#two blind dates

[grumpyghostdoodles]

Summer nights!

And of course I gave them matching pajamas, who do you take me for.

[saltyfilmmajor]

I think the HeiShin dynamic is great but imaging a love confession between them is nigh impossible because Shinichi wouldn’t confess without great provocation and heiji would be in denial for his feelings or actively forget to confess

[kimbapisnotsushi]

semi 🤝 suga

their coworkers not believing they have famous (?) boyfriends in another country

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

thinking ex-sorcerer!sugu thoughts 😔

[zukkaoru]

🌱 alive & free (look at me!) 🌱

The man is wrapped in a blanket that was likely white at one point but is now smeared with dirt and grass stains. His hair, too, is dirty. Like he’s been sleeping on the ground for more than just one night. Kenji tiptoes over to him. He rolls his shoulder, then kneels down beside the man and pokes him. “Um, sir, are you okay?” The man doesn’t respond. Kenji pokes him harder, putting a little extra strength into it with the help of his ability. The man rolls from his side over onto his stomach, groaning. Kenji breathes out a sigh of relief. That means he’s not dead, at least. “Are you—” he whistles. “Are you hurt?” “Twelve seconds,” the man responds, still facedown in the dirt. “Then, I’m going kill you.”

after the decay of angels incident, kenji makes a new friend and nikolai starts to heal

🌱 22.4k words || kenji & nikolai || post-doa arc 🌱 written for corey @that-was-anticlimactic <3

[wexhappyxfew]

light up my lover's way

BLIND DATES FEST 2024

featuring: Florence 'Flo' Godfrey and Captain Bernard 'Benny' DeMarco + Meatball being the ultimate wingman Absolutely beyond excited to put this out. Florence has been living in my brain for some time, but Masters of the Air and @blind-dates-fest (thank you Merc for the fun!) offered the perfect opportunity to do some writing and recently, with the episodes we've gotten, I've become a big DeMarco fan and wanted to see what I could do. I tried to really nail down how I could write him since we don't have a whole lot of content from him, and I didn't feel the most comfortable writing in the MoTA universe yet just because I wanted to see all the episodes first, but I wanted to give it the old college try and really enjoyed how this piece and how Florence came out! She was a treat to write and considering her story, this was a night for her well deserved! I missed out last year because of school stress and this year, wanted to be kinder to myself and allow some time to test out the waters with writing in MoTA. Please enjoy Flo and her time with DeMarco! :)

The mirror stared back at her with a more than poignant look on her face, as she gazed at her rugged-looking hair that had surely seen better days.

Extensive time out in the sun on the tarmac, with plenty of harsh oils and chemicals meant for planes and not exactly hair would do the trick though. Self-assured, she reached back and ripped a brush through the caramel ends of her hair that were in need of cutting and sighed quietly to herself before glancing back at her reflection.

Lemmons had encouraged her to take the night off - you've been working hard, Godfrey, take the night to get a drink or better yet, a full night of sleep where you're not thinking entirely about all things plane-related. She'd been pretty hesitant, she'd even told him that he was the one who needed the night off, but he'd quickly brushed some dirt off her shoulder, helped her scrub out the paint stain from her OD jacket and then promptly shoved her off in the direction of the celebration in the nearby hall that a good portion of the men and pilots had gathered into. She'd taken the time to gather herself, clean herself up and look presentable, but she was left appearing hesitant to even leave her room.

Florence Godfrey felt more mechanic some days than woman, but on days like that, she usually found some of the Red Cross girls and spent nights trading cigarettes, telling stories and sharing coffee from the potbelly stove in the corner that worked to keep them all warm. Sometimes, she tried to work so stringently that when she got in, she'd lay down and reflect and cry.

But, tonight wouldn't be one of those nights, no, her hands weren't covered in grease, her hair wasn't matted with sweat and her boots weren't soaked with mud and ice-cold water.

No, she actually had washed up, powdered her face, pulled a bit of lipstick onto her slightly chapped lips, and smiled to herself, the dress that fell below her knees a beautiful baby-bird blue.

Lemmons had been right - finally do something for yourself, give yourself the wheel of life. She wanted to do that for herself, more than anything.

The celebration in the hall was dying down - she took a glance at her watch - it was past midnight and people were slowly pouring out, a few couples still slowly swaying in the middle of the floor, some others milling about or talking quietly with gentle smiles in corners outside of the main doors.

