#though none are all that certain whether she's truly still alive

[post-it-notes7]

So since the gems are tied to Mir Arthur/made from his magic, does he know where Mir Garlude is? Mir Nonsurat can't see her through the mirrors, but can Mir Arthur sense her location? And if so, does Mir Garlude know about this?

Good question! It's actually fairly difficult for Mir Arthur to sense the locations of the gemstones, as they give off the same signature as his normal illusions (and he has those employed all over the place). He could narrow it down better if he was actively communicating with the gem holder at that exact moment, but his communication range spans roughly the radius of the Mirror GSA's home base (the range moves with him), and Mir Garlude slipped beyond it as soon as she left.

Mir Garlude possesses the benefit of having had Mir Arthur's trust in the past, so she can hazard a guess to the ins and outs of how he could track her, and has taken precautions to prevent this. That includes avoiding obvious places Mir Arthur might check, relying on the gemstone's camouflage at all times, and if she's certain enough that someone from the Mir GSA is onto her, setting traps.

[depravitycentral]

Hi! I know you already discussed this with the hxh yanderes, but do you think some yanderes in demon slayer, hashiras and demons, would want to get married to their darling? Hashiras probably would, but i'm not so sure about demons.

Hi anon!!

I'm always happy to write about kny, and this is a good question! I'm not too much of a buff on Japanese history/historical time periods, so hopefully I'm not too factually off - based off of Tanjiro's reactions anytime skin is shown/ Zenitsu's insistence on marriage, I'm going to guess that marriage was probably more expected than it is today. So we're going to move forward with that in mind!

(Also I know next to nothing about traditional Japanese weddings, so you're getting my Western norms/knowledge... sorry! Also, I'm still debating on whether I want to write Mitsuri and Obanai as separate or poly yanderes because I really can't stomach the thought of separating them, so you're getting poly for this!)

Without further ado, let's discuss!! (This is long I apologize)

First of all, you're right - almost all of the Hashiras have marriage on the mind once their obsession forms. They're dreaming of you in pretty white gowns, boquets of flowers everywhere, and a pretty, glittering ring on your finger. There's something comfortable and good about knowing that you're safe, that you're protected, that you're theirs, both in the eyes of the law and of each other.

The demons, on the other hand, are more of a mixed bag - none of them really remember their time as a human, but some are more connected with their human sides than others - and thus, some of them are much, much more desperate to make you theirs in a way that satiates their remaining scraps of humanity. (Plus, this is a way to bind you to them that the demons know you'll recognize the weight of - after all, it's not like divorcing them is really an option; you can't even run two feet without them immediately catching and immobilizing you. What makes you think you could ever truly escape them?)

But of course, let's start with the beloved, oh-so-righteous Hashira. They each have a different level of motivation for getting you to share their last name - personal trauma, dependency, and their awareness of your feelings for them make each individual approach in asking for your hand very unique.

(Though each is laced with just a hair of hesitance, their vulnerability coming to light when they pop the question, because even if they've already stolen you away, even if Stockholm Syndrome has already bent and warped you, there's still the possibility of rejection. There's still the possibility that you don't want them as badly as they do, that you don't need them like they need you. You'll say yes, they'll make sure of it, but you need to mean it - you need to love them, too.)

Kochou Shinobu wants to marry you, and while she won't force you to, she's not too shy to drop hints. In general, she's not too terribly controlling, aside from her extreme overprotectiveness, and this extends to her plans of marriage with you.

She wants to bind you to her permanently, to get you officially and legally tied to her in a way you can't deny no matter how badly you may want to, but she won't force it. After all, while she does force you into all sorts of things in the name of protection and your wellbeing (forcing you to eat certain foods, keeping you inside the Butterfly mansion with scheduled times for you to sit outside in the garden, and a whole variety of other things that make you bristle with indignation and shame), she wants big steps in your relationship to be consensual.

(Aside from your kidnapping, of course - though she sees your captivity less as a step and more of a necessity, more of something she's doing to make sure you aren't the victim of some horrible, disgusting demon. And, of course, so that you're alive and well and she can see you and hear you and smell you and touch you.)

She'll pop the question once she thinks Stockholm Syndrome has set in, and even then, the moment is actually quite nice. She'd set up a nice meal for you (with foods you actually like, not the overly healthy, bland slog she always forces down your throat), with a few candles glowing and nice, fluffy blankets surrounding where you both sit on the floor.

Her voice is strangely soft and sweet when she asks you, this odd look in her eye that almost looks scared, as if she's genuinely afraid of how you'll respond to her slightly wobbly will you marry me? She wants you to say yes, needs it, really, but if you say no she'll respect that.

She won't let you go, of course, but she won't force it onto you. She'll be more distant, a little more snappy, and she'll spend noticeably less time physically close to you, but once she's recovered a bit (meaning she's slaughtered enough demons that her anger is slightly quelled, though the hurt is still very much present), she'll return to you, working even harder than before to make you happy and want her.

Perhaps you'll change your mind if she's more accommodating, if she's sweeter, if she's just better.

Giyuu Tomioka, for one, probably won't ever ask you to marry him.

It's not that he doesn't want to, but rather that it seems like this unnecessary step that doesn't need to happen for your relationship to be stable and happy and loving. He's a bit of an odd duck as a yandere - he's emotionally stunted and difficult at communicating his feelings, and because of this, he often worries that you're feeling things that he's unaware of.

He's paranoid that you secretly hate him, that you're lying every time you say something even remotely nice to him, that you wish he was dead or being tormented by a demon. (And frankly, this isn't entirely false - he does eventually kidnap you, once his hand is forced, and of fucking course you hate him after that - you're terrified of him, and it nearly breaks Giyuu, sending him into a spiral that'll take months of you eagerly convincing him otherwise to move past.)

And because of these fears, Giyuu is hesitant to really do anything romantic at all with you - anything from calling you pet names to cuddling you takes a long time for him to feel comfortable with, and so marriage?

It's unlikely that he'll ask, but not impossible - after all, he does harbor strong feelings for you, finding you on his mind constantly, his hands always twitching and itching to reach out to you, his eyes always seeming to wander back to your figure, his entire body just yearning for you you you.

Giyuu does genuinely want to marry you - he likes the idea of you having his last name, and the idea of being tied to you in a real, tangible way. It makes some of the paranoia quell, because would you really leave him if you were married?

Widows don't survive easily in this world - you'd find it extremely hard to remarry. (That thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, though he does like that it means you're less likely to leave him.)

So while Giyuu probably won't ever ask, just know that when he's staring at you so longingly, gazing at you with those wide eyes that never seem to blink, he's imagining the way you'd look in lace, how your pretty face would look at him from under a veil, how your voice would caress his name when you say your vows.

It's a sweet thought that he harbors, and it's only many, many years into the future that he'll admit this to you. (And even then, it's only in passing, only when he's in your arms, on the brink of sleep and feeling the most calm and vulnerable and safe he's felt in his whole life - you'll hear a small would you want to be a wife? He won't elaborate if you ask him to repeat himself, instead pretending it never happened, but that's probably the closest you'll get to admittance.)

Kyojuro Rengoku knows marriage is in his future from a young age. He's always dreamed of having a loving family, of having another family for Senjuro to grow close to.

And really, you just make it so easy - it's disturbing how quickly he's fantasizing about dropping to one knee, imagining your face - in detail - when he pops the question; he's sure your jaw will drop, your eyes going wide, maybe you'd even cover your mouth with your hand because you can hardly contain yourself with excitement.

And then you'll say yes - over and over again, crushing him into a hug that he eagerly returns, burying his nose into your hair and smelling and breathing and yearning -

Nights he spends fantasizing about your future normally end with flushed cheeks and sweat coating his body, his chest heaving and dried cum splattered along his navel.

He expects marriage, really, simply because he's a traditional man and he wants to become your protector and provider - he's lenient on most things involving the wedding, however. He's daydreaming about you in your dress, of course, but he'll be delighted with whatever style or color you choose, tears of joy in his eyes when he sees you walking down the aisle towards him, towards your future.

He'll let you decide the flowers and how you style your hair, and he'll even let you choose his own clothing - he will be incorporating the flame somehow, however, and that goes for more than just his clothing. Your ring will have a large, somewhat gaudy opal jewel in it, along with a flame engraved on the inside of the ring, so that you're close to him always, even when he's away on missions.

Kyojuro is so very sure that you'll become his wife one day that even before you're aware of his obsession with you, he's referring to you as my flame and my spouse and my lovely wife both in private and public. It's off-putting and strange, but no amount of explaining or pleading will get him to stop.

He's genuinely dead set on becoming your husband, and he'll even allow you to invite a select group of your family and friends to the event - after all, it's not like they could stop it. What could they do? He's the Flame Hashira, responsible for saving more lives than you could count - he can have whatever he wants, and that includes you.

(At least Shinobu will be on your side at the wedding - she'll watch with sad eyes, sad for you but happy for her comrade, though ultimately she can do nothing as well - even when she sees the way he looks at you, the way his eyes absolutely devour you.)

Marriage isn't exactly necessary for Gyomei Himejima, but it's still certainly a thought that lingers in the far corners of his mind, dancing behind closed eyelids on the rare night he's laying in his own bed, the blankets feeling cold and empty.

He normally wills away any sort of fantasizing about you at night - both on principle and because once he starts thinking of you, you don't leave his thoughts for hours, making sleep - something already a bit difficult for him - even harder to come by. But on the few nights where his self-control wavers ever so slightly, he allows himself to imagine the way your hands would feel with a pretty, smooth ring adorning your finger, standing out against the softness of your skin.

He'll move his own fingers against the fabric of his futon, pretending the lackluster linen is you instead, moving up to cup your face, brush over your hair, let his fingers trace the curve and juts of your collarbone.

He'll let himself imagine coming home to you, how the smell of you would fill his nostrils the moment he opens the door, how your voice would sound calling his name, telling him I'm so glad you're home, my love, it's lonely to be a wife without her other half by her side...

It's a desire he nurses, slowly letting it fester and grow and rot in his heart, and so when the day finally comes that you've given up on fighting him, that you've reluctantly accepted that he is your future now (and after months of him calmly and simply stating that I'm doing what is best for you, you are weak and you need protection, helpless creatures like yourself cannot be left to the wolves), he'll swallow and ask you, with a voice that's just slightly uneven, if you'd do him the honor of becoming his wife, if you'd share yourself with me, both in life and death?

It's not like you really have a choice, but he can't help the tears that slip down his cheeks when you answer him, those big, scarred hands of his slowly slipping down to your hips, excitement brewing in his chest that makes him feel both elated and sinful because married couples show love in much more intimate ways, and he's been holding himself back for so long, far longer than any other man could endure...

Sanemi Shinazugawa is, even to you - the love of his life, the woman he finds himself so ardently and frustratingly obsessed with - difficult to understand. He never explicitly tells you about his past nor childhood, only dropping small, hardly-there hints once in a blue moon.

All you've managed to gather is that something horrible happened to him, and that despite seeming rough and callous and cruel, he's significantly softer at heart than you'd expected.

And so, when Sanemi bites his lip a few months into your kidnapping, his fingers tapping together in his lap and his eyes struggling to stay fixed on you while you quietly and calmly folded the pretty, new kimono he'd just returned from a recent mission with, you're completely floored by his question.

Will you marry me?

It's rushed, nearly slurred, full of doubt and sounding more like a statement rather than a question, but when you freeze and flick your eyes to him, he only furrows his brows and looks angry. Truthfully, he'd been planning on asking you for months - marriage was on his mind embarrassingly early into his infatuation with you, though he'd never made any action to make you believe so.

He has a cold exterior and is outwardly brash and rude to those around him, but he's still the young, caring, gentle boy he once was - and when he's with you, ever protective instinct long buried from his childhood comes back in full force, urging and begging him to wrap his arms around you and protect you from each and every horrible thing in this world.

(And, of course, so that he can feel you - your heart beating against his chest, your breaths tickling his hair, your soft body pressing flush against his own, so opposite to his own scarred, calloused skin.)

And so, when you eventually tell him yes after a very, very long period of silence, Sanemi can only nod and chance a glance at you, a small pink rising to his cheeks because fuck, somehow you're even prettier now, like you're practically glowing, like you're practically his - and now, you are.

He's a lot more gentle to you after you accept his proposal - he's always treated you like you're made of glass, but his touches are even more feather-light now, his voice noticeably softer, his eyes noticeably wider when they follow your every move, this shy, boyish smile slotting onto his lips when he sees you humming to yourself or reaching for something on a high shelf or sleeping soundly in what is now your shared bed.

Marriage domesticates him, and while he's still obsessively checking your health and forcing you to report what you did every moment he's not at home with you, he's different. Softer, happier, needier.

Tengen Uzui pops the question early. Extremely early. The idea of marriage is no foreign concept to him - and as his darling, you are also, by default, his wives' darling. And so, while Tengen alone is overwhelming with his flirtations and overprotectiveness, it's something else entirely to have three other people also doting on you, keeping a careful eye on you and making sure you're always, always out of danger's way and never having a moment of privacy to yourself.

And so, while Tengen is the one who actually asks for your hand, all of the wives are dropping hints and not-so-subtly mentioning how things will be once you're an official wife, too. It's always when you're their wife, not if - and they're not shy about it.

Hinatsuru will be standing behind you while you sit at the vanity, brushing her fingers over your hair and smiling down at you, pink sitting high on her cheeks while she tells you that Master Tengen will buy you the most lovely dress for the ceremony, Makio and I have already picked it out. You'll look so very beautiful, though you always do.

Suma will clutch onto your arm and beg you to do her vows first, to tell her that she's pretty and sweet and beautiful and perfect and exactly your type.

Makio will swat your hand away from sweets when she thinks you've had enough, telling you with a pout that you must stay healthy and not grow a stomachache, I saw the ring in Master Tengen's room early this morning and the whole moment will be ruined if you've eaten yourself into illness!

(Of course, you're allowed to have more sweets if she feeds them to you, but this is just a technicality.)

And Tengen himself is even not particularly subtle about the whole ordeal - he'll wrap an arm around you and plant a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you that the proposal will be quite extravagant, I can't wait to see your face!

Marriage has always been an assumed milestone that you will complete with the Uzuis - it's only a matter of time, and even if you say no over and over again, you will end up their spouse, one way or another.

(It's been such an ingrained concept in their minds, of course, that even before they stole you away, more than one night was spent with all four in bed, each imagining you on your wedding night, laying in silk fabrics with four wedding rings glistening on your fingers and your face all twisted up in ecstasy and their names tumbling form your lips like some sort of prayer...)

Mitsuri Kanroji and Obanai Iguro are both partial to the idea of marrying you, but Mitsuri is considerably more likely to make it a reality.

Obanai wants to wed you, to call you both his wives, to share your bed every night and to know that you're his. But there's still lingering fear and self-resentment that bars him from ever actually asking you simply because he thinks he doesn't deserve someone like you. You're utterly perfect - divine in a way that's hard to stomach, as if the air is being sucked out of his lungs every time he so much as glances at you. He's shy, frankly, and afraid to confront his own feelings, and so it's left to Mitsuri to make your marriage a reality.

And oh, she doesn't mind this responsibility at all - marriage plans are happening early on, her brain filled to the brim with ideas of different color schemes, which flowers to use, which songs to play, even which undergarments to have you wear to make undressing you even sweeter.

She's daydreaming about it near constantly, and similarly to Uzui, she's not particularly great at keeping it a secret. She doesn't purposefully blurt out how good you'd look in a particular dress style, but when she sees you, her brain turns to mush and it's like she has no control of her words.

(Or her actions, it seems, because she'll always, always greet you with a hug that's just a bit too long, your body pressed flush and tight against her own in a way that feels too purposeful to be innocent.)

So as their darling, marriage is likely in the cards - but contrary to others on this list, Obanai will persuade Mitsuri to actually take your wishes into considerations as far as decorations or style goes - you get to choose your wedding dress and the food that's served (Mitsuri's only stipulation is that there is a lot), along with most other personal items you wear/interact with.

So from that aspect, marriage actually doesn't sound too bad with them - the only unfortunate portion is that you're marrying your captors, of course, and the vows. They're long and sappy and extremely detailed, sharing facts you weren't previously aware of but really shouldn't surprise you - admittance of stalking you, stealing some of your clothing or personal items, even to sometimes tampering with your food just to make things 'taste better'.

It's hard to stomach and it's things you really already knew in your heart, but it's hard to hear it nonetheless - especially when it's spun in such a way as to sound romantic, as if it's some testament to their love for you - pretend to be wooed, or things will get ugly. And you wouldn't want your wedding night to be forceful and rough, now would you?

And then of course there's the demons, who have a very, very wide variety of opinions regarding the topic of marriage.

For Muzan Kibutsuji, the context in which his obsession developed is extremely key to how he feels about marrying you.

Most likely, you were some human he came into contact with frequently during one of his many false human aliases. He finds you annoying at first, of course, deeming you as horribly pathetic and someone literally not even worthy of his time to consider, but then one day something changes - some small act of kindness or defiance that piques his interest, and suddenly he's finding himself idly thinking of you, noticing you amongst the crowd, recognizing your scent even in crowded spaces.

And he doesn't like it. At all.

It takes him a very long time to navigate his feelings for you - he's intrigued and feels this strange, carnal urge to be around you, but he's also disgusted and angry and irritated that you have this control over him. And so, it's most likely that he won't marry you - the anger and possessiveness he feels for you will likely overwhelm him and lead to him kidnapping you, and once you're stuck with him, under his thumb, what's the point of marrying you?

You're his, the possession of the Demon King - what are you going to do? Run away? Try to fight him? (Some part of him wishes you would, just so he could punish you, just so he could pin you down and see those pretty tears roll down your cheeks, just so that for one solitary moment, you're looking at only him and thinking of only him and seeing only him.)

He doesn't see the point in marrying you if this is the route his obsession takes - the only benefit is making you more complacent, which isn't too much of an issue anyways because Muzan makes it clear from the very beginning that he's in charge.

If you were to catch his attention in another way (say, if he'd chosen to get close to you for a strategic reason - perhaps you're the daughter of some important figure or a powerful merchant), then he'd intend to marry you. It'd been the plan from the beginning, but once he gets to know you and decides that you aren't absolutely abhorrant, the marriage becomes less of a chore and more something that pleases him, because now you're his.

Tied to him, irrevocably his property that no man will ever touch. It quells his possessiveness and strokes his ego, all the while he'll tell that it's your duty to provide your husband with your heart, body, and soul - the smirk that curls onto his lip when he pins you down is hard to miss, as is the way he sneers out show me how devoted you are to your husband.)

Kokushibo is traditional. He's a fan of power structures and order, and while he doesn't necessarily believe that women are weaker (he doesn't respect Daki, but he can admit that she isn't horribly weak), he does believe that women are incomplete without a male partner. It's a sexist view and a product of his left-over human morals from many centuries earlier, but it stands strong in his relationship with you.

Similarly to most other demons, he doesn't really view you as a partner - you're his, his possession, a human that he finds himself oddly fascinated with despite himself. And so, he doesn't really care about your opinion in the matter of marriage - you're his woman, and he'll marry you.

It's about possession, not romance - he's certainly not bound by any laws, but marrying you might get you to realize the extent to which he owns you, the extent to which he's in charge of every aspect of your life. And the traditional values don't simply stop at the idea of marriage - they bleed into marriage as a concept, too.

He has strong opinions about what you should be wearing, how you should be acting, how the ceremony itself should be run. He's a bit domineering, and while he does hold a feeling as close to love as demons can have, it manifests itself mostly as controlling behavior.

He's running the ceremony, essentially, and it's extremely small - you're both in attendance of course, as are his fellow Upper Moons, but that's the extent. It's small, quick, and seamless, and before you know it you'll be back in the small, remote cabin he keeps you in, his form standing in the doorway and the room entirely silent.

He's controlling and doesn't fully view you as a person, but it's in moments of intimacy that just a sliver of his humanity comes crawling through, because no matter how badly he wishes to, he simply can't allow himself to touch you without your approval. He doesn't enjoy the sight of you crying, and he's internally conflicted about what the wedding night should look like. He should be fucking you, claiming you as his in the most primal and natural way a husband can, but you'll start sobbing again, and he doesn't want that. And so, instead, he compromises by simply holding you, his voice monotone as he tells you we can make love, if you'd wish.

