingers from his and raised your hand to your face, the smell wafted more strongly to you.

Patience saw the disgusted and perplexed expression on your face and he immediately got up and left the room to go to the kitchen. Over the sounds of running of water in the sink and hands being scrubbed he called out an apology.

“I’m sorry, dearest. I neglected to wash my hands of the gun oil.”

You had gotten up to follow him, to wash your hands too, but stopped short at his explanation. Gun oil? Gun oil? You knew what it was, but couldn’t make it stick anywhere with anything; those two words and Patience didn’t match. Your heart was suddenly in your throat, and you were chilled out of the blue by a cold spike of fear.

Hands His fingers were long. He kept his nails neatly trimmed, and his fingertips were very lightly calloused. He had a faded scar at the base of the third finger on his left hand. The mark was very small, running perpendicular to his digit. He never told you what it was from, but your suspicion was it made by a ring that had cut him when it had been pushed too far back on his finger. He didn’t wear a ring now, and you weren’t sure how to ask about it. So you didn’t, but you wondered a lot.

Laugh Patience’s laugh was full and deep, and unlike some men, he wasn’t shy about it.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Snow Storm

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers/Loki

Rating: PG

Original Idea: I wrote this a couple days before Thanksgiving when this was going around Tumblr and picked one that would feasibly work.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) I very rarely write Loki one-shots on this blog. Often I submit them to Imagine Loki with one of their imagines, but this one was just all me without any of their inspiration. This is one of the longest one-shots I’ve ever written for this blog, just over 3,000 words. Because I felt the need to have context *blows raspberry*

^^^^^

Loki and I wrapped our coats tighter around our bodies and ran out of the store to my car, feeling snow lightly strike our faces. I unlocked the SUV from a few feet away and we piled in. I jammed the key in the ignition, turned it, and cranked up the heater. “Is this you?” I asked him as I struggled to find my seatbelt behind me, referring to the weather.

“I thought it was you,” he commented.

I gave him a sarcastic look. “I'm not a Frost Giant!” I retorted sarcastically.

If anyone else had said that to him, he probably would have unsheathed his dagger and stabbed them remorselessly. As it was, I said it—and for some reason he had a soft spot for me—so he actually grinned. “Alright, fair point,” he conceded.

“C’mon, let’s get this stuff over to Tony and Pepper before this storm gets any worse,” I said, backing out of the parking space and beginning the drive over to the secret Stark apartment near where Queens, Brooklyn, and Manhattan were closest to each other, but on the Queens/Brooklyn side of the river. In fact, the large apartment was in Queens but Brooklyn was close.

“I thought you were skilled at driving in the snow,” Loki pointed out. “You grew up in a place with bad winters, yes?”

“Oh yeah. I'm great at driving in the snow—even without four-wheel drive. I've been driving in the snow almost every winter since I was sixteen so I'm used to it. The problem is, a lot of other people in this city aren’t as used to it. And New York is so crammed that they don’t really have anywhere to put all the snow once it’s been plowed. That’s what worries me,” I replied, gripping my steering wheel so tight my knuckles were probably white under my gloves.

“Fair point,” Loki repeated.

I drove through the borough, hating every second of it. I was more comfortable that I wasn’t in Manhattan, but that didn’t mean I liked driving in New York. I really didn’t. I avoided it whenever possible.

We reached the secret New York side residence of Tony and his fiancée and dropped off several tote bags-worth of party supplies that he’d asked me to pick up for an event he refused to share any information for. I was guessing it was the Avengers Holiday Party. Tony thanked us and sent us on our way.

“I’ll take you back to your place,” I told Loki as we got in the car. In the last several minutes of unloading alone the snow had gotten heavier, now sticking more firmly to the ground.

“Alright,” Loki said as he did up his seatbelt.

Loki maintained an apartment in Queens that was as close to Manhattan as it could be—and he’d had it since before the Battle of New York several years before. I wasn’t sure why he had it, but he visited Earth enough to warrant keeping it, I guessed.