Florence smiled quietly to herself - even just to get a drink that wasn't her inhaling water to keep herself from feeling parched. She'd never really allowed herself a freedom like this away from the planes, away from the other mechanics and ground crewmen. She'd always told herself to do her job, do what was needed of her and then bed out and wake the next time she was needed. She had always been like that though ever since working with Dad at the Navy Yard as a 9-year-old, learning all the bits and bobs that made things run and function.

Florence waded into the softly lit bar where only a few people were still at, finishing last minute drinks or basking in the quietly gleaming Billie Holiday singing 'If You Were Mine' over the speakers in the corners of the room. Florence walked up to the edge of the bar and offered a smile at the bartender who came towards her and offered a smile back and nodded.

"What can I interest you in tonight, Miss….?"

"Godfrey. Florence Godfrey," Florence said with a soft smile, "I'll take a French 75 if it's possible." The bartender smiled with a nod and turned away, whisking himself away to start prepping. Florence grinned to herself and then looked up towards the wooden ceiling, covered in pretty lights and patterned carvings.

Suddenly, she felt a presence at her….feet? Florence took a moment to think before looking down and seeing a beautiful, gray dog sniffing at her shoes, a brown harness around his soft fur and his puppy-dog eyes quickly looking up at her in excitement and glee.

"Awe, hello there!" Florence said, kneeling down in front of the mixed-husky dog, petting his face, her heart immediately softening at the sight as she laughed quietly to herself, "Aren't you the prettiest thing I've seen in months." The dog licked at her cheeks and she let out a laugh as she rubbed behind his ears, the dog's tongue hanging out as his whole body seemed to shake with excitement, tail in all directions.

"Hey, Meatball, don't go sneaking up on the ladies," a voice called from behind the dog.

Florence looked up from, if she caught the name correctly - Meatball, the dog - and found instead one of the pilots of the B-17s walking towards her, gentle eyes lingering on her, long enough for a crimson color to rush her cheeks, his hair dark and nicely cut and styled, and the small smile on his face suddenly making her think that this pilot was actually the prettiest thing she'd seen in months. Florence felt a warmth enter her body, a quiet calm overcoming her as she felt an uncontrollable smile cross her lips, as she slowly rose back to her feet and watched the pilot come closer, the thrum of a quiet Louis Armstrong song entering her ears.

"Italian or Swedish?" Florence couldn't help but say as the pilot neared, his eyes deep and dark, but soothing and welcoming all the same. The pilot let out a soft laugh, his eyes trailing down to Meatball, the dog - she'd never get over how adorable that was - before looking to her.

"Italian." he said, with a nod, "Why? Don't think he fits the part?" Florence let out a quiet laugh and kneeled down again to Meatball and scratched beside his little head and laughed.

"I think he's adorable," she said, "how'd you get a hold on him?" The pilot smiled at her and leaned against the bar.

"Boarded a B-17 with me back in Greenland, was a real good sport the whole flight," the pilot said and then shrugged a bit, "I think I convinced him that he'd make a good co-pilot." Florence laughed as she stood to her feet again and looked at him with soft eyes.

"I don't think it'd be proper of me to only think of you as Meatball's Dad," she said, watching the small smile on his face quickly grow, "gotta name?"

"DeMarco. Captain Bernard DeMarco, but you can just call me DeMarco, whatever suites your fancy." he said, before chuckling slightly, before imitating, "Some of the guys like to yell, DeMarcooooo!" Then he looked to her and smiled.

"You don't have to do all that though," he said, leaning closer slightly, "Benny'll do just fine. Special cases." Florence stared at him quietly for a moment and then grinned.

"Benny it is…..Captain," she said, before holding out a hand, "Godfrey. Florence Godfrey, but you can just call me Godfrey, whatever suites your fancy." She smirked slightly at his face as he reached out and shook her hand.

"Some of the guys I work with like to yell," and she woefully imitated Lemmons, "Godfreyyyyy!" She then leaned closer to him and smiled up into his beautiful, tender eyes.

"You don't have to do all that though," she whispered, "Flo'll do just fine…..special cases." Benny stared at her for a moment, before breaking out into a wide smile and gently holding her hand in between them like a sacred piece of life.

"Goddess of flowers," he whispered quietly, his voice a soft rumble, "Flo." She smiled up at him.