It's awfully open-ended, and if you were to take him up on the opportunity, he'd be overjoyed - you'll find yourself waking up the next morning with a new kimono laid out on the bed, a small note written in extremely neat, near-perfect handwriting: a gift for my wife.

He's a bit of a sap, though it's hard to see - he'd never admit, either.

Douma doesn't have any particular desire to marry you, but he is admittedly intrigued by the idea.

It doesn't even cross his mind until one of his followers mentions something offhandedly about when the leader will marry his clearly favorite follower, and it gets him thinking. Marriage seems pointless, really, but humans do seem to like it, and he does like it when you smile and when you look at him all shocked and flustered.

And so, he considers the idea and decides that maybe he should do it - it'll force you to be closer to him, which is never a bad thing, and perhaps it will finally deter all other cult members from getting close to you in any way.

(Not that any of them are currently - they all know that you're Douma's, that you're staunchly off-limits. They know that everyone who approaches you disappears, and while Douma writes it off as a coincidence, it still leaves most people wary of your presence. But still - Douma likes the idea, his possessiveness quelling and his excitement sky-rocketing because it means he'll be all you have, and therefore you'll have to give him all the attention he craves from you.)

He pops the question in a not-at-all romantic setting, but he does gently cup your chin, tilting your head to look at him, those flashy eyes of his sparkling as he asks you whether you'd like to be my wife? He can't help the sigh he lets out at your bashful expression, the sound seeming much, much too high pitched to be normal (mimicking something more akin to a moan), and when you stutter out a y-yes, I would like to, Douma is pleased beyond words. It strokes his ego that you said yes, that you clearly want him, and he's quick to get the preparations rolling.

The wedding is extravagant and honestly way too much, but Douma wants everything to be over the top. The entire cult is in attendance, your dress has a train that drags a few feet behind you, and the flowers are such a vibrant red that it almost looks like they're stained with blood. The ring is simple, surprisingly, and the look in his eye is borderline psychotic as he slips the ring onto your finger.

And when he dips you for your first kiss as a married couple, he'll linger at your ear, sharp teeth grazing the shell as he whispers that you're mine, pretty, so don't run.

Akaza doesn't feel any need to marry you, surprisingly. He's another who has a difficult time rationalizing his feelings for you, simply because his view of humans being weak is difficult to move past.

He does, however, respect women significantly more than the other demons discussed in this post - and not only does he respect you, but he's genuinely the closest to being an absolute simp that a flesh-eating creature can be.

He's a bit rough around the edges and a bit abrasive, but he absolutely spoils you. You're getting high-end clothing and accessories, the best foods he can find in the local villages he slaughters, all kinds of trinkets and things that caught his eye and made him think of you.

He lives to see your smile, feeling this weird sense of accomplishment and self-satisfaction when you're pleased. And so, if you expressed some desire in getting married, Akaza would happily oblige, feeling only the tiniest bit of embarrassment. He's a bit clueless, however, so if you were serious about marriage you'd need to do all the planning. He'll let you dress however you want, whatever decorations and color themes, and he'll even let you choose which forest clearing the ceremony happens in.

(He won't allow you in any human establishments, even if you beg - he can't stand the thought of another person looking at you, and even if the entire village was killed before the ceremony, he's not willing to risk anything ruining the day he wants to be absolutely perfect for you.)

His vows are a bit choppy, the raw emotion on his face difficult to miss, though the words are more disturbing than sweet. There's talk of how he'd kill for you, proclamations of the extent to which he'd go for you - even detailing the murder of a man he'd noticed wash staring at you in a derogatory and objectifying way early on into his obsession when he was stalking you one day.

And when the infamous kiss occurs, he kisses you hard - his tongue is in your mouth and he's dipping you so deeply that your back is fully arched, and he keeps pressing into you harder and harder and harder, as if trying to bridge any little bit of space between you.

He wants you to be happy, and while he's not willing to let you go, he'll (somewhat) accommodate to your desires - so if you want something, just tell him.

(Especially when it comes to your pleasure - your wedding night will be much, much smoother if you guide him through your pleasure. After all, he'll do absolutely anything you want if it means seeing you pretty face when you come for him.)

Gyuutaro harbors a surprising amount of romantic fantasies between you and him. Of course, he'd never admit it, but he's frequently daydreamed about marrying you. Even during his human years, marriage wasn't too prevalent in the area he grew up.

(He's very familiar with sex and companionship work, but marriage? Not so much.)

Even so, he understands that marriage is the ultimate sign of love in the human world, and as his obsession with you grows deeper and stronger, so too do his fantasies of living through every human milestone of a happy relationship. He wants it so very badly; he wants you to want him, to love him and cherish him in a way that makes him scratch at his neck and warble on about how he's too ugly to be loved.

He wants you to want him - and so, after a few years of being stuck under his thumb, slowly letting the Stockholm Syndrome build and shatter your concept of reality, he'll pop the question. It's harsh and defensive, as if he's absolutely convinced you'll say no even before he's asked - his voice is sharp and whiny as he asks you if you'd like to marry a monster like me? What do you say, eh? Could you stomach marrying something so disgusting and ugly as me?

It's disguised as a self-deprecating comment, but the way he waits on edge for your response will tell you that he's very, very interested in your answer. Every muscle in his body is taut and tight, tension eating away at his stomach because oh god he's nervous, even as embarrassing as it is to admit.

If you say no he'll close himself off, berating you and telling you that you're judgmental, that you're no different from the hundreds of humans who only care about looks and beauty. His words are cruel and harsh and they hurt, but he doesn't mean them - he's just lashing out because he's hurt and doesn't know how else to express his pain.

But oh, if you say yes? Well, Gyuutaro's suddenly scratching himself hard, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with you, a flustered feeling rising up his throat and nearly making him sick because god, is this what acceptance and love feel like?

The wedding itself is a bit half-assed, though he tried it best - his tastes are built upon the very little he knows about human weddings. But despite the fact that everything is a little dirty and the dress you're wearing doesn't fit you correctly, there's something about the way Gyutaro's hands are shaking as he hands you the ring that's almost, almost endearing - he resembles a shy, awkward boy rather than the man-eating captor he actually is.

And that night, he'll spend hours worshipping your body, pouring over every detail and scar and mole and committing it all to memory - committing you to memory, though he really doesn't need to because he'll be turning you into a demon soon so that you never leave him.

But still, it's the principle - and when he fucks you, with a voice that's especially high and a pace that's sloppy at best, you'll be able to feel what your marriage means to him - the way he moans when he sees the ring on your finger tells you as much.

So anon, long story short: they all feel a little different, but most are happy to marry you. It's a product of the time, yes, but also just another way to bind you to them - something they will not pass up.

So who would you marry? Choose carefully - because once you say 'I do', you're absolutely trapped.

[theunreliablewriter]

Seen

Pairing: Larissa Weems x Fem!Teacher!Reader

Warnings: Insecurities over powers, Kissing

Fluff

Word Count: 853

Request: Hi! Thank you for the opportunity, i would like the following :) Larissa Weems x Reader first day of year school after they become an official couple (teacher-director relationships) can be first day of school after the whole Hyde-Thornhill deal, she (Larissa) would of course be alive. Thank you! You are very kind 💗 - @anazomeg

Author’s Note: Sorry this is short! I haven’t written anything creative in a long time, so I hope it’s okay! Let me know what you think! :)

You had dreamed of this day since you were first dropped off as a new student at Nevermore Academy. Though, almost everyone in your life questioned why.

They would ask, “Why would you want to return to a school of outcasts that made you feel like an outcast?”

And they were right.

During your youth, you were an outcast, and that especially included your years at the boarding school.

Your classmates never bullied you, nor were they ever necessarily rude to you. But you always wondered if that was only because they were afraid of you — afraid of what you could do to them without ever being noticed.

Nevermore had served as the home of numerous powerful beings, but none quite like you. With your power of invisibility, people kept their distance because who knows what you would have done to them over the most mild inconvenience? If they were to become your friend and, someday, angered you, would you retaliate without anyone being able to bear witness?

And this devastated you. You initially had thought they would have found your ability interesting, if not cool. How could they assume the worst by thinking you would use it to harm?

You were born with the ability to go unseen, but never did you truly feel invisible until your first days at Nevermore.

But, now, as your first day as a teacher, you were ready to start anew. And unlike before, you were not doing it alone.

“What if they find me boring?”

“Boring?!” The woman carrying an unbelievable number of boxes scoffed before placing them on your oversized desk. “Why do you think that?”

With a shrug, your gaze fell to the floor, as you quietly responded, “I don’t know. I’m just nervous, I suppose. I want everything to go so well this time.”

The single click of a high heel echoed in the vast room, and that was all it took for the towering woman you still could not believe you had the privilege of calling your significant other to place herself directly in front of you.

You felt the soft skin of her long finger gently push against the bottom of your chin until you were staring upwards into her entrancing blue eyes.

“I insist you listen to me, (Y/N),” Larissa spoke with a firmness to ensure you knew her level of seriousness. Of course, though, as it never was with you, her voice was not at all harsh. “Your time here will be everything you wish it to be and more. I will personally make sure of it.”

“But I don’t want you making it easy for me.”

“Such as how?”

“I don’t know. Scaring the students, whether it’s with those intimidating stares you do so well or making them do detention in the woods at night.”

Larissa laughed, making your heart flutter at the sound you could not get enough of. “I will do no such thing. Your success will be entirely of your own making, and I have not a single doubt you would not even need my help if I offered it. You are a wonderful teacher, my darling. You are of intelligence beyond your years. Your personality is addictive — one that has the ability to make anyone happy within mere moments of being around you. You are fun and naturally hilarious. By the end of the first day tomorrow, I am certain I will be hearing you are countless students’ new favorite teacher.”

Despite the smile already wanting to form on your face, your insecurity from the past could not help but ask, “You don’t think they will be afraid of me?”

Her gaze softened beyond what it already was. Her large hands grasped your face as she brought her own so dangerously close. “Not in the slightest, my sweet girl. Believe me, if they are not frightened by my return after thinking I was dead, and surely, if they are still not terrified of our dear student Wednesday who you will come to know, there is not a chance they will be fearful of you.”

Still mentally battling the countless thoughts trying to tell you otherwise, all you could do in response was nod.

“If anything, they will come to appreciate your powers, if not be amazed by them,” Larissa said to you. Somehow, her face had managed to move even closer than what it already was, allowing you to almost feel her words of, “But never, my love, will anyone be more amazed by you than I am.”

Your lips barely had the opportunity to spilt into a full grin before you quickly closed the remaining space between them and hers.

Rising up onto your tiptoes, your fingers tangled into her perfectly styled hair. And your kiss only continued to deepen as her arms encircled your waist, pressing your body entirely against hers.

With how safe you felt in Larrisa’s embrace, with knowing she would be there for you each and every day, every doubt seemingly evaded your mind in a single second.

Most importantly, with Larissa, you knew you would always be seen.

| Masterlist | Request Information |

[my-mt-heart]

I'm one of the Doubting Thomases that think Caryl will not go canon in the finale. There are too many clues that point to it not happening, most obviously including the blatant lack of meaningful conversation between the two longest standing characters for the entire season. It has felt like a complete retcon of their relationship after the intimacy of last season, which I'm fairly certain is largely due to studio meddling (aka Gimple). It's bittersweet that Kang has been such a lameduck showrunner this season after bringing so much emotional truth to the table in S10 only to have it all fall apart with a clumsy plotline that didn't belong in a sunset season.

But it's nice to know others still maintain hope for Caryl. People are free to make up their own minds.

If one of the rumored yet-to-be spinoffs is for Carol I'm not sure I could stomach to watch it because I've lost trust in the entire franchise being able to tell a meaningful story. Though I'm sure Melissa would make the most of it as she has all these years. She's right, Carol has more story to tell, but we'll have to leave it to the fanfic writers to truly do it justice. Or, perhaps you and SF could join forces and write it? I would totally crowdfund that project. As I'm sure many would.

But in the meantime, here's to all the writers that kept the torch burning all these years and made sense when there was none. Thank you! Please keep writing, writers! We need you now more than ever to keep our love of Caryl alive. You are the unsung (and often under appreciated) heroes of our fandom.

But the fact that Kang did bring so much emotional truth to S10 should tell us something about S11, shouldn’t it? Did the story suffer because Angela simply lost her touch, nothing more or less, or could there have been too many cooks in the kitchen? Consider the power structure, the fact that even showrunners have people to answer to. Consider what past seasons looked like. I know what makes sense to me, but everyone’s free to make up their own minds just like you said.

As for Caryl, you say all the signs point to no canon, which is interesting because I see the seeds Kang planted to potentially get us there. I just think it’s a matter of whether or not bts shenanigans stopped her from pulling the trigger, which we’ll find out soon. Am I happy with Caryl’s story so far? No, not at all. Again, like you said, the lack of meaningful conversation and emotional realism is super frustrating. But I still think there’s reason to hope for something good in the end. 

I’m super wary of the spinoffs too. All we’re asking for is good storytelling, but so far it seems like all we’re getting is gimmicks. I’ll talk more about it on Sunday. I agree the fic writers in this fandom are the unsung heroes, and I hope they’ll find inspiration to keep writing. I hope to make room for Caryl content too :) 

[elfyourmother]

3, 23, and/or 40 for the oc/selfsona questions!!

3. Do they have any bad habits?

Gisele has a really bad habit of forgetting to eat whenever she’s engrossed in something--whether it’s reading, or working on her crafts, or studying some arcane tome. She’ll hyperfocus on it and then be startled by the growling of her own stomach or something. Fortunately Haurchefant is always there to make sure she actually eats.

23. What do they fear the most?

Losing the people she cares about, by far. Gisele doesn’t cope well with loss and never has; she’s always blaming herself, always thinking that she could have and should have done more, as someone who identifies strongly as a healer. And in some ways that fear is what drives her insatiable thirst for knowledge, as much as her innate curiosity, though she will only admit this to herself. If she can truly master the whole of the arcane arts, so she believes deep down, she’ll be able to protect the people she loves, and she won’t ever lose anyone again. Her perceived past failures were because she wasn’t a strong enough mage, to her mind; all the people she lost in Thedas would still be alive if she hadn’t been barely a freshly Harrowed mage. (This is where I mention that Gisele’s an isekai WoL, she was the Warden PC in Dragon Age: Origins. In this timeline the DA world is the Seventh shard, and she got the Ultimate Sacrifice ending where she died killing the Archdemon, but the Blessing of Light kicked in before its soul could consume hers and she was yeeted through the Lifestream when Louisoix called down the Twelve at Carteneau. The aether he unleashed was what guided her soul to Hydaelyn, where she was reborn a fully grown Elezen with no memory.)

Her Thedosian trauma is largely why Gisele’s story in Eorzea is very firmly an Everybody Lives kind of story, incidentally, with only 1 or 2 exceptions. Gisele has been through so much pain, so much loss and death and trauma. She was only 20 when she died. 20! And she had already been through more suffering than some people experience in their whole lives. None of which was headcanon stuff either, just straight up what actually happened in the game world she came from. If certain people died in her canon the way they did in the MSQ it would have destroyed her. I couldn’t do that to her.

40. Do they know that they are loved?

If she knows nothing else in life, she knows this much. But I think sometimes the vast scope of it can startle her, at times. I don’t mean her spouses and various lovers, when I say that; I mean things like random Ishgardian knights or Resistance fighters remembering that she healed them on the front, or when some kid somewhere runs up and hugs her because of a simple act of kindness she did them that they’ll never forget. It’s staggering to her sometimes to consider her impact, that she’s touched so many lives across three worlds now and made a difference to so many nameless people. I don’t think she truly had an inkling of it until G’raha talked about what she meant to people in the bad future. For all her present day fearless femme fatale confidence, Gisele still sometimes thinks of herself as that poor, sickly and starving child from the Denerim alienage who was locked away in a tower, and can’t believe she’s come so far.

[stewblog]

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings more or less immediately became one of my favorite movies in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Some of this is due to it being one of the best American-made martial arts movies I’ve ever seen. Some of this is due to it delivering some incredibly cool moments and imagery, the likes of which we haven’t really seen much of in the MCU, much less in American filmmaking in general these days. But it’s due also in large part to the fact that the movie is consistently fun, funny, brimming with exhilarating action scenes and moves like a rocket. It’s just a genuinely great time at the movies and I found myself grinning from ear to ear for most of its (just over) two hour runtime. There are more than 20 MCU movies, and while I highly enjoy most of them, it definitely felt like it was time for Marvel to deliver something different than yet another costumed superhero outing. And that’s precisely what’s been done here with Shang-Chi giving audiences a straight-up kung fu adventure film.

In a way, the excellence of Shang-Chi as an action movie is bittersweet. The action scenes were designed and shot by Brad Allan, a brilliant martial artist who spent years as a member of Jackie Chan’s personal stunt team. He had truly come into his own as an action designer and choreographer but met an untimely death about a month before this film’s release. What he delivered here alongside director Destin Daniel Cretton is some of the most impressive hand-to-hand action I’ve seen in an American action film.

Marvel movies have had plenty of exciting and fun action scenes but, as is the case with so many Western films, the performers simply lack the training and capability to convincingly pull off what is shown off with aplomb in many Asian films. That is absolutely not the case here thanks to the exceptional skill shown off by the likes of Simu Liu, Tony Leung, Michelle Yeoh and nearly every other actor who throws hands (and feet). Allan may be gone, but he left a heck of a legacy on-screen here and it is absolutely exhilarating to watch. Capable, highly trained actors being filmed in wide shots without an excess of editing to cover up their inadequacies makes for exciting cinema. Who knew?!

Though it is brimming with excellent action, the heart of Shang-Chi is actually found in the familial drama driving the plot. Shaun (Liu) is a fairly typical 20-something in San Francisco. He’s mostly content to work his day job as a parking valet with his best friend, Katy (Awkwafina) before spending their nights carousing and doing karaoke. But after Shaun kicks the living tar out of a group of henchmen, including a guy with a literal sword for an arm, on a bus, Katy demands to know who her lifelong friend actually is. Turns out his real name is Shang-Chi and he’s actually the son of a history-defining warlord who’s been alive for thousands of years thanks to ten powerful, magical (possibly alien) rings who trained Shaun since childhood to be an assassin. Ya know, normal stuff.

Shang-Chi’s dad, Wenwu (Leung), thinks he’s found a way to enter the mystical, ancient city his wife hailed from. Though she died more than a decade ago, Wenwu is certain he’s heard her voice calling to him to set her free from captivity. Though he’s willing to fight and kill to do so, Wenwu mostly just wants to reunite his family, and he especially wants his son to take up the mantle of leading the Ten Rings, his millennia-old crime organization.

Shang-Chi is, as expected, not too hip to his abusive father’s plans, but there still clearly resides in him a desire to be loved and accepted by Wenwu. It’s that push and pull between the light and dark within him that drives Shang-Chi’s emotional journey as he slowly comes to realize he can’t ever fully run from or hide his lineage, try as he might.

Liu has been acting for the better part of a decade (I really need to check out Kim’s Convenience) but this is without question his breakout performance and he handles leading man duties well. He’s handsome and funny, and though his charisma is somewhat low-key, he’s able to project enough stoic gravitas that you can always get a sense of what he’s feeling. If nothing else, he’s primed for a string of action roles based on how superbly he pulls off each fight scene. It’s always thrilling to watch a performer pull off their own stunts and fight moves, but Liu brings a very visible energy to his combat.

The real treat here, though, is watching Tony Leung make his Big Hollywood Debut. Leung is one of China’s biggest movie stars and he’s given more than enough incredible performances in truly amazing films to cement his status as one of the all-time great actors. But there’s something uniquely fun seeing him not just let loose in a big budget blockbuster, but to do so and not water down his trademark intensity. Leung’s greatest skill has always been his ability to communicate so much with just his eyes, and that intensity and passion is on full display here. Whatever shortcomings the script might have barely matter because Leung tells you everything you need to know about Wenwu with just a look.

If there’s a major shortcoming here it’s that there are elements of the script that feel notably undercooked. In particular there’s a moment before the big finale where Shang-Chi is brooding over his father’s treatment of him as a child, questioning whether or not he’s still just the assassin he was raised to be. It feels like something from a different version of the script where that self-doubt played a much larger part than what made it to screen.