I pulled into his parking space—since he didn’t have a car and told me to—and parked the car. “Well, thanks for running so many errands with me today. I’ll see you… tomorrow, right?”

Loki peered out the window. “It’s really coming down out there,” he observed. “Why don’t you come in for a while? See if the storm slows down.”

“Nah. I'm fine,” I dismissed, convincing myself more than him.

“No. Seriously. I have a bad feeling about you driving all alone in the dark in a storm.”

“Loki—”

“Please,” he interrupted.

I blinked in surprise. Manners? From Loki? Well, that wasn’t too uncommon since he’d… reformed, for lack of a better word, but he sounded so sincere and genuinely concerned that it completely threw me off.

“I’ll make some cocoa too,” he added as an afterthought.

I smiled and rolled my eyes. “Okay. I’ll come in and wait for it to lighten up,” I relented.

As I turned the car off and searched the backseat for my bag with one arm bent awkwardly backward, Loki circled around the front of the car and opened my door for me. “My lady,” he said.

I snorted as I let him help me out so I wouldn’t fall. “Thank you, Your Highness,” I replied as I locked my car.

We both chuckled as he held my hand on the way inside since I nearly slipped on my car’s wet foothold. Once we were through the door a blast of heat hit us. I sighed with relief at the sensation of my skin thawing out. Loki let go of my hand to allow me to take off my gloves—and to press the call button for the elevator.

Up in his apartment, we shed our coats and Loki made cocoa—heating the milk on the stove instead of in the microwave. Which I thought was strange but decided not to say anything about. Some people just made hot cocoa that way. I'd seen it before but it was still strange.

While the milk was heating up he dug out a wonderfully soft green blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Your face is red,” he observed, leaning against the counter across from me.

“Just cold,” I replied with a shrug.

When he finished the cocoa, he handed me a mug. I wrapped my hands around it, absorbing as much heat from it as I could.

He held up the TV remote. “You don’t mind do you? Just want to check the weather.”

“Not at all. Go ahead.”

He turned on the TV and flicked it over to the ten o’clock news. “—freak snowstorm that’s currently hitting New York City. The worst of it seems to be in Queens, which is great for all those in Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island, but not so much for those in Queens. Since this one sprang from nowhere, we can’t estimate an inch-amount, but given how hard it’s coming down right now, I'd say we might reach over a foot of snow. I hope everyone’s home and safe or following reasonable precautions. It doesn’t look like it’s going to let up at all tonight, so sorry to anyone who had plans,” the weather lady said.

Loki turned the TV off. “That doesn’t sound good,” he remarked nonchalantly.

I chewed my lip, nervous. “Maybe I should head home before it gets any worse,” I muttered.

“No. Just wait and see if it lets up a little. If it doesn’t, you're more than welcome to stay here.”

“Thanks Loki, but really, I should get home.”

“You just got here. At least finish your cocoa first,” he protested.

I took a sip of the mostly-full mug. “Okay,” I relented.

“While you're here, is it alright if I pick your brain a bit?” he asked.

“Sure. Can’t guarantee I’ll be any help, but sure.”

He grinned. “Thank you. I, er, I was wondering how you maintain your relationship with your family. Mine is just sort of… always in chaos. And since my mother died a few years ago… nothing’s been the same.”

I pursed my lips and nodded, taking a sip of the cocoa—which was delicious—to give myself a moment to think. “Really the best way is open communication and unconditional love.”

Loki scoffed. “Open communication has never been my family’s forte,” he informed me.

“That explains why it’s so chaotic,” I said, punctuating my point with another drink.

We talked a while more while I drank my cocoa. Loki sipped at his but didn’t seem too invested in it. I guessed it was because he was a Frost Giant under his Asgardian appearance and too much heat was probably uncomfortable for him. I didn’t ask if I was right or not, because no one was allowed to ask him about being a Frost Giant, not even me.

At some point we migrated from the kitchen to the living room, sitting next to each other on the sofa almost too close for anyone else’s comfort. We just always had done so since we felt safe in each other’s company—neither of us would judge the other.