"Ma thought it was pretty." she offered to him. He smiled at her in the dimmed light of the bar, that Ella Fitzgerald song she was always forgetting the name of somewhere above their heads, eyes warm and simply, only on her.

"Your Ma was right." he said back to her, staring at her with genuineness and fullness in his eyes. She felt her face warm and let out a laugh at his words, covering her mouth as she did so. Looking back up at him, she watched him stare right back at her and smiled as her hand fell from her mouth.

"I've never seen you around in here before," he said softly, "couldn't help but introduce myself, or well, Meatball, for introducing us." Florence looked down to Meatball, sat patiently staring up between them with his ever-caring eyes that dogs always seemed to have.

"He likes you," Benny said, his hand, which evidently was larger than hers, still clasped around her own, with no sign of disconnecting soon, "he's a friendly fella, but he don't just go up to anyone." Florence's eyes softened as she rubbed her free hand on top of Meatball's soft little head and glanced to Benny again.

"Dogs are probably some of the best creatures to ever walk to Earth," she said with a smile, "Sometimes they know us better than ourselves. I like to think sometimes they're protecting us, or….just there to guide us, be with us, give us someone who unconditionally loves you, ya know?" Benny's smile on his face was something that engrained itself quickly in her mind and he nodded.

"Yeah, yeah," he said softly, "I like to think of it that way, too." For a moment, as Ella Fitzgerald sang her part, the gentle thrum of a bass and brass to follow, they watched each other as if taking in the very quiet moment they had there between one another that night. An unexpected chance for Florence to get out of her normal gear and into a dress, to have her hands free of grease for the first time in a while, and to be looked at by a man with the softest eyes she'd ever seen - with a dog named after an Italian meatball no less.

"I'd ask for your hand in a dance, but I'm afraid that French 75 is calling your name and Meatball would take offense," Benny said, his eyes seemingly nervously flitting to the drink that had appeared at her side before meeting hers again, "and I know you're one of the women who works with the ground crews….I'd hate to steal an evening away from a good drink." Florence watched him.

"You know I work with the ground crews?" Benny nodded with a smile.

"You hang around Lemmons a lot," Benny offered, "and you work hard. We all see that. Buck does, too. Mentioned you were the best of the best. Didn't want to be too forward when I heard you tell the bartender your name." Florence watched him, as he gave Meatball a smile and a pet on the head before he looked to her again.

"Ma didn't raise me to be impolite either," he said with a nod, "and you've earned an off night like this and a drink like that."

"And a night getting to talk to a man like you." Florence said quietly to him, her heart starting to pound as he watched her - no one ever really had mentioned her in the way he had, having noticed her before and even made the effort to talk to her like he had. Her palms felt sweaty, and her mouth felt dry. Benny watched her for a moment as she took a sip of her drink and then looked to him.

"I'd be more than happy to spend a night dancing with you," she whispered.

There was something unspoken behind her words - like the realization was still there, they just hadn't mentioned in. In war, moments like this were precious and sheltered and held close in the palms of their hands. A night with someone with tender eyes was worth more than enough money in the world to her, especially in wartime. The thought saddened her heart and her mind as she stared at Benny DeMarco, with that million-dollar smile and those eyes. Benny let out a shaky breath that he looked like he'd been holding in and reached forward to take her hands in his and leaned forward the slightest bit so the only things she could see and hear were him and his voice.

"With you? I'd consider it a privilege." he whispered and then pressed a soft kiss to her hands clasped in his and then gently pulled her towards the open dance floor where only a few couples were left and had made it this late in the night. Wrapped in each other's warm embraces there in the middle of the floor, Billie Holiday's voice singing in the eves, and the gentle sway of their bodies so intimately close there, Florence let herself dance softly that night with Benny DeMarco.

Florence let herself live a bit for once.

[basilone]

Fandom: Masters of the Air Written for: @blind-dates-fest as my second 2024 entry! Introducing: Lucy Jones

Bubbles can’t fly like this.

It’s the first thing that pushes past the loop of flying today up in the sky today flying today that has been rampaging through his head since they sent for him. Harry needs to take only one look at Bubbles – miserable, shivering, looking pale and peaky – to know that his friend’s grounded by circumstances beyond his control. It’s a fact of life that Bubbles would be up there no problem if his stomach allowed for it, just as it is a fact that he’s huddled beneath a blanket looking mightily sorry for himself right now.