And, as seems contractually obligated in these movies, the climax culminates with a lot of Typical CGI Nonsense. Though at least here that Typical CGI Nonsense is delivering a look at some mythical beasties and imagery that we don’t often get in these sorts of movies.

None of those frustrating elements (not even the often horribly glaring use of green screen composite shots) detracts enough from the experience to make this anything less than a total blast to watch. I’ve come to accept that most Marvel movies are simply going to have frustrating or undercooked elements to them in one way or another. But even grading on that curve, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings still manages to feel like a complete, thrilling package, one that I can’t wait to watch again.

Author’s Note: If you walk out of Shang-Chi jonesing for some more Tony Leung, check out The Grandmaster if you want more of him doing kung fu. Watch In the Mood for Love if you want one of his best, most internalized acting performances. And watch Hard Boiled if you want to see him co-star in one of the greatest, most over-the-top action movies ever made.

[gaming-universe]

Who We Are || Russell Adler

Call of Duty Black Ops: Cold War

-PART FIVE-

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR CALL OF DUTY BLACK OPS: COLD WAR! IF YOU HAVEN’T PLAYED/FINISHED THE CAMPAIGN THEN PLEASE DONT READ! Gore, violence, course language, mature content.

Summary: Betrayed and alone after surviving the events that took place on the Solovetsky Islands, Y/n ‘Bell’ L/n faces new and more dangerous threats when she learns that Perseus has other plans for his failed nuclear detonation of Europe. It was only a matter of time before Y/n came face to face with her old team. There is unfinished business between Y/n and Adler, as this operation proves to be more deadly than originally thought.

Author’s Note: So, after finishing the campaign, I needed to do Bell/Player and Adler justice. I loved this game so much, and chosing to play as the female character, I felt like there was a genuine connection between Bell and Adler throughout the game. There is a tag list open for anyone that wishes to stay up to date with the series. Simply comment below. Gif by @travelllar (I have to apologise for taking so long to post this part. I have been going through a lot of personal stuff lately).

|PART ONE| |PART TWO| |PART THREE| |PART FOUR|

It had been an intense staring contest between you and Park for the last five minutes.

Even though internally you did feel somewhat intimidated by her presence, you stood tall, folding your arms over your chest as your eyes narrowed into a deadly glare. Every fibre of your being screamed at you to tear the bitch apart, to yell and scream at her for her part in what she did to you. If Mason hadn’t been standing beside you, you just might have done it. “You’re looking well...” She spoke lowly, no ounce of regret in her tone as she tried to micking your posture “for a dead woman”. You scoffed a laugh, your jaw clenching as your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth. You raised a challenging eyebrow, the corner of your lips tugging upward in a matching smirk. “So do you” You replied, your tone so cold that Mason recoiled from its harshness.

Her eyes glazed over with a look of pure hatred, Woods releasing a low whistle from his place at the coffee table which did nothing to ease the now increased tension. A pair of footsteps entered the room, Adler clearing his throat as he moved to stand on your other side, blocking your view of Park. “What are you doing here?” He questioned, his voice low and dangerous. Your chest tightened at his tone. It wasn’t the type of tone he used when something had gone wrong, or when he was left in the dark or confused. Adler was pissed, perhaps borderline furious.

“You didn’t come back to the safehouse last night, I got worried” She replied, her response making you roll your eyes. You watched observantly as Adler’s shoulders tensed beneath his leather jacket, quickly turning to face you with a look of anger. His arm brushed yours as he moved to grab you forearm with his hand. “We need to talk, now” He practically seethed, dragging you out of the living room and into the upstairs hallway. You said nothing as Adler released your arm from his hold, pacing back and forth before bracing his hands on his hips. When Adler’s gaze finally moved to you, his entire demenour changed. His shoulders slumped, as he ran a stressed hand through his hair. “I was going to wait until Hudson got here, but I need you to be one-hundred percent on board, or at least on the same page as I am. I want you back on the team”.

You shook your head, biting your lips anxiously “Adler, I’m not sure-”

“Just hear me out. You know more about Perseus than anyone here Y/n. I need you. That’s why I need to know if you are with me or not” He spoke sincerely, moving just that little bit closer so that he was standing mere inches from your form. You pressed your lips into a thin line, looking up at him through his sunglasses. “If I agree to be part of the team again, you have to promise not to screw me over. If you screw me over even once, I am out”.

Adler nodded “I promise, like we said this morning. No more lies, no more bullshit. You will be the first person to know about everything that is going on when I do. I promise”. You stared up at him with a nervouse expression. You still weren’t entirely sure whether or not this was a good idea. But you wanted Perseus dead more than anyone. There was a burning anger buried deep within you that had been there for a very long time. Right now, you might not have known the exact reason why it was there, but it was enough to make you accept Adler’s offer wholeheartedly.

Nodding in what you assumed was relief, Adler continued “Okay, now I’m going to tell you this in confidence, and you cannot let anyone know about what I am going to tell you. Hudson and I suspect there is a mole in the team”.

Your eyes widened, your lips parting slightly in shock. “What? Do you have any idea as to who it might be?” You asked, not liking the way Adler’s expression fell. “No, we don’t. A month after you...after you were KIA, we started intercepting outgoing coded messages from someone in this team. With your skills, we could find out who it is in a matter of days. We just need-”

“Hudson. We just need Hudson to approve this little operation, huh?” You finished for him, once again feeling yourself becoming somewhat closed off again. Adler moved to place his hand comfortingly on your shoulder “I’ll take care of it, you don’t have to worry-”

“But I do. No offence, but you don’t think Hudson might be a little on edge after discovering that I am alive? And what about the huge mistake about my defection? I’m sure he would be super pissed off about it-”

“I have no doubt he will be, but one thing is for sure, he won’t be pissed at you” Adler interrupted, raising his eyebrow at you with a small tug of his lips “I can guarantee you that”. Your eyes met his, peering through those glasses to search for any sign of doubt, for any sign of hesitancy coming from the man before you. When you found none, your shoulders slumped heavily, your gaze turning towards the square curtained window at the end of the hall. “Alright...” You began, trying to hide the growing uneasiness from your voice “so what happens after we are done here? Where do we go?”.

“We’ll head back to the safehouse in West Berlin. From there, Woods, Mason, Park and myself will focus on this new lead we have on Perseus, Operation Hydra. You and Sims will focus on decoding those messages, and finding out who our mole is”.

A haunting chill travelled down your spine, as vivid flashes of your time at that safehouse consumed you; being strapped to that gourney, the serum coursing through your veins and setting your senses alight in a painful fire. The thundering of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, the taste of copper in your mouth-

Adler watched as your eyes glazed over, your mind going to a dark place that even he didn’t dare venture. This was all his fault. He had damaged you, likely beyond repair. Your features that once looked at him with such a bright smile, had lost the glow. You were a shadow of your former self, in more ways than one. And it was all because of him. He gently tightened his grip on your shoulder, a strange warmth enveloping him as your eyes immediately cleared, lifting to stare up at him with a small forced smile. It truly amazed him how resiliant you were, even after everything you had been through.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes to calm your racing heart before nodding your head slowly. “We should probably head back downstairs. Who knows what chaos has gone on between Woods and Viktor”.

The way you suddenly changed the subject caused Adler’s stomach to twist, but he didn’t press the issue as he chuckled deeply, rolling his eyes in amusement as he stepped away from you. “You have a point, no doubt he’s probably broke by now” He teased, gesturing for you to go down the stairs ahead of him. You nodded, moving past him with small steps. You knew for certain that this would change things, with you now back on the team. But strangely, you felt like this was where you belonged. That you were meant to be with Adler and his team. But time would tell you supposed, and you hoped to god that this little arrangement would work out.

Tag List: @pookolokon @travelllar @basicwhiteasian @shellshockedbell @inteligentecat @staryozora @lovinggooppalacebanana @ktdragonborn @quietblogs-2-rd @cerezi @alluringartangels @its-crank-time @bridgebabebridgesme @xundeadqueenx @deviljoonie​ @dishonored-pendletwin @shyherrman @alice-went-away​

[vidalinav]

Love is Bright Red, Hope is Dark Blue (Part 1/3)

Summary: A continuation of both Nesta’s Love is Quiet, and Cassian’s Love is Warm. Nesta has learned to accept her new life, her role in it, the power she has, but she must now face her family and decide where her home truly is and whether or not she can forgive all those who’ve hurt her.

Links: Masterlist; Nesta’s Love is Quiet Masterlist 

I don’t know if anyone really cares about this fic anymore... but I should finish something fully. So, here it is. I have not edited it though, so (shrugs)

~

The picture of Nesta hangs on the living room wall. She moves and its eyes follow. She blinks and it awakens. The other her stares. Her expression a collage of painted lashes, crimson dusted skin, a rose that is cradled in her hands. This Nesta, praying to some unknown deity who never answers.  

She looks innocent. Far too innocent for the amount of horrors she’s seen. And, she’s alone.

A singularity. An outlier.

The image lies off center in the middle of the wall, yet the other pictures crawl up the space like tangling vines suffocating the life out of her. Life is not painted in her eyebrows, or the color of her hair, or the red of her lips, or her pale neck. Rather, it is what is around her. The pictures that are filled with laughter and smiles and heart-wrenching happiness.

They must have taken it from her, she thinks. Poor girl.

But Nesta shakes her head. No, she never had it. It was always the others who laughed, who yelled, who joked those jokes of theirs. She might have been placed here, forced to fit, squeezed into the place they could find room for, but at the end of the day, she is merely a pretty painting tacked in Feyre’s living room wall. Beautiful… but not alive. Cold, and alone, and red with the stain of blood.

Is this what Feyre sees when Nesta skidders through her memories? If it is, she is even more certain of their foolish want to love her.

“I painted it the day you left. I think it came out beautifully, don’t you think?”

I think I look dead inside; she wants to say, turning to Feyre who leans against a table, all starry skies and none of the bleak, burning black holes.

Dead.

Dead and buried.

Feyre grimaces, taking a breath as if she’ll recite poetry in the hall. What other words will spew from the depths of her throat and croak out in sounds and syllables?

Are words even enough to describe memories turned to dust and rose-colored wounds freshly healed?

The fiery anger blooms out of Nesta’s lungs. Its laid dormant for far too long, all those winter days in the mountains trapped under frost. But, Nesta can’t respond, doesn’t know what she’d say to her little sister who means so much to her, but at the same time makes her heart ache as if it bleeds from a chest wound.

Nesta opens her mouth to speak...

Elain strolls in.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” She grins, grasping her forearm, pulling Nesta towards the dining room in glee. “I thought I’d show you what I made to celebrate.”

Nesta shudders at the thought, at the feeling of her sisters at her side and behind her. Huddling around her as if they mean to keep her close. Nesta thinks it feels like a prison. “Celebrate what?”

Elain looks at her oddly, “You being back—and Cassian, of course… Your health.” She adds, her brows furrowing in concern. Nesta doesn’t know what that look means.

Tell me, she wants to yell.  

Elain swallows, the dandelion charm at her throat bobbing. “When Cassian carried you in, you looked so… small. Feyre and I were worried that you’d—”

“We had complete faith that you’d be safe and well again,” Feyre smiles, the mirth never reaching her eyes.

An odd phrase, Nesta thinks, for she’s never been safe or well.

Nesta squints to the table and Elain perhaps noticing the shift, moves quickly to the image of steaming casserole and piping hot buns. Dessert already sits in each corner and she wonders who exactly they’re all feeding if this is the amount of food they waste.

“The roast is still in the oven.” Her favorite.

“You’re favorite,” Elain mumbles softly—shyly, “I thought since we missed your birthday, we could celebrate now.”

That word again.

Celebrate…

Don’t they know that she rejoices in being away from them? That she finds solace in the quiet day by day. There is no obligation of sterile complacency, of beauty she can never live up to. She doesn’t need to be a good sister, a caring sister, a sister who reaches both hands out in compassion. In Windhaven, beyond Velaris, she is just Nesta. She is no one.  

Nesta resists rolling her eyes or saying something snarky just because she can, just because she knows it’ll hurt. Instead, she touches the plate on the table, a fine porcelain made of blue glass. It reminds her of the chandelier she has at home, blinking and twisting like an unhindered star.

She doesn’t want to celebrate her birthday.

Feyre pulls out a chair, the noise screeching against the floor and Nesta can’t stop the harsh look she sends her way.

If they missed it, she did too.

But at her cold demeaner, Elain is quick to lur her to a seat, proclaiming that Nesta will sit beside her all evening. Perhaps, they’ll exchange stories. I want to hear everything, she pleads. Will Nesta tell her the weather then? The bitter frosts, the buried cemeteries, the avalanches that never came crashing down like she wanted. It was all too perfect, all too according to plan.

Nesta will not let them have the satisfaction.

Elain smiles crookedly, some noise that sounds both like a laugh and a cry barreling out of her lips.

Nesta half-wonders what about her now seems fragile to her little sister when she had treaded precariously past death and disinterest and yet nothing could persuade them a year ago that she wasn’t well enough— okay enough.

Nesta only looks to the stairs. The sound of rustling feet stampeding above. She can feel him even now, wants to call for him even if she abhors the thought.

Her sisters are… different when Cassian is around. More watchful, more cautious. Not as eager to touch her or to offer an array of activities that don’t at all sound pleasing to her ears. He is her guard somehow, even though he offers nothing but laughs and soft, easy smiles.

But he ambles down the stairs as if she calls him. Perhaps she does, in that hollow part of her body she still doesn’t understand. The part that whispers his name, echoes his feelings, reminds her that she is not alone. 

“Sit,” She urges lowly, moving the utensils that Elain sets down to another place setting. Cassian raises a brow but sits beside her.

His hand rests on the table and Nesta wants to know what it would seem like to these… people—her family if she placed her palm in his so openly. She clenches her fist to stop the reaching, turning her gaze away from his golden skin.

“Oh,” Elain says, noting the seat beside her taken.  

Feyre saves Elain from her awkward floundering, nodding her head to a seat beside her.

“Who all is coming?” Cassian asks, scrunching his brows at all the plates of food.

Feyre grabs her plate, reaching to spoon in some mashed potatoes, some green beans. Nesta eyes the mushrooms with a distasteful blink as they plop on her sister’s plate. “Rhys said he’s going to be home soon, and Azriel said he’d be here by 5, but that was an hour ago.”

“And everyone else?”

Elain smiles, looking to Nesta and then to Cassian strangely. “They’re coming down tomorrow. We planned a little get-together at this restaurant that just opened.”

“So… it’s just the four of us today,” Cassian states. She can almost hear the note of relief, and Nesta wonders what about the situation relieves him. Some gut instinct tells Nesta that he is ashamed of her.

Cassian tuts, gesturing to the table. “I know I’m a big guy, but I doubt even I could finish this entire table. And that’s saying something.”

“You can save some for later,” Feyre explains, reaching around to give Nesta the plate. Cassian grabs it first, shaking his head.

“She doesn’t like mushrooms.”

Her little sister’s brows furrow, and Feyre starts talking slowly as if Nesta cannot understand. “You ate mushrooms before...”

“No,” Nesta replies, her words forced. “I didn’t.”

Elain picks up her own plate, pointing to the food, “Which ones Nesta? I can get it for you.”

“I can get it myself,” she answers in a huff, taking a plate from the pile.

Nesta is starting to suspect Elain’s cheek are going to hurt by the way she forces her lips up. “We’re all going to be there at 6 tomorrow—at the restaurant—so you can join us then.”

“Oh,” Cassian looks to her, and Nesta leans back in her seat trying not to sink in the chair, “We were going to see the sites tomorrow. Check out a few places, maybe see a symphony.”

“Just the two of us,” He quickly amends, when Elain opens her mouth to speak.

Elain grins, but it looks like she’s gritting her teeth. “Are you up for that Nesta? You’ve only just been cleared by Madja to get up and moving again.”

As if she’d not been there when Madja had told her.  

Nesta shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, her gaze harsh without meaning to be. “I’m the one who suggested it, so I think I’m the best judge of that.”

True her body is still sore, but she feels none of crippling ache that accompanies her like all those memories as she scans her sisters’ faces.

She moves and their eyes follow. She blinks and they awake.

Before Nesta can tell them exactly where they can shove their suggestions, she hears the rumbling drum of voices. All of their heads go to the door.

“Why aren’t you sitting in the other dining room?” Amren sniffs, as she looks to the table. Judgment painted on a groomed brow. Mor only looks to them as if she is wondering the same. “This table is made for house mice.”

“Then it’s the perfect size for you,” Cassian snickers, ignoring Mor’s questioning gaze.

If her sister’s act different around Cassian then Cassian acts different around his friends—his family. She squints as she watches him, counting all of the signs that say he would rather be somewhere else.

What is he trying to escape from, she wants to ask.

“You can actually stand him?” Amren questions, pointing a finger to Nesta. Nesta blinks at the remark.

Her fists clench as she hears more voices and Feyre looks away when Nesta meets her eyes.

“Why aren’t you using the other dining room?” Rhysand asks, leaning down to kiss her sister on the cheek.

Feyre looks to her, Cassian, and Elain, as if she invites them in her speech, “we were just about to move actually.”

But Nesta doesn’t move as Cassian gets up grabbing her and his plate, as the others start grabbing bowls. A cacophony of laughter and jokes and sneers, the sounds ringing in her ears, she clamps her hands to her head to stop the noise.

And they don’t notice, like she knew they wouldn’t, because they don’t. Notice. Anything.

Nesta stares at the empty seats.

They’re taking him from her, she thinks… Except she’s never had him. She was holding on to something that was never hers—someone who belonged to other people first.

Nesta doesn’t belong to anybody.

It’s a thought that should make her feel relieved.

Instead, she feels bitter.

~

Cassian can hear the chair squeaking from the other room. The rest of them stay quiet as they listen to her footsteps. One at a time up the stairs.

He looks to Feyre and Elain first, but Feyre only looks to her potatoes and Elain sighs without a sound.

Amren raises a brow, what are you going to do about it, it says.

Azriel gives him a sympathetic look. Rhys is only paying attention to Feyre, and Mor is mostly annoyed. For what reason? He doesn’t care to comprehend.

Cassian gets up from the table without another word.  

It’s strange, he thinks, because he spent so much time missing them—wanting Nesta to get to know all of them, and here they are staring at their toes. Is the only solution they know sending her away?

What happened to their support? Why don’t they go after her?

Because Nesta doesn’t want them around, he reminds himself.

Except, they want her around, so why aren’t they fighting for her?

Cassian growls low in his throat as he sees the door to her room. A room that wasn’t really hers, but the first one he ended up setting her in when she was bleeding out and half-awake. He can still see her lying there. Cold and pale. Her eyes closed so tightly.

Open, he remembers whispering, as his hand grips the doorknob.

It’s not locked. Thank the Mother.

Cassian looks around the room, but she is not there, and he pulls that thread in his chest without meaning to.

The closet door opens just a crack.

“Are you in pain?” He asks out of habit, his voice high-strung and reeling as he kneels where she’s sitting, her knees up to her chest.

But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches up and throws her arms around his shoulders. She tucks her head into his neck, and he can smell the scent of lavender. It calms him in a way that only she can.

Nesta doesn’t say a word but he can hear her in the affection. Doubt, an affliction that keeps crawling up her chest. He doesn’t think she knows he can feel it too.

Let’s go home, the hug says.

Cassian holds her tighter.

Just try for one more day…

~

“You’re happy here,” she says as they walk through the teetering streets of Velaris. Riverfronts, bubblegum dreams, and the hot summer sun all in their vicinity. Who would not love this place?

“I’ve known these people all of my life, it’s impossible not to love it here,” Cassian replies, all smiles as he grabs on to her hand, pulls her toward the stalls lined outside of the main square. “Let me show you how amazing they are.”

He talks excitedly with the patrons who sell jewelry at the stalls, hugs the female who weaves tapestries of silk, introduces her to the male and his son selling fresh honey. He laughs with many more, all of these people waiting to talk to him, as if they missed him, as if they wished he was here. In this marketplace filled with a galore of vibrant color that Nesta… hates.

If only because he cannot let it go.

He hands her a stick of candied strawberries, the same ones she’s had in the marketplace outside of Windhaven and she can’t help but compare the two. The other is sweeter, shinier, prettier… Nesta likes this one less.