Loki wrapped his arm around me as we stared out the window. If anything, the snow was just falling harder.

“Why did you choose me?” Loki asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When you first joined the Avengers, you made friends with everyone, and yet time and again you choose to spend your time with me—the maniac who destroyed half of Manhattan. Why?”

I made a face. “We’re more alike than you think,” I admitted.

Loki snorted. “I don’t think we could be any more different, darling. You're kind and sweet and gentle. And I'm—”

“Cold and bitter?” I suggested. Loki nodded. I scoffed. “Perhaps you are. But Thor has told me many stories of your childhood. You were undoubtedly the nicer of the two of you. I know what it’s like to be the younger sibling of a person who takes up all the attention of everyone else, trust me. I may not be as broken as you are, but I'm not as whole as you think.” I brushed my hair out of my face. The snow had made the top of it slightly damp. Then I set my hand on Loki’s knee. “We’re not as different as you think. You haven't seen me in a battle yet. And let’s just say I'm an Avenger for a reason.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yup.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I always figured you pitied me.”

“Maybe I did once. But you're smart and have a better heart than you let the others see, and I liked that more than I like the others. Don’t get me wrong I love the team, but I can get a little fed up with Captain Boy Scout, Iron Arrogant, Prince Dramasgard, Cryptic Widow, Dr. BanNerd, and Hawkdry. How refreshing to have someone more like me around.”

We lapsed into silence, watching the snow fall.

I ran out of hot chocolate and glanced at my watch. 11PM. “Oh boy it’s late. I should really be getting home.”

As I moved to get up, Loki took my hand—not my wrist as he usually would. “Don’t go. It’s dangerous. I have a really bad feeling about you driving this late in this storm. Please. Just stay the night.”

“I don’t have… like, pajamas or a toothbrush or anything.”

He smirked. “Lucky you I have extras.”

“Oh yeah—like your pajamas would fit me,” I remarked sarcastically.

Loki chuckled. “Don’t worry, they will. They’ll just be a little long.” He stood up and guided me by the hand to his bedroom. I'd been in his room a few times. It was painted a pale goldenrod with a rich maroon bedspread and armchair and mahogany furniture. It never failed to make me feel slightly awkward to be in his room. I didn’t belong in there.

He rifled through the top drawer of his dresser and extracted some pajamas—or sleeping clothes as he’d called them once. He passed them to me. “Try these on. They should fit.”

I went into the bathroom and stripped out of my jeans and sweater and pulled the pajamas on, leaving my bra on underneath.

The shirt was so long it fell to my knees. It was green and softer than any clothing I'd ever worn before—softer than anything had a right to be. It made me sleepy just to put it on. The loose brown-and-green plaid trousers were way too long on me, but at least they fit even though I was nowhere near as slim as Loki was.

Once I left the bathroom, Loki offered me a brand-new toothbrush still in the packaging. “There’s toothpaste in the drawer on the right,” he informed me. I accepted it, brushed my teeth, and then went out into the living room, readying a throw pillow on the sofa and the blanket he’d given me before searching for a few more blankets. He was a Frost Giant—he kept his apartment pretty cold. I did too at night, but I liked being bundled up.

He was so quiet and I was so wrapped up in my quest for blankets that I didn’t realize he’d returned.

“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously.

“Getting ready for bed,” I answered confusedly.

He pointed over his shoulder. “No, you're staying in the bedroom,” he countered.

“No I'm not,” I replied. “I'm sleeping on the couch.”

“No you're not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Darling, you are going to stay in the bedroom. It’s just one night.”

“But that’s your room.”

“That I rarely stay in.”

“But it’s still your bedroom—and I'd be lying if I didn’t admit that would make me feel a little weird.”

“Well would it help you if we just shared the bedroom?” Loki exclaimed in frustration.

“Yes,” I said decisively. My eyebrows scrunched. “Wait… what?”

“It’s settled then. We’ll just share.”