He pays Bubbles the same glowing compliment the man always pays him – you look like shit – and is rewarded for it with a supply hand-off and the worst news Harry’s heard all week.

“We’re leading the wing today.”

Harry’s somewhat proud of himself for not dropping any of his supplies. Even prouder of the fact that his voice doesn’t quite squeak, really, when he tells Bubbles he can’t just lead a wing. They can’t let him do that. They can’t just stick him up there and make that happen. Aren’t there rules to this sort of thing?

But Bubbles is talking already – talking mission, talking fact – and Harry’s got no choice but to try and commit it all to memory. He’s creating a visual in his head that he hopes Bubbles stored on paper in that hand-off somewhere. A map, a direction, anything beyond the vague sense of foreboding that resides in his gut and the near-gibberish that’s running its course in the back of his mind. Leading the wing. Leading the goddamn wing.

“Great Yarmouth,” he confirms once Bubbles finishes up. Harry feels as sick as Bubbles looks – all queasy inside – but he nods to make Bubbles feel better about handing off a bombing run like that. “Yeah.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“And don’t stand so close to your buddy,” pipes up a new, rather upbeat voice somewhere to his left. “Unless you wanna get sick on the plane.”

The first thing Harry sees when he looks in the voice’s direction is a raised eyebrow that could rival his mother’s. The second thing he sees is a white uniform, pristine except for some faded pink stains at the sleeve cuffs, and dark hair pulled into a tight knot. Her face is passably familiar – dark eyes, button nose, little dimple in her chin – but Harry will be damned if he can remember a name to go with that.

“Nobody’s getting sick on the plane, Lu!” shouts Major Egan, clearly knowing the woman a hell of a lot better than Harry does. “Scout’s honor!”

“Boy, you’d better pray that’s true,” mutters the woman – Lu – loud enough for Harry to make out. “Don’t know what the hell you were thinking letting him on the damn plane in the first place. Sick as a dog and all. If this is a virus, John”– she remarks, now raising her voice for Major Egan to hear –“you are gonna regret that take-off like no tomorrow!”

“Hey, if we all get sick, can we be in your club?”

Harry decides he rather likes Lu when she heaves a deep sigh and stalks over to the jeep Bubbles is seated on. She is thoroughly ignoring the major, who’s standing behind her with his arms wide and looking almost as quizzical as Meatball does when DeMarco’s hiding his treats again. Lu slings her bag into the back of the jeep before stepping closer to Bubbles.

“When I drive you,” she says without preamble, “you lean backward as far as you can go. Tilt your head back and breathe. I’ll not have you sick up in my baby, all right?” She pats the jeep’s side almost lovingly. “Any move the jeep makes, you lean the other way. Breathe deep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Does that help?” asks Harry, curious despite himself. “The breathing?”

“Eh, fifty fifty,” she says, wobbling her hand back and forth uncertainly. “Sure doesn’t hurt, though! Little trick one of the airsick girls taught us. She’s in ops now, but we owe her for that one.” Lu’s hand disappears into one of her pockets. “Got something else that might… Yeah… Hang on.”

“Lu, the club?” asks Egan again, coming to stand beside Harry. “Are we in or not?”

“Which club?”

“Y-Yeah,” shivers Bubbles, “what club?”

“No, John, you won’t be in my Lucy’s Losers club,” she remarks patiently as she pulls her hand out of her pocket to proudly show off a small bottle. “You’ll be chewing on this. Ginger. Keeps you from sicking up in your plane. Keeps whatever he’s got”– she nods at an increasingly morose-looking Bubbles –“at bay, too.” A pause. A frown. “I hope.”

“It’s probably just food poisoning…”

“That is in no way the reassurance you probably intended for it to be,” says Lu, frowning even more deeply at Bubbles as she holds the bottle out to them. “You’ve all been eating the same meals, for crying out loud. You, what’s your name?”

Harry blinks at her. “Me? It’s, uh, Harry. Harry Crosby. Ma’am.”

“Okay, Harry, you take the bottle. John’s going to be popping these like candy if left unsupervised, so I am entrusting you with it.” Her frown vanishes into a bright flash of a smile as Harry takes the bottle from her outstretched hand. He smiles back a little tremulously, not daring to hope that she’s just handed him his actual salvation. “There’s a good man. You hold on tight to that, okay?”