But Cassian pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. Nesta tries not to get the melting candy all over their clothes and yet she wants to pull away, even as she sinks into his embrace. All of these people watching, knowing, listening, judging...

Have they been waiting for this?

When she was drunk and falling over as she walked to that shoddy apartment at the outskirts of town with a new male every night, were they waiting for this? When a male at one of the taverns she can barely remember offered his time, whispering that he hoped the general wouldn’t find out, were they waiting for this?

Were they waiting for her to get her act together, so they could make their little commander happy—make him want to buy a house here—to come home where he rightfully belonged?

“The symphony starts in a couple of hours, so I thought I could show you all of my favorite places. There’s this one temple that I think you’ll love. The architecture… the ambience.” He shakes his head, “I can’t describe it—it’s just makes you feel calm.”

Nesta can only nod, her lips forcibly raising as he tugs her along, carefree like he always is, but… content in a way she’s never seen before. Like the familiarity has sunk into his skin, and he is someone new—someone foreign.  

Let’s go home, she wants to say, the words dangling on the edge of her tongue, in the purse of her lips.

“Slow down,” she laughs in a voice that seems strange to her. Artificial and fallacious, but it does the job, because Cassian can’t tell one bit.

So, they continue through the city as if the day has been made for Cassian’s joy.

They are miles past the central markets, when Nesta lets go of his hand. She stares into the shop’s window, looks beyond the glittering glass to the mannequin wearing a high collared shirt and a navy skirt that is shorter than the gown she wears. Not too much shorter, but enough that Nesta rubs her foot against her ankle, for it would have been scandalous to the lady she was supposed to become.

There are tights under the skirt though, black boots that hide some of the skin. Nesta looks to the hat that sits atop and thinks that it is a basking-in-the-summer-sun type of outfit—a stomp-in-the-mud-when-it-rains type of look. It would be easy to move in, cool to lie in, fun to run in as the fabric would flounce around her.  

It reminds her of adventures.

She’d wanted to travel once…

But even if this mannequin is dressed in something that looks like her… the clothing is not something she wears—not someone she is.

“We can go in if you want? The shop should be open, if you want to try it on,” Cassian explains, his shoulders softly touching hers.

But Nesta shakes her head. No.

It is not someone she is.

It is not something she’d wear.

“You were going to show me a temple?”

“Right,” he smiles, too happy for her world.

~

For all her days wandering Velaris streets, she’s never seen this one, where the bricks are painted in cerulean hues leading to a structure that towers over the city.

Nesta tilts her head up to look at it, her neck aching from the angle.

She can see where the top of the temple touches the clouds, as if it is a hand sprouting up from the ground, reaching out to cradle the azure. Cassian pulls her forward, running to the giant like a giddy child through a candy shop and she wonders if everything is a wonder to him when all she sees is something menacing.

White billowy walls and a height so high she could imagine herself falling.

“What is this place?” She mumbles under her breath as they reach the heavy wooden doors. Cassian slows his steps, pushing her through as they open by themselves. His voice lowers to a hush and even then she can hear it echo in the chamber.

“Just look,” he urges.

Nesta does as he wishes, looking up to the offending structure, to the windows crawling up the walls. Stained glass subduing the summer sun. The color dances across her skin. Dances like little sprites of flashing blue. So many types of blue, that she starts counting them all in her effort to capture the light in her hand.

They remind her of fairies, she thinks.

Not the ones that she knows to walk outside in this very city, beasts she used to call them, but the ones Nesta read about as a child. Little wings and hats of leaves, voices that sounded like ringing bells.

Did they capture all of the magic in this one place? All of her memories sprouting from stone floors.

Cassian holds his arms out, circling the foyer. “This is where I used to come, where I used to escape when I had lessons, or I couldn’t stop thinking about… so many things.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Nesta follows him anyways as he weaves through the room, “And it’s a place I wanted to show you because I thought you needed to know.”

“Know what?” She asks, blinking at his gaze. How he can stare at her when they are surrounded by such beauty, Nesta will never know.

“What quiet sounds like,” he muses.  

Cassian smiles as she begins to listen.  

“I don’t hear anything,” Nesta whispers. Indeed, she couldn’t even hear her own thoughts. It was as if they were left beyond the invading structure, the sounds of the city dull and dim. But it wasn’t a silence that scared her, not one that was threatening to drive her mad, instead it made her lean her head back, letting the warmth from the windows melt on her skin.

“It’s a mausoleum,” he explains, moving toward a table filled with incense and myrrh. He grabs the stick and lights it with a candle. “But this wasn’t what I wanted to show you.”

Cassian swallows and she can sense the apprehension tingling up her spine, so at odds with the smell of flowers, but he gives her the incense, the smoke drawing pictures in the air. He takes another one for himself and nods his head to the stairs spiraling along the building in white clay.

She follows him. One staircase after another. Two and three more, until they have surpassed twelve by the time they make it to the top.

When they do she sees squares carved out in the rock. Neat and uniform with pictures and flowers in each encasing. Nesta walks towards it without taking her eyes off the display, being lured by memories as much as dreams.  

Cassian doesn’t follow her, just lets go of her hand and waits for her to say something. Nesta trails her fingers along the structure.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asks, her brows furrowing. But Cassian points to the cube in the corner, the marigolds a bright yellow peaking out.

“I brought these flowers here as soon as I knew you were okay—Feyre was force-feeding you soup and you kept knocking the spoon out of her hand,” He explains with a nervous laugh, “And I just knew that you were perfectly fine and that I didn’t have to worry anymore…”

Cassian shrugs. “But I still worried because that’s just what I do.”

She can hear his steps. Touches of song in his movement, and he parts the flowers with his fingertips, revealing a stone polished and carved.

“I realized that I hadn’t been to this place in a while, and if there was one place I wanted to take you to it was here—but the more I thought about taking you, the more I felt like I was going to puke. Because you mean so much to me… and I didn’t want to push you or to make you feel like I was going to fast.”

Cassian moves towards her, his hands settling on her shoulders. A soft touch that Nesta doesn’t push away, doesn’t want to push away.

“But by the Mother, you getting hurt, scared me more than anything in the world… I didn’t think I could be so afraid.”

He gestures to the stone again, an offering for her to look. She raises her eyes to his then to the polished stone. A name carved into the pink rock.

“So, I thought I’d take you to meet my mom.”

Cassian huffs an uncomical laugh, one side of his lips raising somberly. His hand rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s not… buried here—When she died, no one ever told me where she was. I tried to wring it out of them and… nothing—but I made a memorial for her. Somewhere where it was warm and bright and where someone would bring her flowers.”

Nesta can feel the pain in his words, can hear the love. It makes something roar inside of her chest. Something protective and burning. Someone will bring this female flowers. Someone will love her son.

“I don’t have anything left of her… but I wanted her to be remembered. As she was—as I knew her to be.”

Cassian grasps her hand, his fingers tracing along the skin of her palm and she looks to hazel, notes the stained-glass fragments in his gaze. Memories and want and hope and anger all pieced together to make something beautiful and warm. He leans his forehead on hers and Nesta closes her eyes at the whisper of his lips.

She feels him open her palm and place something heavy in it.

Nesta reads the names and cries.

“I know your father’s tombstone is up on that hill and Elain and Feyre have that for their own comfort,” He wipes at her eyes with his thumbs. “But I thought you should have a place to visit your dad and… your mom. A place that you feel comfortable to do that. I thought if you didn’t mind… they could keep my mom company here.”

His nose brushes against her cheek and she can feel his breath on her face, and Nesta feels all of those precarious weeks dissipate in her exhale, in the quiet sobs. She blinks them away, but they fall and fall and fall and Nesta realizes that she is not falling. That she is not on a cliff. She is not dangling. She is not in the sea. She is not drowning. Instead, he holds her hand, and they watch as the waves crash. Come and go. Come and go. Come and go, she tells herself. Go and come back again.

Because she is not alone. Because for the first time in her life, someone looks her in the eyes, and she is comfortable being seen. She is comfortable being known.

Nesta huffs a laugh as she wipes at her eyes, gripping the stone to her chest.

“Your parents can take care of mine,” He smiles, his lips gently brushing hers, “Mine can take care of yours, and… we’ll take care of each other.”

“Because we’re mates?” Nesta asks quietly.  

“Because I choose you. Over and over again.” Cassian kisses her this time, his hands tilting back her neck. “Do you choose me?”

“I do,” she promises.

I do.

~

Tags: @dreaming-of-bohemian-nights , @missing-merlin, @strangeenemy, @saltydreamcollector, @midnightbluhm, @my-fan-side, @queenofillea1, @tswaney17, @gloriousinlove, @ekaterinakostrova, @thebluemartini, @anishake, @lord-douglas-the-third, @arinbelle, @duskandstarlight, @soitsgorgeous, @lordof-bloodshed, @sophilightwood, 

~

AN: Oh boy, this was suppose to be done a long time ago, and it was suppose to be complete, but... that didn’t happen. And now it turned into another multiple part piece. 3 parts I think-hopefully and then one wedding scene.  

Of course, if you liked it please leave a comment, like, and/or reblog. But mostly leave a comment, because I don’t care how many people read my fics but how people feel when they read my fics and I want to know your thoughts, my friends! Happy Monday!

[xenteaart]

One Faulty Briefcase

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Basically, due to some faulty time-travelling equipment you get separated from Five and end up being stuck in the past on your own. Fun times.

GIF: @jos-march​

Note: This is another part of this AU. Five and reader are in their late 20s here. Hope you enjoy! Pure fluff for you during those dark uncertain times

You’ve been stuck in the past alone for two years now. It was the 15th of May 1982; you and Five were just finishing up one of your missions, nothing remarkable, nothing extraordinary. Getting rid of your mark was quite easy, you’d say almost too easy to hope the mission was going to end well.

“Five, I think there’s something wrong with the briefcase,” you pointed out worryingly, eyeing the time-travelling device with suspicion as the two of you were gathering your things around the motel room, getting ready to leave.

“What do you mean?” he asked nonchalantly, paying very little attention to your concern.

“We landed weird. Not like we usually do. I don’t know, something was just off about it,” you replied with a puzzled frown on your face, recognizing that whether you were right or not, the briefcase remained your only way out of the year you didn’t belong in. Five looked the device indifferently and shrugged, not thinking much of it.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting for Five to be done with whatever it was he was doing, staring at the goddamn briefcase as if it was alive and plotting against you. It was probably nothing. You didn’t get to have a vacation in so long, always on the go, always busy and tense, it was probably just your exhaustion transforming into paranoia. Maybe, all you needed was a day off.

“Okay, let’s go,” Five’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You simply nodded and got up on your feet before taking a hold of the briefcase and stepping closer to Five so he could put his hand on your shoulder. Using a briefcase wasn’t exactly rocket science - there were very little ways to mess up. None, to be precise. They were programmed to a certain time period by the clerks at the Commission, and all you had to do was push a button, so, clearly, it couldn’t have been you who screwed the time-jump. But something did, and the very second you pushed that button, you felt electricity go through your veins, making you break the contact and let go off the briefcase.The pain that coursed through your system lingered for another twenty seconds, leaving you shaking on the floor and breathing through what felt like a full-body cramp, and when it finally subsided, you looked around and realized you were still in the motel room in 1982, except Five was gone and nowhere to be seen along with the briefcase.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whispered to yourself, your eyes wide open in disbelief that you were actually right to be worried.

The damned briefcase was your only chance to get home. Well, you didn’t really have a home per se but even the flat the Commission provided you and Five with, despite the fact that you barely got to spend any time there with your never ending trips across the timeline, seemed like a better option than being stranded in the past completely on your own.

“Fuck.”

You had no better option other than to wait for Five to show up but with each passing day your hope and patience were wearing thinner and thinner.

There were only two reasons as to why it’s been two years and you still haven’t heard from him - he either just didn’t care about you which was quite unlikely or he was in some sort of trouble himself. Some days you felt very optimistic, knowing full well that Five would never just leave you nor would he give up on trying to reach you, other days anxiety and solitude weren’t doing you any favors, making you believe it was how you were going to live out the rest of your life. In the year that you didn’t belong, doing things that weren’t yours to do, sleeping in a bed that wasn’t yours to sleep in. The most difficult part was living through each day completely clueless about when it was going to end or if it was to end at all.

For the first few days you stayed at the motel, waiting for Five and still full of hope. Thankfully, you had enough cash on you to cover a week's stay. But on the seventh day you woke up and it suddenly dawned on you. You had to go and make a life for yourself because you were staying.

It wasn’t exactly easy since people barely cared about your circumstances, dismissing you like they dismissed any other homeless person. You were invisible to them, just another nuisance with a story they didn’t have time for.

As soon as you completely exhausted your resources and didn’t even have lunch money, you had to spend a few days living on the streets. Sure, being a professional assassin was a relative advantage on your side but you didn’t want to spill any unnecessary blood and only used your skills for mild robberies up until you landed a job at some cafe.

You thought it was a nice change since you were never exactly happy with working for the Commission in the first place. Serving meals and talking to customers felt like a much needed vacation - the job was simple and almost relaxing, especially compared to a job of a hitman. Being a waitress, however, didn’t bring you nearly as much money as you needed to cover your rent so you still robbed occasionally, always making sure no one got hurt.

Five crash landed in some dark alley, even though mere seconds ago it was noon. The briefcase became too hot to the touch, so hot it was painful to hold it, so Five hissed and let go of it instantly. It didn’t explode like he expected it to which was really good news, it meant it was still working but obviously needed fixing.

Luckily, Five Hargreeves was a bit of a genius so he was bound to make things right eventually. But for now he was also thrown off the original course, landing just a few years later, in 1990.

The Commission didn’t seem to care about the accident much. Of course, they could send another agent to scoop you both and bring you back safely but you were nothing but tiny cogs in a grand machine, and you were replaceable. Watching you two on an Infinite Switchboard, the Handler lit her cigarette with a sinister giggle, curious about how you were going to figure it out. She would probably help you if there was some out-of-the-ordinary case that she’d need Five to take but for now everything was rather peaceful, tedious even, and the Handler fancied some entertainment. Plus, any agent could take the job she had planned for you both, so there was truly no hurry.

As soon as Five found a safe place with no one around to distract him, he began fiddling with the wires inside the briefcase, hectically remembering everything he’d learned about them in Orientation. There was no easy fix to this and he was probably going to need some time to come up with the solution but he already had a few options in mind so it was time to get started.

It was a slow lazy Sunday and you were already at work, all dressed up in your uniform and in an unreasonably good mood. Maybe it was the sun outside that made you a little happier and a titch more oblivious to your circumstances or maybe you actually enjoyed living a normal mundane human life, or maybe it was both. Either way, you felt pretty alright for someone who got stranded in the past with no chance of seeing the person they loved the most.

The place you worked at was usually pretty crowded on Sundays, so you had barely any time to be reflecting on your life, too busy running around with plates and drinks in your hands.

One of the hit songs started playing on the radio and you couldn’t help but dance to the happy tunes that felt so appropriate for the warm bright day outside.

“Come on, don’t let me down this time,” Five whispered, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and wiping away a few drops of sweat from his forehead. He took a few seconds to assess his work, making sure he didn’t miss anything and the briefcase was all done and ready. Needless to say, he’s tried contacting the Commission numerous times by this point but all he got in response was silence, so he gave up on that idea eventually and tried to repair the device on his own.

Five pushed the button.

This time, the landing was even rougher than before, quite literally making him smash into the hard unwelcoming asphalt and split his eyebrow. But he did land somewhere so it could probably count as progress.

Your shift was coming to an end as the city was slowly immersing into the pink colors of the evening sky. As Five entered the cafe, you were still waltzing between the tables almost carefree, mouthing the lyrics of some random song and moving to its beats like no one was watching. He recognized you right away, your posture, moves and physique too familiar to overlook. You’ve spent more than ten years together, after all.

When you finally noticed him just standing in the middle of the hall, your heart dropped and so would the plates you were holding if you hadn’t been quick enough to catch them. You froze for a good ten seconds, staring Five right in the eye, too scared to believe it was actually him and not your imagination playing tricks on you. As you put the plates down on a nearby table with a loud bang, you ran towards Five and squeezed him in a deadly tight hug, almost making him lose his balance.

“What the fuck, Five,” you said with a gasp of relief, your words half muffled as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, “How did you find me?”

“What? I didn’t. I just popped in for a coffee before looking for you,” he uttered, frowning. Only as you pulled away, you finally noticed that Five was still wearing his work suit, and the stains on the fabric were a clear giveaway that it was the very same suit he was wearing on the day you two got separated, “Wait. Why is your hair so long? And what are you doing here?”

Now you were both confused. Properly confused.

“What?”

“What?” he mirrored your tone, still gazing at you as if he was solving a riddle. And then it hit him. “What year is this?”

“1984. It’s been two years.”

“No, it hasn’t.” and it was true for Five, it’s been less than a week in his timeline, so he either miscalculated the jump or the briefcase’s navigation system was more corrupt than he had anticipated.

“Yes, it has, smartass, look around,” the words came out a lot more snappy than you would have liked, and you took a deep breath, then wrapping your arms around Five again and pulling him closer, clearly reluctant to ever let go just in case.

“Not sure if I want to attempt getting us back with that nonsense of a briefcase but we’re both here now so that’s good news,” he muttered, closing his eyes and shaking his head a little as he returned your hug and held you close. You smiled weakly and chuckled, giving him a quiet “yeah” in response.

Five’s body was warm against yours, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath at the realization of how much you’ve missed him. He rested his hands on your waist in a protective manner and simply stood there, letting you enjoy the embrace as the entire cafe was silently staring at the pair of you with utmost confusion and almost fascination.

“You know what that means, though?” you asked quietly, unable to resist a smug grin.

“Hm?”

“I am now four years older than you instead of two.”

“Oh, God. I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?” he rolled his eyes in response as he was gently rubbing your back in calming circles.

“Nope.”

-

The consequences for the Handler were going to be disastrous because Five was already getting about a dozen ideas on how to make her pay for her inaction and there was no force on planet Earth that could stop him.

-

a little sequel to this fic here

[westwingwolf]

Title: Single Line

Spoilers: Up through the latest episode Amber

Summary: Grey reads through the final evaluations of the rookies and makes an interesting discovery.

Archive: AO3

Notes: Tim & Lucy don’t make any actual appearance but this fic is all about them. Also, bear with me as this may be the first fic I’ve ever written where I didn’t use dialogue, and I’m much more comfortable with dialogue.

Sergeant Grey sat at his desk as he prepared to read the final evaluations of Officer Jackson West and Officer Lucy Chen. Officer West actually has several evaluations from different training officers in the department that ranged from Detective Lopez to Smitty to even his own evaluation from having ridden with him recently. The poor guy had been tossed around these final thirty days like a hot potato, but he took it all in stride. And persevered through the likes of Doug Stanton and all that bastard had done to him. There was no doubt in his mind that Officer West would succeed in whatever path he took.

Grey had not had the opportunity to personally work with Officer Chen. However, he respected the late Captain Anderson’s opinions, and she had spoken highly of the young woman when she rode with her. Detective Harper had also recently expounded upon her quick thinking and natural instincts when it came to undercover work. Chen has a real future there. And anyone who survived the torture of being abducted and buried alive by a serial killer, and come out through it on the other side still able to do the job well would make one hell of a cop.

However, it was her training officer’s final evaluation that he was most interested to read. To say he was surprised by Officer Bradford’s short response would be a lie. Bradford has never been one to mince words. Choosing to get right to the point on whether or not he thought the rookies have what it takes to make it. Frankly, if they had managed to survive this long with Tim, the evaluations tended to be on the positive side, even if not exactly full of praise.

While the length did not surprise him, the content surely did:

Officer Chen impressed me with every decision she made today. I will miss riding with her.

Grey had never known Bradford to speak so highly of a rookie before. It spoke volumes of how far Chen would succeed in the department by having managed to gain the notoriously praise-reluctant Tim Bradford’s approval. However, it was the last line that gave Grey pause. Tim was never personal in his evaluations. And he certainly never claimed to miss riding with any rookie in the last eight years he has been a training officer. Aside from Bishop and Lopez, he doubted Tim had ever stayed in touch with any rookie who went through the program.

Grey knew Bradford was a professional who would never cross a line. Though he had his suspicions about any lines Tim may have crossed when Lucy was abducted in order to find her. Jackson was quiet about it, and the bodycams had mysteriously malfunctioned. Not that he would have made much of a complaint about it. They had all been eager to find Lucy. None more so than Tim.