Filthy manipulator, I thought angrily to myself. “No,” I pressed. “I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

But Loki wasn’t listening. He’d already grabbed my wrist—and I realized he was in pajamas remarkably similar to the ones I was borrowing—and was dragging me gently back to the bedroom. “Too bad. You’ve already settled the matter,” he argued.

“Loki…” I warned.

“Look, darling, it’s one night and I doubt I’ll even touch you—especially not without your consent. The bed is far more comfortable than the sofa anyway.” As he spoke, he pulled open the bedroom door and let me go, inviting me in with a sweep of his hand. I screwed up my face in frustration. If I tried to go back to the sofa, he’d just catch me and pull me back, and he was so stubborn that I wouldn’t be able to talk him out of this—for some reason—so I debated for a moment before crossing the threshold.

He came in too. “Which side would you prefer?” he asked, leaving the door open.

“Don’t care. Farthest from the window is fine,” I answered.

“Alright then.” He flung the covers on the side I'd chosen down, circled the bed, and crawled in on the side next to the window. I rolled my eyes, turned off the light, and got in.

I felt far more comfortable in the darkness. Like he couldn’t judge me if he couldn’t see me. Wearing his pajamas—which were ridiculously comfortable—was a bit odd, but I was getting so tired that I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I rolled onto my left side, so I was facing his back, and closed my eyes, drifting off to sleep.

^^^^^

Loki sensed her go to sleep as her body relaxed. A grin tugged on the corners of his face as he gently rolled onto his other side to look at her.

In sleep she was peaceful. She looked adorably small in her borrowed Asgardian pajamas—which were also too long on him—and her long eyelashes looked like wisps of shadows on her face. Her gentle breathing made her chest and side rise and fall.

She had no idea. It was kind of adorable.

Loki wasn’t the God of Lies for nothing. Of course it was his Frost Giant powers that were making the snow storm so severe. He just… he just wanted her to stay. She was the only Midgardian he enjoyed being around. He felt like she never judged him. He liked her company more than any other currently-alive being’s—even his brother’s. She was just bright—both in the smart way and the happy way—and smiley. It made him feel better.

The God of Mischief grinned as he closed his eyes, adjusted his position slightly, and also fell asleep.

^^^^^

Warmth surrounded me when I woke up. Through my closed eyelids I could see morning light. Some sort of pressure was on my right arm—the side exposed to the air—and my forehead was brushing something soft.

I was really comfortable. The pajama trousers I was wearing were bunched up around my knees and the overlong shirt I wore was twisted around my body, but other than that, I didn’t even want to move. I could feel my hair under my face and my arm under a pillow that was too cushy to be mine. I used a firm pillow because otherwise my neck would ache.

Where was I? What was that pressure? I didn’t want to move—or wake up—but I was curious.

I peeled my eyes open—

And it took everything I had not to shriek from being startled.

Loki was peacefully sleeping only an inch from my face. My forehead had been brushing a lock of his hair. His arm was flung over my shoulder and his eyes were closed. I realized, up-close-and-personal, that his eyelashes were almost as long as mine.

Slowly, I eased out from under his arm, trying to keep him asleep.

Fail.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Morning beautiful,” he greeted.

“I really wish you’d stop calling me endearments when we’re just friends,” I commented.

“Are we, though? Just friends?”

“Um… yeah. I think we are.”

“Would you be open to more?”

“I'm not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?” he asked blearily.

“Because we just woke up. I don’t make good choices when I just barely woke up,” I retorted, moving to climb out of the bed.

Loki gently took my hand and tugged me back. “Nooo,” he complained. “Stay. You're so warm.”

I snorted. “No I'm not. I generate so little body heat I get cold the second the temperature dips lower than seventy-three degrees.”

“And I'm a Frost Giant who generates little body heat myself, love. But together we’re nice and cozy.”

“If I wasn’t with you all night last night I'd wonder if you had a hangover or something,” I remarked. “You very nearly sound drunk. Honestly, where is this all coming from? Why are you asking me if I'd be open to more now?”

“Because sleeping next to someone for a long time promotes trust—and I've been mildly in love with you for months.”

“What?!”