No, he was certain there had been no impropriety on the part of Tim or Lucy. If he was a betting man, he doubted either of them even knew how they truly felt about each other. Much less be willing to acknowledge it... yet. But Grey was a damn good police officer. Trained to be observant of even the smallest gestures. And it was those small gestures that tended to be the most telling. Like a single line in a final evaluation.

After placing the evaluations in the new full fledged officers’ respective folders, Grey pulled out a different form. This one for the commander. He took great consideration in stating his personal recommendation and asking for the commander’s approval to allow two police officers in his department to date while continuing to work together. He placed the form in a folder before putting it in his bottom desk drawer. He didn’t know how long it would be before he would need to retrieve it, but he hadn’t gotten this far in his career without being prepared for the inevitable.

[jaskiersvalley]

i hate what you just cursed us with

You are most welcome, Nonnie XD Long furby Witchers will always be my one true love, along with worm-on-a-string Jaskier. I mean, can you imagine beefy longified Letho furby? But to make up for the travesty, have some Orpheus and Eurydice Geraskier. You know how that story ends - that's your warning, plus the fact it's all under a cut.

Life without the bard was dull. Geralt hated it, cursed the day Jaskier was ripped from him. There were many varied injuries Geralt had suffered but none of them were quite as painful as losing Jaskier. Time didn't make it easier and, as the Continent descended into war, Geralt found himself wishing for Jaskier more and more. He ended up reading old tomes, bribing his way into libraries, vaults and the back rooms of shops where the less conventional books were kept. A few of them mentioned a possibility, nothing more than an offer of hope but Geralt had nothing left to lose.

It took some bartering and arguing before Yennefer agreed to try and help, taking him back to Aretuza. Several sorceresses agreed to take part in the ritual to open up a portal. There was no guarantee Geralt would get back, no certainty that he could get Jaskier. But the risk was worth it, Geralt willingly accepted it all. A black, inky portal swirled and, as much as he hated them, Geralt gritted his teeth and stepped through.

The underworld was devoid of all colour. It was relaxing in a way, Geralt knew he didn't belong but in a much different way than how he didn't belong among the living. It took a little while for him to follow the rough path and find the rulers of the underworld. Hades, Pluto, the entity went by many names, none of which Geralt cared for.

"I came for what my heart knows is rightfully mine," he declared loud and clear. Not that it did any good, the only one who paid him any attention was the three headed dog that seemed insistent on following him. Undeterred, Geralt pushed on. "I wish to take back Jaskier and ask you let him go." Still nothing. As a last ditch attempt Geralt reached for a pouch on his hip and pulled a fistful of pomegranate seeds. They scattered in front of him and finally the queen of the underworld deigned to look his way. Not that anything was said as she turned back to her husband, lips moving but Geralt couldn't hear anything no matter how he strained.

Nothing happened for a few long minutes. To Geralt it felt like an eternity but he was patient, he could wait. Finally the ruler of the underworld reached out a hand and languidly flicked his wrist, opening up a new portion of the underworld. Like peering through a door, Geralt could see Jaskier giving the performance of his life, loving every second of it as he was adored by the masses. He looked good. He looked happy.

The rules were simple, Geralt knew them without a word being said to him. Turning away, he called out, "Jaskier, come along now."

He couldn't turn around, couldn't lay eyes on Jaskier until they were both free of the underworld. There was barely any noise, Geralt had to trust that Jaskier was behind him, following like he'd been asked. Somehow the path back towards the portal seemed longer. Every now and then Geralt had to stop and close his eyes, reaching with his senses to try and find Jaskier. Each time it got easier to feel him and Geralt relaxed.

"So, are you ignoring me on purpose?" Jaskier's voice was lilting with petulance. But Geralt couldn't say anything. If he told Jaskeir he wasn't allowed to look then he would never see Jaskier again. Instead, Geralt pushed on and tried to ignore the pleas that grew ever more desperate.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve your ire."

"Why won't you just look at me?"

"If you truly loved me then you'd look."

That almost had Geralt and he stopped, breathing deeply through his nose to try and keep control of himself. If looking at Jaskier was what proved his love, he was desperate to do it, to stare at him for as long as he could to show that his adoration was without limits. Instead Geralt started moving again. The portal had to be somewhere around them.

Time moved differently in the underworld, Geralt knew that. They hadn't been able to guess how long would elapse between him walking through the portal and coming out. As far as Geralt was concerned it was only hours that he had been away. But as he looked out through the portal, the world of the living had moved at a much faster pace.

He couldn't tell where the portal emerged, it was a field rather than Aretuza's casting chambers. What Geralt could smell though was death and he saw as the occasional spectre stepped through the veil of the portal, blind to his and Jaskier's presence as they headed down to the underworld. Taking a steadying breath, Geralt stepped through the portal.

Colours and sounds assaulted him the moment he was back in the world of the living. It was too bright, too full of life. The clashing and clanging of swords and armour warred with the stench of blood and death. For reasons beyond logic, the portal had opened on a battlefield, Nilfgaard decimating whatever local army it was. Geralt ducked an arrow with a growl. Much like he had been filled with the knowledge of how to bring Jaskier back, Geralt now knew for certain that the Continent was at war. There was no safe haven, no corner or land that hadn't been touched by battle and political warfare.

That wasn't the world Geralt had left behind, wasn't what he'd been expecting on his return. Fifteen years had passed, Ciri was no doubt an adult now, possibly even sitting on the throne of Nilfgaard herself. Everything was wrong, Geralt had been certain things had been on the mend when he left, self-assured in the knowledge that everything would be fine while he was away. Alas, he had been wrong. Death blanketed the Continent. There was no room for merriment, for song, for the arts. This wasn't the world Geralt wanted to give Jaskier. He couldn't even imagine his bard, he songbird, caught up in war. It wasn't what Jaskier deserved.

Heart heavy, Geralt looked around the battlefield. He knew the right thing to do. The only thing really. After all, Jaskier had already told him what he'd do if he truly loved him. Geralt's world was that much poorer for not having Jaskier in it. But the world at large was not a place that would make Jaskier's life easy. So Geralt did the kindest thing. He turned around, taking one last look at his bard. Committing to memory the colourless form that had promised to burst into a riot of colour if only he could take two more steps. But Geralt couldn't allow it. So he watched as Jaskier sent him a small smile, one that Geralt could pretend was one of gratitude. Jaskier, the portal, the underworld, it all faded from Geralt's vision until he was left staring at a patch of bloodied grass in the middle of a battlefield, not knowing whether his friends were alive or if they even still wanted him. Once again he was completely alone.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Someone, Broom in Hand

Kaz died before he turned sixteen. That’s the story. When he reappears, it’s at the side of the Dark General, wearing the thin fluttering robes of the Sun Summoner. Jesper travels to the Little Palace to punch his fucking teeth out.

Kaz[/&]Jesper | 7.5k | content note: nonlinear narrative, past and offscreen abuse

The purple kefta is too big for Kaz. Jesper doesn’t want to think about why he dumped his coat over Kaz’ head, except that Kaz looks weird and cold in his ugly fancy yellow paper taffeta shirt, his one layer that he’s wearing apart from the underpants that leave his knees bare.

That he looks uncomfortable at all should be nothing but a trick of the violent light: there are two separate lit fireplaces in the bedroom, so awkwardly placed that they were probably retrofitted by a Fabrikator. It might have been David, though then Jesper would surely have heard a treatise on the stones used to erect the Little Palace, or Gaz, or Lizaveta or any of the other Materialki Jesper’s been bunking with but—but anyway, if Kaz felt like wearing more, he could order an attendant to fetch another shirt or two. Unless there’s nothing he owns that isn’t thin and revealing and fucking yellow. Unless he’s not allowed… Unless he can’t even dress himself anymore without a gaggle of attendants. Man moves up in the world and forgets everything he knew: tale as old as time.

“Just like you forgot us,” Jesper mutters, less viciously than he should.

The Kaz-doll makes no comment. No protest. No further manipulation of Jesper’s old affections. No snide mockery for Jesper passing his kefta on to the man that less than an hour ago, he tried to kill.

He just pulls the coat on. With his odd bare fingers—no claws after all, just thin and human—he closes button after button, including the top four that Jesper’s never once used, struggling to pull the material over the bone-tines sticking out of his chest. (And who back home would believe that Dirtyhands has ordinary fingers and a totally fucked up chest?) It would be easier to leave it open, but Kaz, even now he’s a sunny lapdog, doesn’t do easy. When he drops his arms, the too-long sleeves fall down over his hands, and with his thumbs he traps the fabric there. Sad little improvised half-gloves, more than Jesper’s seen him wear in the month since he let himself get conscripted into the Little Palace. He looks back at Jesper.

There’s no Thank you—Kaz Brekker never knew that word, and it seems in the two years they had him, whatever else they forced on him the Ravkans failed to teach him any more manners—but there is something new in his glare. It’s not just the purple washing the colour off his smooth—his way too smooth face. No. It’s something old: defiant, and angry, and scheming, just barely breaking through the placid paint and the rust beneath it.

Bit by bit, as he buttons up Jesper’s kefta Kaz simultaneously pulls on the moth-bitten coat of Dirtyhands he’s kept way back in the wardrobe of his brain, the ruthless killer, Bastard of the Barrel, Dregs lieutenant and future gang boss unless he gets murdered first. And it didn’t stick the first time. Pulls it over whoever it is that he was before. Over the doll beside Kirigan.

Over that person in the corner, that cornered boy, brittle and alone and stripped of armour and weapon and self, and Jesper wants to kill every single fucker in the Little Palace.

“Back home, you had a plan for everything,” he says instead. “I’m not assuming it’s a B or even a Z or a Q squared, but I know you. I know you’ve considered it. What do we do now your beloved long-lost friend’s shown up to help you steal the Sun Summoner?”

☼

Yesterday, Kerch accepted the terms of the Ravkan crown. Ex-crown. Dark fucking empire. Whatever. Test all children and send the Grisha to the Little Palace, conscript some people into the First Army—though what they still need an army for when they have the Fold is anyone’s guess—send food, booze, and, worst of all to the fastidious greedy Kerch, pay tribute without receiving anything at all in return. It was in the mouth of every paperboy on the streets, every mercher, every gang boss. By Ghezen how could we just surrender? they moaned, and Do you want to end like West Ravka? and Didn’t you see him? Kirigan’s going to crown himself king of everything. He’s unstoppable. And that boy next to him, the Sun—

Honestly? Jesper doesn’t give a fuck anymore. He’s paying fifty kruge just to sit on Inej’s bed for an hour and braid her hair. Ketterdam can burn to the sopping wet ground for all he cares. The world can rot. Like the Dregs did. Like everything Jesper cared for.

Inej, though, watched it.

“I had to see,” she’s whispering into Jesper’s ear, barely moving her miserable red-painted lips even though his hair should block out most lines of sight already. Inej’s smart, though, and desperate: if Jesper keeps returning to the Menagerie as nothing but a smitten small-time gangster with an incredibly vanilla hair fetish, he won’t catch attention. Tante Heleen will have fewer reasons to raise Inej’s rates. Jesper can barely pay for a visit a month as it is, and even those he allows himself mostly because he’s given up the hope of ever paying off her indenture unless he wins big.

“I snuck out yesterday. I had to see. Heleen got a new girl from Ravka six months ago, and she believes, too. Had a cheap pamphlet with her, last thing she had, of the new Saint. The illustrations… they looked just like Kaz.”

“Fu—” Inej elbows him. Jesper presses his lips into the braid over her ear. “Forget about Kaz Brekker. You’re the only one who matters now. He died, and you ended up here.”

She’s trapped in the Menagerie now because Kaz disappeared into the harbour like so many orphans before him; because he didn’t tell Jesper jack shit about Inej’s situation that might have helped him keep her safe in the Dregs; because he allowed senile Haskell who knows the names of all his five hundred thousand miniature boats and literally nothing else to stay in charge of the Dregs instead of killing him as soon as possible, which allowed Haskell to let the payments for Inej’s indenture lapse, which meant three months after Kaz just disappeared from his life Jesper got back to the Slat to find that Inej, too, had gone without a trace, and it was only luck and a pervert old Dreg that Jesper soon afterwards ‘accidentally’ shoved off a roof talking about the girls at the Menagerie that meant he found her again. Found her, only to realize he can’t help her at all.

Inej pulls Jesper’s ear back to her mouth. “I saw him, Jesper. I saw Kaz. Kaz is alive. He was there. I saw him.”

“You what?!” A sharp elbow darting out of her red sad nightgown that would have slipped right in-between his ribs if it was one of the knives she still mourns, and he’s not even given anything away. Heleen’s a hell bitch, but what use would she get out of random surprise?

“I saw Kaz. He’s the Sun Summoner. I was far away but—it was Kaz, standing next to General Kirigan, holding his hand, when the Merchant’s Council signed the terms of surrender. It was Kaz. I’m certain. Sankt Kaz.”

“I—” Jesper burrows his face into Inej’s hair. “You didn’t happen to have a knife on you, did you? A really tiny one she couldn’t confiscate. A super lethal one. Might never get as good a chance again.”

“Jes—”

“Fuck him sideways with a rusty shovel. That traitor. Did you forget how you ended up here? He left us. Saw a bigger pile of cash and skedaddled, I bet. He always wanted to be king. Guess becoming the Darkling’s queen was the next-best option.”

Inej doesn’t even defend Kaz. Jesper pulls away from her so he can look at her face. She always looks sad these days, unless she has specific painful orders to perk up, but it’s deeper now. She’s not doing the gesture, not holding her hand against her chest. Faith, now, is just one more thing Kaz Brekker took from her. Jesper can’t blame her, even though he never believed. Not even when Ravka’s new ‘Sun Summoner’ started gaining them the whole continent. Power’s power, though, no matter whether the stories around it are true. If Kaz truly is the Sun Summoner, then it’s not just Kaz Brekker who sent her back to the Menagerie—but one of her Saints. Fucking asshole.

He buries Inej in his arms. It’s all he can do now, to hold her until this month’s hour is up, because it’s not like he can just murder the Ravkans special weapon in retribution, can he? Can…

“This changes nothing,” he whispers. “The only priority is still paying off your indenture. Kaz quit the Dregs. He left us, and that means he’s nothing now. Less than nothing. I have a good feeling about the Makker’s Wheel at the Emerald Palace this weekend. Lots of pigeons there for the ‘Fete of Unity with Mother Ravka’ or whatever, and the minder thinks I’m hot. It’s risky, of course, but if I do this right—”

☼

Jesper’s just about to crawl right back out from under the bed—weapons raised, since hell knows what Kaz was planning back there, and fuck Jesper for apparently still harbouring enough trust in the guy to follow his lead two years after he deserted—but then, a series of clicks and rumbles heralds the opening of the door. Footsteps, and it slides shut again.

Shit, that was close.

And Kaz wasn’t bluffing, after all. Well, well… it certainly means something that Kaz, beloved Saint and Sun Summoner and ally to the Darkling, just told his attempted murderer slash old friend and-or stooge to hide. Kaz never did anything without a motive, be it profit or power or vengeance, and even this degraded, polished version surely isn’t so far gone as to engage in ideas as base as altruism. Ergo, Kaz will want to use Jesper for—something, though what is there he wants when he’s basically a prince of—but he isn’t, is he? He’s in a cell. A cell Jesper can unlock.

Three pairs of footsteps move around the room. One of them might be Kaz, but without his limp, it’s hard to recognize him. None of them says a word, which… it probably means this is a routine visit. Whatever’s going on, they all know their role.

Two pairs stop moving, while the third one—circles around them, it sounds like, and then someone else stumbles a little and catches themselves. Jesper hopes they’ll hurry up. He’s in mortal danger, technically—Kaz can still choose to reveal the intruder inside the Sun Summoner’s private room and-orprison, but, prison. Jesper’s far more useful alive, and so, hiding under the bed is fucking boring.

There’s not even anything interesting in-between the slat frame and the mattress. It’s the only place where you could hide anything—that Jesper can think of, at least, but there’s just nothing there at all, and Kaz used to be a real magpie. It’s a gaping void, just like everything else in this room. Like everything else in this palace, a chasm painted over with gilt and power. Unless—something’s stuck to the underside of a cross brace. Jesper slides a fingernail under the edge, and it comes loose easily enough. Not exactly a cache worthy of Dirtyhands, and anyway, it’s just a… a mangled piece of paper. A paper that looks like it’s been chewed on and spat out—and an entire corner actually torn off, or bitten, maybe—and whatever used to be printed onto it mostly rubbed off except for a couple of letters here and there, RAV. Curved lines and tiny hats. What would Kaz need to hide in his room? Apart from weapons he doesn’t have. Other people’s jewellery, dito. The only thing that Jesper knows about him now is that he’s trying to open the door. Trying to leave. It’s probably a map, then.

Which means an escape is planned, and Jesper’s just providing the desperately sought means. Good. That means he should have even more leverage here.

Somebody stumbles again, this time taking two steps to catch themselves. Almost as if they’ve jerked away.

“You’re falling behind,” slimes the smooth, rich voice of the Darkling. “On second thought, our people would miss you at the celebration. I’ll inform the staff that you wish to dance, all night long.”

☼

“You’re hanging around here because you heard that General Kirigan and the Sun Summoner are due back this hour, aren’t you?” The woman in a tidemaker’s kefta that just sidled up to Jesper speaks unaccented, high class central Ravkan. Even if her dark skin is an indication of Zemeni heritage, she came to the Little Palace long before the Darkling’s recent territorial acquisitions. She’s no ally, just like the rest of the crowd that surrounds them: an old-school Grisha, veteran Second Army, not someone whose loyalties may yet be pliable. Not someone like Jesper, whose skin started crawling the moment he showed his skills to a Ravkan occupation officer so he could sneak into the Little Palace. She’s friendly, though, and looks at Jesper’s face with clear appreciation. “You must be new. Hi. I’m Nadia.”

“Jesper,” he says, throwing a flirtatious grin like a blanket over his nerves and anger. It’s almost fun, playing the suave infiltrator assassin Grisha. Except Inej’s still in the Menagerie. And Kaz is still a piece of shit. “Yeah, I just got here! They didn’t test for Grisha ability in Novyi Zem when I was little, so I barely knew who I was… but once I heard about the Darkling, about this place, I crossed the True Sea as soon as I could!”

“That must have been so hard. So lonely. This place is…” She grimaces. “This place was our sanctuary. You’re lucky you’re Materialnik.”

“Why?” It’s the first time since his arrival that anyone’s had even a neutral opinion of Durasts, let alone good, and granted, it’s not like he cares that much about the ability his Ma died from, and he’s only talked to a dozen people since arriving yesterday, but…

“Listen, I know you want to see the Sun Summoner, and don’t tell anyone I said this but…” Nadia pulls Jesper a few paces away from the crowd on the training grounds, into a corner formed by two enormous bales of hay. Well-chosen: he can barely see the crowd that just surrounded them peek out behind the yellow stalks. “You’re sweet—”

“Listen, you’re gorgeous, but we just met—although, on second—”

“No!” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “You’re cute, but no. It’s my duty, to her, to protect you. The new ones. You’re Materialnik, so you’re not combat, so you’re not going to actually meet the Sun Summoner. Ever, if you’re lucky.”

“He’s that bad?” Kaz was always a dick, if Jesper’s honest—it was part of his charm—he was just a charming magnetic one, and back with the Dregs Jesper hated his ruthlessness just as much as he admired it. He was worst to his fellow Dregs and his enemies, though: he could charm a mark when needed. So it’s a tad unexpected that Kaz earned himself the hatred of a Grisha indoctrinated from childhood to see him as her Saint and saviour. Apparently, he’s just that talented. That obnoxious.

Well, Jesper’s not complaining. That makes his plan much easier.

“He killed my best friend,” Nadia whispers urgently. “The last time I saw her they were taking a walk, and then I found her, blisters and burns all over her body. Who else? There’s a reason he’s not allowed to have weapons. I heard the Darkling doesn’t let him go anywhere alone, or he would murder us all. He killed Baghra too, I’m sure—she was our teacher, but she disappeared two years ago. Just stay away from him, alright? He looks harmless, but he’s a rabid dog. Oh. There he comes.”

Jesper barely manages to whisper, “Thank you,” before she pulls away from him and returns to her previous place. Back to the crowd of Etherealki and Corporalki on the training field, but she finds her place in the last row, standing—hiding—behind two men much taller than her.

Jesper follows into the crowd. No need to alert Kaz that the past is hot on his heels, and then—

Well. There he is.

There someoneis, anyway.

If Jesper trusted Inej just a hair’s breadth less, he’d have cursed her and sneaked back out of the Little Palace the second he sees the person holding General Kirigan’s hand. Sure, the Sun Summoner is male, with dark brown hair and dark eyes and pale skin, and just a little bit taller than Kaz was at fifteen, but that’s where the similarities end. Dirtyhands had his impeccable mercher’s suits in a grim mockery of Ketterdam’s upper class, and gloves to feed the rumours, and a cane to walk and kill. His hair managed to be at once floppy and severe; just like his gaunt face, in the right light, made him look utterly captivating and not just like an annoyed scheming rat. He looked exactly like the Bastard of the Barrel should. Not pleasant or easy, but the person Jesper once would have followed into any lion’s den.

This—this Sun Summoner, on Kirigan’s arm, is beautiful. Healthful. Pristine.

Barely even a fucking person.

It’s the face, mostly.

You could never tell what Kaz was thinking, just looking at him, because he was, after all, thinking in layers upon layers of incomprehensible schemes at all times of the day and then went to bed and dreamt about ploys and deceptions. Jesper could barely follow him the three times total he deigned to explain part of his plans. But you could always tell that Kaz was thinking. Planning, scheming, plotting his greedy bloody vicious way out of and into every possible house on every possible street.

The Sun Summoner looks empty. He’s staring straight ahead, but he’s not even doing thatwith any kind of purpose. He’s like a pet on the Darkling’s arm. He looks more airheaded than all blackout drunk heirs and heiresses in Ketterdam combined.

It’s incredibly eerie, because now he’s searching for it Jesper can sort of read Kaz Brekker back into the Sun Summoner’s face. This face is much smoother, without the marks of past firepox, plumped and rosy-tinted, but that might partially just be a testament to the quality of Ravkan cooks—or, how skint the Dregs always were. He has a normal haircut. It probably suits him better, unless your standard for beauty is Dirtyhands, and unfortunately Jesper—anyway. The Sun Summoner doesn’t have a cane, either, and he doesn’t need one, apparently, because he isn’t limping. Ravkan royal healthcare, but honestly, Kaz could have pressed a Grisha healer into service back in Ketterdam only he always insisted—well, whatever. Fuck his words of wisdom. Fuck him. Fuck Kaz. Jesper shouldn’t even be remembering that snake.

Kaz Brekker betrayed Inej, left her to rot in the Menagerie, so whatever role he’s playing right now in whatever scheme this is—because it has to be a scheme that put Kaz into the yellow robe he’s in right now, so thin it’s translucent, and sleeveless too in the Ravkan winter. The Dregs tattoo on his arm is gone. Two Inferni are flanking him and the Darkling, their hands perpetually on fire just so Kaz can parade about in a robe no Menagerie slave would go outside in, but still, it’s Kaz. It’s definitely Kaz Brekker. Jesper can see it now.

Fuck him. He traded the Dregs for this. He abandoned them to Haskell’s mismanagement and let Inej go back to the Menagerie. He betrayed them all.

(Of course, Jesper abandoned Inej now too, and without a word, but—after that last catastrophic loss in the Emerald Palace, there’s a zero percent chance the Dime Lions wouldn’t have strung him up by his own entrails—or sold him into indenture, trying to make back at least a fraction of the fifty thousand kruge he owes—so really, he had no choice. It’s the next best thing, right? If he can’t help her anymore, at least he can kill the bastard that started all their troubles.)

Kaz just walks off, hand in the Darkling’s grasp, towards the Little Palace. Carelessly following the other man’s lead.

The old Kaz would have noticed Jesper.

☼

Footsteps and then, a series of clicks and pieces of wood and metal rubbing stones. The door. Kaz’s legs, taking steps backwards to the bed in a perfect, healthy gait. The rich soft creaking of the bed as he sinks down again, and in front of Jesper—the same two muscular, pale, bare, identical hairy calves. Like the legs of a statue, or one of those de Kappels he used to like, except the right leg is trembling finely. Barely noticeable if it wasn’t right in front of Jesper’s face. Those Ravkans maybe aren’t so crafty after all.

Then: nothing.

After what feels like an hour in which Jesper doesn’t dare move, even though the Darkling must have left already, a hand drops off the edge off the mattress. Middle and index finger erect, then crooking twice in quick succession. It takes a moment to connect. Jesper hasn’t seen those signals in such a—move, path clear. Yes. That’s what it was.

Jesper wriggles out from under the bed, annoyingly free of dust. Pristine. Empty, just like everything else.

“Didn’t think the Sun Summoner needed to use our secret code, boss,” he drawls up at Kaz from the floor. Kaz, with his barren black eyes and his new porcelain doll face, picking at the wide open collar of his yellow shirt.

“Never drop a tool you can still use,” Kaz says. A beat. “Didn’t think I was your boss anymore.”

“You aren’t.” Jesper turns his head away, looking at the spotless floor and the intricately painted walls from his low vantage point. Exquisite, imposing, empty: a Saint’s cage, as beautiful and terrible as Inej’s room in the Menagerie. The bare wall hiding the inaccessible door. “That guy really fucking hates you.”

Kaz doesn’t reply. Jesper turns his head back to watch him again, even though that won’t give him anything more: Kaz used to be willfully inscrutable even back in the Barrel, but after whatever Grisha surgery they did to him, there are only traces left of the real person trapped inside him. Dollface, Jesper thinks again. Who’d have expected they’d turn fucking Dirtyhands into a dollface?

It’s Kaz who turns away, fingers clawed into his neckline. His voice is rough, even if it’s a shadow of the damaged rasp that used to be him. “I thought about it sometimes, back then. The first time.”

Every fibre of Jesper’s being wants to interrupt with, What are you talking about? I don’t speak cryptic anymore. I’m out of practice. He should get off the floor, raise his guns, resume—but whatever it is, whether it’s some stupid new Grisha power, whether it’s zowa, or his memory of Kaz is just coming back, he doesn’t—

“It was like this. I was on my bed already, usually, when it grew hard—and I thought you would be up for not being on the bed, and there wasn’t much else in my room. I imagined watching you. I didn’t touch it. That was better.”

Uh. What.

“He probably knows I threw up after we—I tried to hide it. I thought I could manipulate him into seeing me as his partner, I thought I’d healed, that I’d practiced enough—but he just saw that I was still weak. He saw he could control me. But if he didn’t do it again because I threw up, I’m—”

He was right. Jesper would have stayed on the cold hard floor back then for him. Even now, Jesper would crawl around like a worm jerking off for the fucking asshole he got himself trapped in the Little Palace to murder, if that meant Kaz never had to—

Kaz pulls the neckline of his flimsy thin single ugly yellow shirt closed. The shirt that doesn’t protect him. The shirt he didn’t choose.

☼

Jesper’s imagined the Sun Summoner’s quarters, of course. Most of the Grisha in the Little Palace are wretched gossips—or Jesper’s been charming as many people into spilling as many secrets as possible to him so he can plan his attack, same difference—and anyway, he needs a backdrop for his imagined kill shots. It’s Kaz Brekker, after all. Dirtyhands. The ex-Bastard. You’d want to rehearse that death. Think of some witty one-liners.

Nadia said it was gorgeous inside, like a dollhouse. Lizaveta, who Jesper’s been told to shadow so he can learn how to become a proper Durast, insisted it’s totally empty. Grzegorz said there were live kittens inside, so the Sun Summoner could sate his lust for innocent blood, Sayyna thought there was a giant swimming pool, and a lovely naïve boy from the edge of the permafrost up at the former border insisted it was just like the quarters of all other Grisha, except with a little more privacy. Since they’re all siblings fighting for a world that will be kind to Grisha.

Jesper, privately, imagined a few stolen paintings and a mishmash of furniture. Because he’s an idiot.

This is just like—

If it is the Sun Summoner’s bedroom at all. It should be. Jesper did his homework: he followed the Darkling and his Sun Summoner creature that wears the skin used to house Kaz, and a variety of Materialniks, to the end of this specific corridor, five times in total. Watched the Materialniks unlock a hidden mechanism, and then the two most powerful men in Ravka—in all charted countries, ruling everything this side of the True Sea but pockets of Shu Han and even that’s a matter of time—they walked inside, hand in hand. The Darkling always left, after a while, alone, and so it only made sense to assume that the hidden room that Jesper just snuck up to and unlocked is, in fact, the Sun Summoner’s room. Kaz’ room. It’s the best time for breaking into it, too. There’s going to be a party in two days, so hopefully everyone’s too busy, and even if the Sun Summoner’s out doing preparations then Jesper can just hide in here and kill him in an ambush. That’s probably easier, actually.

First, though, he locks and hides the door again, because… yeah, he went to Ravka expecting to get caught. At some point. This is a suicide mission for revenge, after all—suicide is in in the title. But it’s no fun if he gets caught before the gory glorious revenge part. Before Kaz admits he was a piece of shit. Both guns cocked and ready, he turns around, and actually inspects the room he broke into.

No. Nothing changes, even when he blinks and blinks again. That wasn’t a faulty first impression.

The room still looks like a fucking prison cell.

A fancy, clean cell, but a cell nonetheless. It’s empty except for the bed, and Jesper owes Lizaveta more money than he has on him (though to be fair, technically, Jesper’s fifty thousand kruge in debt anyway, so does it really make a difference at all if he’s a few Ravkan coins more in the red), and even the windows—Jesper’s had enough training now that he can look at the windows and see the subtly reinforcing mesh inside the glass. No curtains. No curtain rods. Nothing—there’s a subtle mesh inside the bedclothes too and the frame of the bed looks far too sturdy to be torn apart by anyone who isn’t a skilled Materialnik. There are meshes in front of the fireplaces.

Nothing in here that can be used as a weapon.

Not against others, and not against oneself.

No escape.

There’s nothing in this stark white massive room but a person, acting like he never did before and still looking more like himself than when he was walking through the training grounds. It’s probably the distance from other people. He’s got his back to Jesper and he’s in the furthest corner from the door, which should be a tactical misstep because he can’t escape from there but really—it’s as good as any other location, in this room. There’s nothing of use to anyone left, not even to someone as shrewd as Dirtyhands used to be before he lobotomized himself into the Sun Summoner. Or before he was—

Kaz pushes himself up from his kneeling position using the walls he faces. He mutters, “I beg your forgiveness for keeping you waiting, Aleks.” His voice sounds odd.

“Are you crying?”

“Jesper?!”

Kaz turns so quickly he has to brace himself against the wall again lest he fall over. His translucent shirt ripples. His dark eyes in his weird new too-handsome face trace over Jesper, again and again. If they were fingers, Jesper would feel like he’s being caressed. No, that’s the wrong thought. A thought from a book he won’t admit he’s read. Jesper’s got his guns out. He came here for a reason. A bloody, glorious reason.

“Inej wouldn’t want me to do this, but she’s locked up in the fucking Menagerie,” he announces, just to see whether Kaz can feel even a shred of guilt. “Just so you could be a Ravkan prince in ugly yellow lingerie.”

“Just follow my—”

No, then. Or maybe it’s just the new face Jesper can’t read. Not that it matters. “Shut up. Do you remember what you told me when I joined the Dregs? About what you’d do to traitors? Well, I have added a couple of my own ideas.”

“Shut up, Jesper. You can monologue when we’re done, but—”

Jesper aims right between his weird, smooth pebble eyes. “When you left us, you knew it would all go to shit. Inej’s in the Menagerie, and there’s no way to get her out again. Haskell let the Dregs collapse after you disappeared. No Dregs, no kru—”

Kaz flinches. “Quick. Get under the bed. Now.”

Whether it’s surprise, a sex instinct, or—far worse—a lingering sense of loyalty, Jesper obeys instantly.

☼

“We’re lost,” Jesper moans. They’ve been surrounded by trees for four days. He’s not even sure they’re trudging vaguely southwards anymore. Everything looks the same. What wouldn’t Jesper give to be back in Ketterdam already, with its lovely street names and pedestrians and garish landmarks (and gangsters about to string him up), or at least somewhere in Novyi Zem where he sort of understands the landscape. Or what’s left of Shu Han, so Kaz can unclench.

“We’re not lost,” Kaz rasps. “Keep going.”

“How do you—the map.” The half-chewed-up map hidden under Kaz’ bed, the map he snuck into his coat—Jesper’s kefta, whatever—even though he probably already knows it by heart.

“Yes. The map.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me to choose where we’re going if you’re memorized the map?!” What an asshole. Jesper just clean forgot what a piece of shit Kaz is. He forgot it so utterly he’s helping him break out of Ravka, without even extracting anything in return. He’s a fucking idiot. “Is it so you can blame me when we get caught?”

Kaz, the dick, rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t I rather not get caught at all? Think, Jesper—what’s the one advantage you have over me?”

“I’m prettier,” Jesper shoots back. “My winning personality. I have a better tolerance for hard liquor. Fashion sense. I’m funny. No, wait—I’m a much more generous lover.”

“He doesn’t know you,” Kaz hisses, making the pronoun sound even more slimy than the guy it’s referring to, which is honestly quite a feat. “Do you think this is my first attempt? He’ll send people to every single route out of his core territory that poses any advantages. He has enough soldiers for that. What he doesn’t have, though, is enough soldiers to watch every route your bird-brain might pick at random.”

And then, he stalks ahead viciously. No. Limps ahead.

It’s been growing much more pronounced over the days. At first, even without a cane he walked just like any person with two healthy legs, and that’s what Jesper expected. The Ravkans healed their Saint’s leg, didn’t they? That’s what they would do. Only Kaz can think around enough corners to make his bad leg into an advantage. But with every passing day, Kaz’ gait has grown closer to what Jesper remembers from back before the world went to shit. Kaz was touchy about accommodations back then, though, or people being nice in general, so Jesper hasn’t even brought up improvising a new cane. All he’s dared to do is slowing down his own steps to what he remembers would have matched Kaz, back then.

And insisting on taking breaks. Like he does now.

“It’s almost night, you refuse to make light despite being made of sunshine, and I’m hungry,” he complains.

“I’d assume that Ketterdam has made you soft,” Kaz rasps, “o cherished crown jewel of crime and commerce, and what’s the difference.” He limps back to the fallen tree that Jesper has chosen as their camp site, though, so he must be a just few steps short of utter collapse.

Jesper unwraps the two woollen blankets he’s been carrying on his shoulders. They didn’t get a chance to steal much, mostly because Kaz was a prick about it and didn’t even let Jesper go back to his room: apparently there was time for Kaz to fold up a paper bag into a facsimile of an envelope and write an address in Djerholm onto it and have Jesper talk a stable-hand into riding out to deliver it, right now, but no time to search anywhere else for supplies. They took just whatever they found in the stables, which amounted to extra coats, some boots, the blankets, and horse feed. And gloves. Kaz declared it was time to run as soon as he’d found gloves.

Balefully, Jesper chews on his oats. Even wrapped in his blanket, the night is cold, and Kaz—who’s still wearing nothing but underpants besides the robe/gloves/Jesper’s kefta/stolen coat combo and ill-fitting boots without socks—is shivering violently.

“We should steal you some real clothes from the next house we see,” Jesper mutters. “And some decent food.”

“We’re not stealing anything until we’re in Shu.”

They’ve had this argument before. Jesper shouldn’t be as thrilled about that as he is. There’s no way to resolve it, until they find the border—or until Kaz keels over from hypothermia, because then even his rational fear of detection won’t keep Jesper from finding some trousers. For the time being, though—

“I’m going to sit closer and steal your body heat. In exchange, you can wrap my blanket around your legs.”

Kaz glares. He can do it masterfully again: just like the limp snuck back as soon as he left the Little Palace, his face over the days grew thin and pockmarked. Vicious. Jesper’s commited it to memory, in case Oily, Tall and Dark steals it again.

“If you freeze to death tonight, this was all for nothing. I could be sleeping in a palace right now. Well, a dingy side house, with the other Materialniks, but joke’s on them. This whole escape would have been much more complicated if I’d been a Squaller. Or a Sun Summoner, who refuses to even use his power to warm us up.”

“Leave it.” Kaz runs a finger roughly over where his collarbone should be, and he shudders. The temperature, or something worse, some new pain he’s not revealing—but carefully, he leans his blanketed side against Jesper, and allows Jesper to throw his own blanket over him, too.

“I’ll make you a new cane tomorrow. With a head, too, if we can scavenge enough metal from the buttons. Not a crow. You haven’t earned that until we free Inej, but maybe… a worm.”

“That’s just a stick,” Kaz mutters. “Go to sleep.”

Easy for him to say: Kaz is taking the first watch, and so he’s not balancing on a fallen log in the cold without a blanket, trying to fall asleep sitting up while leaning against Kaz’ shoulder with as little contact surface as physically possible. After some hours or minutes, though, Jesper’s suffering is too much for even Kaz to handle. Who knew there was a limit! Who knew Kaz had heard of mercy! Maybe he just doesn’t like Jesper wriggling next to him. He fists a lock of Jesper’s curls and pulls his head down into his lap.

“I didn’t help you because I want to fuck you, just so you’re aware,” Jesper jokes, because this is actually—it’s actually almost comfortable curling up on the fallen tree with his head on the blanket on Kaz’ thighs, even though there’s the remnants of a branch digging into his hip and they’re on the run from all Grisha in the world and also the new, expanded Ravka that covers nearly every country on this continent and Inej’s still imprisoned and if they actually manage to get back to Ketterdam, Jesper’s going to be in so much shit. And still, it’s… “I mourned you, you know, when Haskell told me you’d died. I wasn’t just angry because the Dregs were a shambles without you.”

Kaz is quiet. Jesper sort of wishes he’d touch his hair again, or his shoulder—and he never seemed to have any trouble touching the Darkling, so what, is Jesper not good enough—but he also looked like a void back there, like in order to endure it maybe he had to smother—

“That’s not why I mentioned that fantasy back there,” says Kaz, lyingly. Sure. He just happened to invoke Jesper’s obvious past crush for no reason whatsoever. The awfully convenient infatuation Jesper didn’t have sense nor skill to hide back then. Kaz is exactly the kind of person who’d exploit someone’s first love. The person who’s realize, long before Jesper did, that maybe, he’s not actually completely over—but maybe that wasn’t the important bit then. It went on. And that story about the Darkling—

“You thought I’d help you out of pity?” Jesper would have done, if he hadn’t been so angry—if he hadn’t been already so freaked out by the placid expression, the clothes that looked expressly designed to torture the Kaz he knew, the cell… It wasn’t pity. What is it you feel when a person you knew—maybe not his secrets or his past or his thoughts or what trouble he just dragged you into because he’s a secretive dick, but still, you knew him, it was burned into your heart, his movements and the codes he taught you and just when a heist was about to trigger one of his fears he’d never mentioned and you needed to get him out now… What do you feel, when that person comes back from the dead, and comes back wrong. Like a stag with too many tongues inside its mouths and its hands locked behind its throat. Except the other way round, because Kaz Brekker was terrifying, and what he was made into or what pretended to be was only scary because it wasn’t. Anyway. Kaz is a manipulative commandeering asshole again, so it doesn’t matter. “You despise pity.”

“It’s a tool, just like everything else. One he couldn’t take. And pride just gave me—pity got me out of the Little Palace, didn’t it?”

“Something did.” Jesper tips his non-existent hat, and Kaz slaps the top of his head to make him stop wriggling. He keeps the hand there this time, knotted tight in Jesper’s hair. It stings, but it’s also… Jesper closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep before inevitably, it’ll leave.

“Pride. It was my fault.” Kaz’ voice almost sounds the way it did back home. Harsh, vicious—and damaged. Human. “I thought I could bear it. He was—the Sun Summoner could have no weaknesses, he said, nothing for our enemies to use, and I allowed myself to think… ‘our’ enemies. I practiced. It was easier, after a while, to bear touch. I thought—it seemed like the best option, to stand at his side, and to make him see me as his partner I should… I was tired of being a prisoner. I thought I could use him.”

That’s bad enough, but… “But you’re limping again,” Jesper hisses. “If he’s forming you like a clay doll to make you his perfect Sun Summoner, he should have started with healing you.”

“They did, when I first came to the Palace. I didn’t want—but I learned to accept it. After my first escape, he broke it again, personally. Had it tailored over, afterwards, every few days. Incentive for cooperation.”

There’s nothing Jesper can do to fix this stagnant, lifeless voice. He could hug Inej, at least, but this—

“It’s what I would have done, too. He was just better than me, and he didn’t need another one, so he had to change me.”

“By dressing you up and making you look like a doll. If you tell me it was a sex thing, at least I could—no, still couldn’t relate. His taste’s shit. That beauty was pretty ugly,” Jesper mutters into Kaz’ thighs.

Kaz pulls at his hair again—probably a rebuke, but the sting travels down Jesper’s spine to—well, it’s time to change the subject rather quickly. What’s there to… oh yeah, his head’s on a blanket. That’ll do. “I just had a great idea,” he says, and—yeah, his voice is still completely normal and steady. A little loud, maybe. Kaz hasn’t moved his hand away, though, so it can’t be too obvious.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Fuck off, my bright idea of breaking into the centre of Grishadom to kill you in a murder-suicide attack because what else was I going to do, let the Dime Lions grind me between millstones to press out the fifty thousand kruge I may perhaps still owe them—”

“You what?!”

Jesper powers on, because that’s really a conversation best left for when he’s not lying in a forest with his head in Kaz’ lap and trying to forget, desperately, the way it felt when Kaz pulled his hair. The way it feels when he does it again. “I’m just saying, it saved you. You’re welcome. So anyway. We only have one pair of trousers. I was going to suggest we alternate wearing mine, but we both know I wouldn’t get them back.”

“Your so-called idea is… interesting,” Kaz mutters, voice almost pulled asunder trying for both disturbed and mocking. “But I’m far more interested to hear about the fact you skipped out of Ketterdam without paying your debts. A crime punishable by death in every gang. Every gang in Ketterdam, the city where you want us to go.”

And yeah, that’s occurred to Jesper, but… “That’s a problem for later. You’ll think of something, boss, if we make it that far. You always have a plan. For now… I wouldn’t—well, I would carry you if your legs freeze off, but it wouldn’t be fun for either of us, so… You sewed yourself up constantly back home, and I’d wager sewing is just like swimming. Once you know, you can never forget.”

“Skills are useless if you lack every materia—Jes—”

“Yeah, I definitely can turn a button into a needle now. We just need to tear the second blanket into some vaguely trouser-shaped pieces, and for thread—well, we could just tear up your Sun Summoner robe, it’s useless anyway.”

“Jesper,” Kaz rasps again.

“I’m a genius?”

“No, you’re still an idiot. Why not, though?”

☼

Kaz Brekker disappeared between Sunday and Tuesday night. That’s all Jesper knows, and it’s that precise only because Kaz has been experimenting with the payroll recently. Apparently, handing out wages on late Tuesday maximizes the chances of flushing as much money as possible back into the coffers of Dregs-owned establishments, and he’s also taken to handing out the money personally. Some weird power play that Haskell hasn’t yet forbidden: everyone knows Kaz barely bothers to keep his accomplices informed about the job they’re currently doing, and the big boss tolerates him mostly because Dirtyhands is still more useful insubordinate than dead.

It’s Wednesday now, though. Wednesday afternoon.

And Jesper still hasn’t gotten paid.

Kaz is gone.

Jesper’s in Haskell’s office, inquiring about everyone’s money. Too irritated by the games of Makker’s Wheel he was forced to miss out on last night to perform anything but the most pro forma I remember my boss’ boss is technically my boss and can kill me pleasantries. Instead of promising to kick Kaz’ ass, though, like Jesper hoped, Haskell just tells him Pasko will give him his wages tomorrow.

Haskell won’t say anything else. Just, “That boy got himself mixed up in something he couldn’t handle alone, and it fucked him. You won’t like what you find, when you go looking for the dead.”

[kikilefangirl]

The Witch Who Won’t Part 4

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

(Word Count: 2064)

You woke up to a flood of texts, calls, and voicemails. Most were from your cousin, but a few came from Marcel. Tossing your phone on the other side of the couch, you rubbed your temple. You hadn’t even made it to your bed last night. Your puff was matted and misshapen.

You rubbed your eyes and stood up. A pounding headache and nausea made you keel over and do a mad dash to your trash can. You yakked up your dinner. After you brushed your teeth, you seized up.

The presence of an Original. Bounding from your bathroom to your front door, you flung it open. You don’t know why you expected Klaus. You had burned that bridge, indefinitely.

Elijah stood at your door offering a handkerchief. You cocked your head to the side and clicked your tongue.

“Whatever you want, I’m not interested.” You spat out.

Thinking back to the night before, you crossed your arms. The reality that Klaus had kissed you, and that he did it to handicap you was too much. Now his brother was at your door too.

“Y/N, would you please invite me in?” Elijah asked. His critical gaze had something else behind it, true concern.

You knew it wasn’t for you. Originals were only truly worried about other Originals. Klaus.

“I imagine Niklaus has upset you. I do apologize on his behalf, he has a, uh, talent for such things.” He said.

Elijah still had his hand out, still offering the handkerchief. You stepped closer, and took it. You wiped your mouth with it and set it on the counter.

“Come in.”

You surprised yourself. The thought of an Original having permanent access to your home made your stomach turn, but this time it was unavoidable. Elijah stepped through the threshold and unfastened his suit jacket as he sat down at the table.

You watched him, cautiously. Elijah wasn’t Klaus. You knew better than to make assumptions about him, certain concessions simply would not be granted.

“I beg you to consider forgiveness. I fear Niklaus requires it.” He replied. Elijah ran a hand across his bottom lip.

“He did what he wanted and now he’s dealing with the consequences.” You were firm.

Elijah scoffed and leaned back in the chair. You didn’t back down. You couldn’t. You sucked in a breath.

“Esther has him,” He ran a finger along the table, his daylight ring more prominent than before, “Aided by our brothers Kol and Finn, my mother has stood against Niklaus.”

Elijah began tapping his fingers. He pulled the corners of his mouth back with thinly veiled contempt. Esther was the original witch. You had learned your history and now it was sitting in your living room.

Esther was the woman who hid Klaus’s true identity, and when it was revealed, bound it from him for a thousand years. The man he had become––the creature that could kiss you one second and shackle you the next was partly her doing.

“She will ruin him. Again. She’ll ruin him again.” Elijah hissed.

On the surface, he appeared perfectly composed. Elijah was the pristine elder brother—the eldest due to Finn’s absence—constantly working for his siblings’ happiness. Klaus too, had his own persona to hold onto as well.

But the truth underneath remained: Where Elijah was cool determination, Klaus was wilder, freer.

“Pass me that grimoire. I’ll see what I can do.”

After a millennia of separation, you knew Elijah was right. Klaus was not going to recover the little bits of him he had left. He had a daughter out in the world who needed him.

“Call Rebekah. She should be here, too. And Vincent.” You said.

Turning on your heel you head down the hall toward the bathroom. Just because you were going to spend your whole day dealing with Originals, your basics weren’t going by the wayside.

                                                         …

Nothing in Gammy’s grimoire could have prepared you for the Original Witch or what she had reduced Klaus to, either.

Esther was in the body of a witch you knew. You flared your nostrils. Dead witches taking the bodies of living ones always made you upset.

“We came here for Klaus.” You announced.

She stepped away from her herbs, though you couldn’t see which ones. Even in another body, Esther was full of the kind of grace and danger you had previously seen with Klaus.

“I am afraid my son is unavailable.” She replied. Her eyes darted between you and Elijah, and even he was stifled by her presence.

“Mother, release Niklaus to us. Immediately.” He said.

“In your custody you and your siblings, especially Niklaus, have been a blight on this earth. You leave nothing but blood and death behind you. I will not be idle anymore.” She let out.

You could feel her anger, and oddly enough her love for her children. Esther was probably a good mother once, but her protectiveness ruined them and her.

You concentrated on Klaus’s familiar aura, drawing it closer and closer to you. Esther must have noticed because her eyes were trained on you.

“My, my, you are powerful indeed. And in love. Nevertheless, the strength in you does not wish to oppose me, nor I you.” She offered. While she spoke you curled your hand and twisted.

The stone wall behind her slid open, revealing a chained Klaus. The bitter part of you that enjoyed seeing him chained after what he did to you was quickly overpowered by a wave of worry. His golden irises burned with rage and hatred even as subdued as he was.

“If you truly loved my son, you would want him to be free of his curse. A pretty young witch like you would want children of your own and a husband capable of loving you without the threat of violence all around you!” Esther continued.

For a split second you hesitated. You did want that and maybe with him. But Esther knew him as a child, and longed for that child. You met the monster first, and loved him anyway. Whatever that made you definitely wasn’t normal.

“You let a man believe the one child he saw true potential in, the one child knew he could mold in his image, was his. And Mikael hated him for it.” You admitted.

Saying the words out loud made Esther pause in shock. Mikael’s name and his function in her life had the same effect on her as it did Klaus. Taking advantage of her vulnerability, you unleashed the brunt of your magic.

Elijah’s expression was cold and unflinching. He knew it was true just the same as you did. Esther may have the title of the Original Witch, but she thrived off the shared power of all witches. Dead and alive. You could draw on them, too. You thought of Vincent, of Gammy and beyond.

Esther flew through the air and slammed against the wall. Elijah immediately went to Klaus, breaking the chains that held him.

Before he was completely free, Esther countered. Her strength coupled with your overexertion made you fall to your knees in pain. You could feel her magic weighing you down. Something wet dripped from your nose. Blood.

You weren’t backing down from her. You felt a tugging in your gut and threw your head back. Esther wasn’t going to stop you from taking Klaus. You called on your ancestors and their power just as she did, with renewed focus. Wind whipped around you, dust swirled at your feet. The jars of herbs and dark objects shook and some shattered to the ground. Letting out a guttural cry, raw power radiated from you and it pulsed through the room and and the entire French Quarter.

You collapsed with exhaustion, your body landing on the hard floor. You were fading fast, you could barely keep your eyes open. As your vision blurred you could see Klaus speeding toward Esther. The chains were still on him, but the ends had been broken off.

Holding a thousand lifetimes of pain and betrayal, Klaus snapped his mother’s neck and she went limp in his arms.

You smiled, as you had done your part. Cold hands were the last thing you remembered before everything went black.

                                                        …

You woke up in a large bed in the Mikaelson compound, completely alone.

You were wearing your pajamas from home. You stepped on the floor barefoot, flinching at the cold.

“Good evening, Y/N. I must say we were beginning to worry.”

Elijah. He offered you his arm and you took it. Your legs still felt like jelly. He led you to another empty room, stopping at the threshold.

“Niklaus, do not be rude to our guest. She did save our lives.” Elijah called out. So this was Klaus’s room.

He did not immediately appear. Preparing yourself, you let go of Elijah and stumbled into the room. You made it to a stool. Nearby were beautiful paintings and three full blood bags. As you admired the artwork, Elijah took his leave. As soon as he did, Klaus finally appeared.

“Careful, love. I did that one in 1823, it’s fragile.” His tone was his usual charming self, but his sunken in eyes, and restricted movements told the story.

“Here.” You slid a blood bag over to Klaus.

He poured it into a glass, but he made no moves to drink it. He swirled the liquid, squeezing so hard on the glass it broke in his hand.

You jumped, but Klaus wasn’t fazed. Instead he was staring at a spot on the floor, expressionless. He sat slack jawed and deflated. He was none of the wild hybrid—whether he was angry or vindictive or proud or jealous.

The man across from you was nothing at all.

“Klaus. You need to drink.” You whispered.

There was something fragile about him you had only seen glimpses of. Klaus always fell back on his default, but this was different.

“Klaus!” You boomed, bolting upright so fast your chair fell to the ground.

You stalked up to Klaus with fear as an afterthought. He was beginning to have that effect on you, which was probably for the worst. You wrapped your hands around his neck and jaw. He wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Esther was right to call you a monster. She was wrong to say that was all you were. Look at me, Klaus.” You pleaded.

You were nose to nose now, and once you had his eyes on yours you wasted no time.

“Klaus! She was wrong! Esther was wrong. You have a daughter who will always love her daddy. Your siblings won’t turn away from you. I won’t, either.” You said desperately.

Esther was a woman whose back was against the wall and Klaus was her secret keeper, her ultimate secret keeper. And he, unlike Mikael’s children, was hers to isolate, a punishment Klaus could never bear from his mother.

You sucked in a breath, and bore your neck out for him.

“Drink.”

The quick pain as the hybrid’s fangs pierced your neck was followed by pure euphoria. You could feel him take every drop of blood that oozed out. Klaus’ arms wrapped around you, pulling you onto his lap. It was as if you two were the only two in the world, and you reveled in it.

Once you began to get light headed, Klaus retracted his fangs and licked the wound. His amber eyes burned with an intensity that made you squirm at how close you were to each other. You were hyper aware of his body and your own.

Klaus smirked at your newfound discomfort and kissed you full on. You could taste traces of an iron tang on his tongue, but that didn’t stop you. You kissed him back and your heart was heavy with all the emotion and stress from the day before. He leaned into you, taking care to hold you tighter. It was the reassurance you needed. You broke away from the kiss to breathe, and you drank each other in.

Klaus wasn’t one to say thank you, and you didn’t need it. You flashed him a show stopping smile. You didn’t know what would come from your actions.

All you knew was that you had fallen for this man; you truly and wholeheartedly loved Klaus Mikaelson, and he, in his own way, loved you, too.

END

[harderbetterfasterstarker]

endless

oops my hand slipped and i wrote a very sad drabble that’s just tony missing peter, reflecting on it during the Blip, set pre-as if even now. read it on ao3 here, and if you haven’t, read as if even now (if only to get to their happy ending, i wrote an absurdly fluffy epilogue drabble for them damnit). preemptive tw that this fic reflects on a time where tony was suicidal, and thoughts and attempts are referenced. 

The kid had gotten under his skin, into every breath he took, inside his lungs and running through his veins and pumping through his heart, in ways he hadn’t realized until he’d clutched his body as it crumbled to dust. All he’d known was that he’d felt empty in ways he hadn’t since before he’d become Iron Man, back to Earth and spending his days and nights looking for ways to fill the aching chasm that was always threatening to swallow him whole.

Tony has always been, if anything, at least self-aware when it comes to his many and myriad faults. And the truth is that he is a greedy man, never satisfied with what he has, always reaching for the next thing and the next and the next, always wanting what he can’t have, even when (especially when) it’s not good for him. And he knows that this is the truth, even though Pep always just pats him on the shoulder and gives him one of her softer smiles and says that he deserves to be a little greedy, after all he’s done, after all he’s been through. He hasn’t quite figured out how to argue with that one, even though he knows in his gut that he should. At least he hasn’t figured out how to argue without revealing cards he’d rather keep hidden, even from (especially from) Pep.

Because he’d nearly died, had thought he was going to die, and was ready to die. Another of those things he hasn’t quite worked up the courage to tell Pep yet. Her favored narrative, for him and for the press, is that he held on, fought for life, fought to stay with them for her, for Morgan. Morgan—Christ. So how is he supposed to tell Pep that he’d been lying there, fighting for consciousness through the pain clawing its way across his entire right side, and in what he’d been certain were his dying moments he’d looked at the kid, really looked at him, remembered the way his hair had smelled of cheap shampoo and sweat and dirt when he’d hugged him tight, here, real, undeniably alive, and thought, Oh. Oh.

And that had been enough.

Tony scrubbed his hands across his face, harsh and hard, as if he could erase the memory of that moment, before he’d felt whatever oddball magic Strange had begun working. What he needed to erase were the memories of the five years before that—or, hell, maybe back further. As if Tony would ever—could ever—try to excise Peter from his mind. He wasn’t even sure that he could, now. The kid had gotten under his skin, into every breath he took, inside his lungs and running through his veins and pumping through his heart, in ways he hadn’t realized until he’d clutched his body as it crumbled to dust. All he’d known was that he’d felt empty in ways he hadn’t since before he’d become Iron Man, back to Earth and spending his days and nights looking for ways to fill the aching chasm that was always threatening to swallow him whole.

After Pep had gotten pregnant with Morgan, he’d once, in a drunken spat of extreme bitterness, accused her of convincing him to retire and have a kid as a replacement for Peter. She’d been so mad at him for that one that she’d just left the house and called Rhodey, told them to call her when Tony was sober again. He regretted what he said, but he noticed that she didn’t deny it.

At least, in her eyes, he’d stopped trying to kill himself by the time Morgan was born, so she could reasonably assume that maybe her plan had worked. Shamefully, not even the idea of leaving his baby girl alone in the world without a father was enough to keep him away from that particular ledge—in fact, what he hadn’t admitted to Pepper was that it made him want to run away more, because if Peter was superhuman and brilliant and good, the best of them, and Tony hadn’t been able to protect him, what could Tony hope to do for this little girl? No, it was Nat who got the credit for ending his run of attempts. Most of his attempts had been thwarted by past Tony, who had dreamed up what felt like a thousand and one protocols and alerts for just this scenario, but the last one it had been Nat to walk into his workshop at just the right (wrong) moment, in what if it had been anyone other than the Black Widow he’d have called a coincidence.

“You’ve gotta talk to someone, Tony,” she’d said once they were settled on the couch in the corner of the lab he slept on most nights.

“You don’t think I do? I’ve seen every shrink this side of the Mississippi and several on the other, I’ve gone to those stupid fucking support groups, and it’s—none of it works, Nat.” He’d been drunk—he was always at least slightly drunk, then—and it made him more open. “It’s all wrong.”

Whenever his therapists asked him to talk about what happened on Titan, he clammed up, spoke in the vaguest of terms. He told himself he was protecting Peter’s identity (even in apparent death) but he knew that wasn’t right. He’d considered that he was trying to avoid admitting just how culpable he really was, for dragging a teenager into this fight, for dragging the best mind of a new generation, the sweetest boy he’d ever known, brash and a bit impulsive but with a heart of fucking gold, and let him die on a godforsaken desert planet with a bunch of aliens, Strange, and a man who thought Footloose was a great movie—because he’d had plenty of experience avoiding admitting truths to himself, and this wasn’t his first therapy rodeo—but deep down he knew that wasn’t right either.

“Have you gone to the right ones?” Natasha had asked softly, looking at him carefully, and he had the unsettling feeling she, as always, saw more than he wanted her to see.

“I’ve been to the general ones, the ones for everyone who lost people in the Blip, to family loss, to the ones for first responders and others who felt helpless, I’ve even been to the groups for parents who lost kids.”

He had—at Pep’s insistence, he’d gone. And it was—better, than the others. The scope of his grief felt… more accepted, there. Less out of touch with the experiences of others. But it still wasn’t—enough. When they talked about the future they’d been robbed of with their children, it was a future they got to watch, moments in their lives that were gone—graduations, weddings, grandchildren. And Tony felt that, all of it, deeply—that he should’ve been there to see Pete graduate, valedictorian, go to college wherever he wanted (MIT, it would’ve been MIT), invent something that floored Tony with his brilliance—but that wasn’t quite it. More than all of that, he missed the time he should’ve spent with the kid and didn’t, missed the idea of years of weekends in the lab spilling out ahead of them, hearing him laugh and seeing him smile. He wished he’d just hugged the kid that time in the car, instead of making everything some joke.

“He was just… you know what he said to me, when I first met him and asked him why he was doing what he did? A broke fourteen year old kid, suddenly has superpowers and instead of being captain of the football team and stealing enough to set them up for life, he’s chasing down muggers in a onesie? He said, when you can do what I do, and you don’t do anything, and then bad things happen, they happen because of you. I mean, Christ, Nat. He was the best of us and I—I lost him, and I—and it feels like I can’t breathe.” He realized that his hand had gone, unbidden, to the shell of where the arc reactor had been, clutching at it desperately. Ripping his heart out would’ve maybe been less painful. Natasha had given him another penetrating look and then, whip sharp and faster than certainly his inebriated brain could keep up with, she’d grabbed him by the chin and turned him to look her in the eye.

“I actually like you, Tony, which is why I will say this. You loved Peter, you really truly did. And when you love someone, and they die, it fucking hurts and it never goes away. I like Pepper, I do, but the house in the country and hanging up the suit and the baby? Those won’t make it stop hurting. That pain lives inside you now, because so did Peter. So the only question is whether you can choose to live with it. Like I said, I like you, so I hope the answer is yes, and I think that’s the answer the kid would want for you. But if the answer is no, you call me. I’ll make it quick, and painless, and tidy, and Pep and the baby would never ever know what it really was.”

For once in life, he’d been speechless, left to stare at the spot on the couch she’d vacated as he considered her words, considered that Natasha had had a life, in Russia, before the Red Room had stolen it from her. Considered whether he’d want Pep to think he’d just… had a heart attack. Gotten old, put too much stress on himself. Considered the kid, wondered if there really was a place you went when you died, what he’d say to Peter.

He’d called Natasha once after that, at 3 in the morning a few months after Morgan was born, when he hadn’t been getting enough sleep and when the silence around the house had felt oppressive.

“Tony,” she’d said, quiet and gentle, the kind of tone she took when she was lulling the Hulk back to peace. “Is this the call we talked about?”

“No,” he’d gasped, scrabbling around the kitchen for the picture of Peter and him together, their fake internship picture. “No, I just… Thanks. Thank you.”

“You already had your heart-to-heart, Stark. Don’t think this is a regular thing,” she’d said, sounding more like herself. He’d snorted, clinging to the sense of normalcy.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Won’t put you on the list for talking about our feelings.”

“Atta boy. And Stark… you’re welcome.”

[wrenhyperfixates]

Of All the Places

Chapter 7

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: Washing up in a small town in Oklahoma was definitely not part of Loki’s plan when he came to conquer Midgard. There is one good thing about it, though: No one recognizes him as the one who just wreaked havoc in New York. So, Loki plans to recover from the battle and move on with his life. The only problem? He’s not sure he can leave you. Chapter Summary: The tornado has passed, but the damage must be dealt with. Another visit from your ex makes Loki have to deal with his emotions too. Chapter Warnings: none, I believe A/N: We’re about halfway through now, and I want to thank everyone whose reading and commenting! Hearing your thoughts and seeing that you’re enjoying really makes my day :) Updates every Friday.

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant​ @lunarmoon8​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​ @marvelousdaydreams​ @parkastoria​

✥ Start at Beginning ✥ | ← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Once the storm had passed and it was safe to go out again, your family began to survey your land. Ana had yet to let go of Matt, and he was currently sleeping in her arms. Even though the danger was now gone, the scare had truly rattled her.

“Hey,” you said to Loki. “Do you think you could take Ana into the house and make sure she’s alright? Given her current condition and all that happened, she should probably be resting.”

“Of course,” Loki obliged, giving your hand a final squeeze. Your fingers had been intertwined since you sat talking, neither one of you ready to let go until now. “It would be my pleasure.”

In truth, Loki had nearly forgotten that Ana was pregnant, though she had started showing a little bit more, recently. All things considered, she really should be relaxing, and he was able to convince her without much trouble. The house, luckily, had only taken minimal damages, and Loki hoped that the same could be said for the rest of your land. He wondered if he could use his magic to help at all, but he knew that would probably mean revealing himself, something he was not willing to do. So, he resigned himself to getting Ana settled.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he inquired.

“Loki, you saved my son,” she reminded him, cradling the sleeping boy even closer to her chest. “I should be asking what I can do to repay you.”

“Please, I do not need anything. I am just glad he is alright.”

He rested his hand on Matt’s head, his mind throwing him back into those moments of desperation out in the field. Had he not reached him in time, well, he shudders to think what would have happened to his small friend. Never before had Loki so fiercely wanted to protect someone. Except, of course, for maybe you. The realization caused a flurry of emotions to attack his heart.

“Well, if there ever is anything, anything at all, let me know. I really can’t thank you enough, Loki.”

“You are welcome,” Loki said, the words still tasting strange on his tongue having been thanked so few times in life.

He moved into the kitchen which luckily was on the side of the house that didn’t really take damage, and made her a cup of tea. Looking around to make sure no one could see, the god put an enchantment on it to help calm her even further. After staying to see a serene look wash over Ana’s face, Loki bid her goodbye and went to help everyone else outside.

“How does it look?” he asked Papa.

“The farthest fields took the worst damage, but it’ll be alright. Definitely not the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“That is very good to hear,” Loki said, at this point barely even surprised by how sincerely he cared about all this. “If you need to cut my pay to make up for any damages, I completely understand.”

“Son, I should be raising your pay after what you did for us. We’re gonna be just fine, don’t you worry now.”

Loki forced his smile to seem more genuine than bewildered as Papa pat his back in gratitude. Though he’d craved attention for most of his life, Loki found he didn’t know how to react to it now that he was actually receiving it. However, he did have to admit it felt good to be appreciated. It was something he was quite certain he’d miss when he left. If he left. Because, in all honesty, every second he spent here was a second that convinced him to stay forever.

All Loki really wanted to do right now was check back in with you, so he started in your direction once he spotted you. Unfortunately, Mama decided to stop him on his way. For once, at least, she didn’t seem like she was ready to murder Loki at the drop of a hat.

“Listen,” she began before he could say anything, “I’ll be honest, I still think you’re lying about something. But you saved my grand-baby’s life, so I’ll keep the comments to a minimum. And I suppose you’re welcome here for now,” she added begrudgingly.

Somehow, it made Loki speechless that she would say such a thing, albeit reluctantly. More confusing yet was how happy he was to hear it. He wondered whether it was because of his constant search for approval, or because he cared about this family. Because by now he had to confess he truly did. Whatever last little bits he’d been doubting it were gone now with no evidence to back it up. When he risked his own life for one of yours, it suddenly became clear.

“I... Thank you. I appreciate it,” he finally responded. “And I would not do anything to hurt your family.”

“I really would like to believe that. Perhaps one day I can.”

“I would like that.”

Then he extended his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she shook it, coming to a sort of agreement to be more civil. It was about time, he thought.

“Need any assistance?” Loki questioned once he’d finally reached you at the nearly decimated chicken coop.

“I think most of the chickens got swept away in the tornado,” you said in a sad tone. “We better round up the remaining ones before they’re gone, too.”

And that is how the God of Mischief ended up chasing a bunch of chickens around the field with you. It was, he had to admit, rather fun, though he was sure he looked absolutely ridiculous. You even convinced to him cluck by saying it would attract them faster. Of course, it was a prank, and you ended up laughing your head off as he chased you around instead of the chickens.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around you from behind and lifting you up with his godly strength. “I have caught you. You are mine now!”

“Oh no! What a terrible fate,” you pretended to lament, turning around and wrapping yourself around him. “Too bad you’re stuck with me now.”

“How very terrible,” he continued the bit. “Oh well, I suppose I must deal with it.”

Then you both burst out into laughter, startling a nearby chicken that you had missed. He carried you over to it, and still holding you, bent down and picked up the fowl. After passing it to you, he walked to the make-shift coop you’d been using to contain them. You hopped down from his arms to place it in, but quickly climbed onto his back for a height boost to survey the rest of the farm for stray animals. He was trying to ignore it, but Loki loved the contact with your skin, your warm arms wrapped around his neck, heating up his cold skin. Every inch of him was alive with electric energy.

“Loki,” you said after traveling in silence for a moment, both of you contemplating your complex emotions.

“Yes, darling?”

"You know that if you want to leave, you can. We keep telling you to stay as long as you want, but I don't want to hold you back either. Especially because you mentioned a brother a while ago, I thought you might want to go and find him." You seemed to consider your next words very carefully before continuing. "I really, really don't want you to go, but if it's what you want, I'll be ok."

Loki wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting you to say, but it definitely wasn't that. He wasn't sure what caught him off guard more, the fact that you admitted you didn't want him to leave, or the fact a part of him did want to find his brother. It was, of course, a small part, but it shocked him all the same. While it was true that Thor had never really understood him, he loved Loki. Back when they were children, before they were concerned about competing for the crown and jealousy was not yet in Loki’s vocabulary, they were best friends. A thought Loki seldom dwelled on, but the memories did bring a small smile to his face. That was lifetimes ago, though, and right now he wouldn’t trade anything for the mortal standing before him, a realization that was somehow frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

“It is true that a part of me misses my brother—for I certainly do remember that I had one now—and though I cannot explain it, I am certain that our relationship would not benefit from me showing up right now,” Loki told you, skirting around the truth. He bent down so you could hop off his back, and he took your hands in his. “Please believe me when I say this is where I want to be. I am more than happy with what’s right in front of me.”

“Yeah, this town is pretty nice.”

“That is not what I mean.”

You looked away, flustered by the implication, while Loki’s own heart nearly beat out of his chest. Perhaps if he’d had these feelings before he would be better equipped to handle them now, but for as suave as he liked to think himself, he turned into a nervous teenager around you. Everything he did was very calculated, but for once he found himself moving without thinking. His finger hooked under your chin and slowly lifted your head to look at him while his thumb gently caressed your cheek. Your breath hitched in your throat as you took a step closer, almost without planning it, and his eyes searched your face. Unsure of himself and about a million alarms going off in his head, Loki leaned in towards you.

“There you are! Mama said you’d be out here,” Denzel exclaimed as he suddenly arrived. Loki jumped back from you and let his hand drop, staring daggers at the man. Ironic how even when he’d called a truce with Mama she was still interrupting his time with you. “Oh, Loki. You’re here, too.”

“Oh, uh, hi Denzel,” you said in a dazed voice, the kind that one has when waking up from a deep sleep. “Um, how’s your family? I mean, like, after the tornado and everything.”

“We’re all fine, thankfully. That’s why I’m here, actually; just making the rounds. You’re all good here, right? Don’t forget, darlin’, I am a doctor now.”

“I think we’re ok. Loki? You good?”

“Simply marvelous, thank you,” he confirmed, still glaring.

“Ah, I see. Mama had said there was a bit of scare,” Denzel said, turning back to you after acknowledging Loki with a small nod of his head. “She was too upset over it to talk much about it, though.”

“Oh, well, you see, there was a bit of a mix up, and Matt was still out in the fields when the tornado was close. We were all in the cellar already, but Loki ran out and saved him,” you said with sparkling eyes that were looking at Loki with nothing but adoration. “I honestly don’t know what we would have done without him.”

“You did what!” Denzel shouted, now giving Loki his full attention. He composed himself and let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “That took guts, man. Thanks for saving the little guy.”

“Certainly,” Loki said as if it had been nothing. Well, for a god it kind of was, at least in the sense of what it physically entailed. “I would do anything for this family.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Loki? You’ve done more than enough,” you reassured him as you began to get lost in his eyes again.

“You know,” Denzel interrupted the moment, his voice suddenly taking a bit more of a hostile tone, “you look awful familiar, Loki.”

“Well, as I am sure you remember, I do have amnesia,” Loki shot back without missing a beat, this particular lie even easier to tell than all others at this point. “It is quite possible we met, but I would not be able to remember it.”

“Mhm, right.”

He didn’t press any further, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Though he knew it would have been best to look away so Denzel couldn’t suddenly recognize his face by studying it, Loki’s pride would not allow it. Instead, he tried to look innocent, though that had never been his strong suit, and a little bit defiant and tough, too.

“Was there anything else you needed?” you inquired after clearing your throat.

“No, no, I suppose not. If you’re all good here, I should probably be moving on,” Denzel replied, his attention finally snapping back to your face.

“Do you need anything for the road?”

“Nope, I’m fine, darlin’. Stay safe, ok?”

Then he gave you a quick hug goodbye that made Loki’s heart scream in jealousy. The desire to whip out a dagger from one of his inter-dimensional pockets was overwhelming, if not to stab the man, then to at least scare him off. Logically, though, there was no way he could do that, so he settled for watching him disappear into the distance as he walked away, leaving the god in peace with you once more.

“You alright?” you asked, laying a hand on his arm and gasping as a thought occurred to you. “Was he familiar to you, too? Did you remember something?”

Again, Loki had the vague notion to say yes and take his leave, letting you go back to your life. But now more than ever he knew that wasn’t really what anyone wanted. Anyone whose opinion he cared about, anyway. He remembered what you’d said but hours ago in the storm cellar. You didn’t think your life would be the same without him in it, and he knew he felt the same way about you. Despite all the problems his feelings for you caused in his mind, you also saved him. For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel so alone, so misunderstood. Perhaps if he knew a mortal had that power, he wouldn’t have spent so much of his life scorning Midgard.

“Still no, but in a way, I am thankful for that.”

“Oh? How so?”

Loki took a deep breath and decided there wouldn’t be a much better time to lay all his cards on the table. He said, “You see, if I were to remember, then I’d have to leave. I know I could, in theory, return, but you know as well as I it would most likely not be the same. And I truly meant what I said before: This is where I want to be.”

Ok, so perhaps he did not lay all his cards down, but he had very few left now. A terrifying prospect now that he’d realized it, especially because whatever had possessed him before was gone now, and he could not find the courage to move towards you. Luckily, he did not need to.

“I know, but you really will always be welcome here. You’re one of us now. And,” you shyly added, taking another step closer to him so that your bodies were mere inches apart, “maybe it’s selfish, but I’m kinda glad you don’t remember. Because I meant what I said, too. I really don't want you to go.”

You hesitated for a moment, almost coming to a decision, but there was still uncertainty in your eyes. So, instead of doing what you both really wanted to, you wrapped your arms around him in a tight embrace, trying to convey just how much you wanted him to stay. His hand absentmindedly stroked your back, too many thoughts running amok in his head for him to pay much attention to that simple action. The silence was interrupted by a faint clucking in the distance.

“Well,” you said, untangling yourself from his arms. “Looks like we’ve got some more chickens to catch. You up for it?”

“With you,” he said, resisting the urge to reach for your hand again, “I am up for anything.”

[albrich]

@jinxbe​​​​ : [ weep ] for your muse to find my muse crying + [ nap ] for your muse to fall asleep against mine —— nonverbal ( accepting )

        A NOISE SO QUIET IT HARDLY CARRIES ON THE WIND ——— he catches it only because his senses are on alert, intent and waiting, eternally waiting. one can never be too careful when traversing the fields and mountains and valleys of mondstadt, after all, when you’ve made both friends and enemies both of thieves and other troublemakers / not to mention the abyss mages which linger and lurk and are drawn to him. watch him. KNOW THEM / though whether or not they approach is wholly dependent on the monster in question. ( at times he wonders if the abyss has changed them so, has twisted them in such a manner, has changed them so deeply and is there a khaenri’ah left? no, not truly / the sun shone on the eclipse dynasty lifetimes ago / and it BURNED ALIVE. )

        but he catches it, he catches it. a hitch of breath, something wet—sounding and choked, a quiet sniffle. it’s enough to give him pause ; after all, if SOMEONE IS HURT then he can’t continue on / not when there aren’t other pressing matters at hand ( call him COLDHEARTED if you wish / you’re hardly wrong / but PRAGMATIC is accurate, as well, and they’re good at their job for a reason ) and he’s returning to mondstadt proper. so they pause in their near silent movement, head tilting as he tries to locate where the noise is coming from, turning slowly on the spot, head tilting back to gaze up into the starry night sky. after a moment he hums to himself and turns / taking off to the northwest, slipping his way through trees and stepping over roots, slowing as he draws nearer.

        he’s not especially difficult to find ( even taking into account kaeya’s perfect vision at night ). his ash grey hair practically glows in the darkness, lit by the moon’s glow, and kaeya pauses entirely, lingering between the trees and WATCHING / eternally watching. assess / then act. compulsive actions are for elder brothers who allow their emotions to rule them ( ACTING WITHOUT THOUGHT had never ended especially well for kaeya / they have the burn marks to prove for it / for grief—driven madness and the desire to confess / though he had known always that diluc would never truly kill him, simply make him suffer ) but after a moment kaeya circles around, checking the perimeter, before he steps into the moonlight.

       ❝ bennett? ❞ he calls through the night, voice quiet and carrying, as if to avoid disturbing the night sky, itself. here there is only THE MOON as their witness / the stars as their observers. bennett is sitting with his knees to his chest and his face buried there, arms tight around his shins / looking small and fragile / and he STARTS at the sound of his name, head raising from his knees, eyes wide and bright with tears as they stare at kaeya, unseeing for the first few moments ——— vision too blurry, they suppose.

       ❝ kaeya, ❞ bennett’s voice breaks between the syllables of their name and he looks SHAMEFUL, for a moment, and embarrassed. well, it’s hardly as though being found crying is an ENJOYABLE OCCASION for anyone, especially when so very young ( when kaeya had been that age he had hated when diluc or jean or barbara found him crying / they had not cried MUCH by that point in their life, far more prone to tears before the age of twelve, but all the same. ) ❝ i ——— uhm. ❞

       ❝ are you hurt? ❞ it seems like a KINDNESS to allow bennett off the hook of explaining so abruptly, and kaeya starts walking closer still as bennett seems to begin shrugging, before settling on shaking his head no. ❝ let’s return to mondstadt, shall we? surely it will be more comfortable there. ❞

        THAT simply causes bennett to shake his head again, even harder, and kaeya’s eyebrows raise. the ferocity with which bennett is refusing is objectively suspicious ——— he wonders if something happened once more. BENNETT IS A GOOD LAD, a good kid, kindhearted and hardworking and beaten down by the circumstances with which life had handed him. by the people he had surrounded himself with by chance. there are few things different with the bennett that sits before him now, swallowing his sobs, and the bennett that he had found so many years ago / lifetimes ago, training on his lonesome, and offered to help TRAIN HIM. it had been half a joke at the time, but bennett had been so enthusiastic that kaeya could hardly deny him ——— and so he trained him. and so bennett adopted kaeya’s swordplay ( ... ) mostly.

       ❝ no... no i don’t, ❞ bennett breaks off, hiccupping. tears are still pouring down his face and kaeya feels a pang of SYMPATHY for him, for his luck / or un—luck, as it were. they give him a once over as best as they can manage with the way that bennett is curled in on himself but / it doesn’t LOOK like he’s hurt. no bruises nor scrapes nor blood, unless it were a head trauma, and they would HOPE that bennett wouldn’t try to hide something so severe as that. then again...

       ❝ you’re certain you haven’t injured yourself? haven’t hit your head? ❞

       ❝ y... yes, kaeya. ❞

       ❝ then i suppose i’ll keep you company, in the meantime, ❞ kaeya seats himself comfortably beside bennett, leaning against the same rock that bennett had situated himself against, knee bent and elbow draped and other leg splayed, leaning back to look at the sky once more.

       ❝ you, ❞ another hitched noise, ❝ no i’m sure that you’re... busy. ❞

       ❝ keeping you company sounds far more entertaining than the paperwork awaiting me in my apartment, ❞ kaeya offers bennett a SUNNY SMILE before looking at the sky once more / offering him a modicum of privacy to cry. ❝ did you know that i once tracked down an infamous thief well known for her skill at changing her appearance? some said that she was a CHANGELING, a creature from the abyss who could simply morph. she had come to mondstadt as a singularly talented DANCER and had stolen the chalice of barbatos ——— ❞ it’s easy enough to weave together a thrilling tale of knighthood and forbidden romance and conflict.

        that none of it is ACTUALLY TRUE is neither here nor there ( ... ) whether or not bennett remembers it hardly matters either. it’s noise for distraction, to anchor, to draw bennett’s attention elsewhere, to pretend as though kaeya isn’t hearing every last one of his quiet sobs and hitched breaths and muffled sniffles. no one likes being heard crying, after all.

        kaeya only stops talking ( near the end of this tale when he had been contemplating whether to let the infamous thief go or to arrest her at last ) when bennett has fallen quiet and a soft pressure lands on his shoulder / and when they look, bennett has slumped over : sound asleep. THERE IS STILL A FURROW IN HIS BROW, tension in his expression, too distressed for a boy so young. kaeya hums briefly, something melancholy from his childhood ( long ago, indeed ) and glances at the sky once more / at how the moon has shifted / before he twists carefully so as to avoid disturbing bennett and waking him. and STILL SO CAREFULLY kaeya slips an arm beneath bennett’s knees and draws him away from the rock, supporting his back with his other arm, and heaving himself to standing.

        it’s not so far of a walk back to mondstadt, and bennett is so very small / and he takes off, moving silently / slowly / humming quietly all the way. tomorrow he can pry, poke and prod and demand with a smile on his face. for now, he’ll carry him home.