“Hold on to this, too,” says Bubbles, shoving something else into Harry’s increasingly full hands. It’s small, round, and entirely too fragile for Harry to be holding. He swallows as Bubbles clarifies. “Lucky snow globe.”

“Thanks?”

“Lu, if we still get sick despite the ginger and the breathing,” says Egan, clearly not feeling the same slight glimmer of hope that’s taken firm root in Harry’s belly despite his best efforts to remain calm, “I’m going to rename my plane.”

“You do that.”

“I’ll name it Lucy’s Losers. Can just see it now. Nice lettering on the side. Splash of color.”

“You’re forgetting I have friends in high places.”

“Your twin might disown you at last, though,” he counters, smiling. “Can just hear her now. Unbecoming of the Dorrance-Jones name and all that.”

“That’s not new,” snorts Lu, “but my boot up your ass is going to feel real new if you dare put my name on the side of a fortress, John Clarence Egan.”

“You’re not wearing boots, so I’ll be safe.”

“You’re not getting sick,” she warns, smiling back, “so the point is moot. Now go on, off with you. You’ve got a flight to catch, don’t ya?”

“Nurse’s orders,” grins Egan as he strides off toward their plane without so much as a farewell word for Lu and Bubbles beyond a wink. “You ever argue with those?”

“Can’t say I have, sir,” says Harry, trying to keep up while juggling multiple items in his hands. “Doesn’t seem smart to. Like arguing with your wife.” He hasn’t argued with Jean except for that one time she was stressing out over napkin placement at their wedding. Still, the point stands. “They know what’s good for us.” He holds the bottle up to the light. Squints at the pieces of ginger inside. “Worth a try?”

“I don’t get sick easily, but pass it around the plane. Just in case she’s right. It’s a bit of a ride to Norway.”

I’m gonna need all the help I can get. Harry nods. Clutches the bottle a little tighter. Leading the wing. Norway. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Follows Egan up into the fortress and prays Lucy Dorrance-Jones knows her way around queasy stomachs.

It can’t get worse, surely?

[subbyp]

love the idea of zoro/sanji fake relationship scenario wherein zoro just happily takes the opportunity to show all of the affection he has for sanji (mostly in the form of cuddling, random little gifts, and threatening the life of anyone who calls him “vinsmoke”; notably not in the form of refraining from their rivalry in any way) while justifying it as “good acting” as if he has ever been capable of acting in his entire life

[fadran]

I would like to point out that Merry and Pippin spanned the gap between Rohan and Gondor long before Aragorn even returned to the White City. Pippin became a close friend to Faramir and lit the beacon of Minas Tirith, while Merry rode with Eowyn to defend the ancient alliance. Theoden, King of Rohan, was slain on the soil of Gondor to uphold the honor of their allegiance; and Eowyn, dearer than daughter, slew the most ancient foe of Rohan to avenge him.

And then she marries Faramir.

Coincidence? I think NOT

[unpopularvivian]

Incorrect Ttte Quotes 337:

*Donald and Duck are on a blind date with each other. They're now in a restaurant, sitting in a desk. However, Donald desperately wants to get out of here*

Donald: *Blinking rapidly* 🎵 A tried, gettin the waiter's attention bi blinkin i morse code 🎵

Duck: 🎵 Why are you blinking so much? 🎵

Donald: 🎵 A got somethin i ma ee 🎵

Duck: *Grabs a huge ass knife* 🎵 Here, let me get it out! 🎵

Donald: Na thank ye!

Donald, internally: A dinnae wanna dee…

Douglas, disguised as a waiter: 🎵 Bonjour! Sir wis blinkin at me, is it because yer date is a freak? 🎵

Duck: ......

Donald: .......Na.......

Douglas: *Proceeds to peace out*🎵 Very guid then, bon appetit 🎵

Donald: .... DOUGLAS YE FUCK-

[throughpatchesofviolet]

Been quietly figuring out which E.G.O Sherry has ... been making some adjustments, lately, since I want her to have the same amount of E.G.O as the other Sinners (so, currently she can have 7, including her default), but also I need them to make sense.

[hlizr50]

ACOTAR Writing Circle

Tis the season for another writing circle, organized by the lovely @azrielshadowssing!! I'm delighted to present part 1 of a Gwynriel fic for this first week.

Parts 2 and 3 will each be written by different authors, so make sure you check out the masterlist once it's posted. I will link it in my future posts, as well.

Part 2 will be posted by April 9 and Part 3 will be posted by April 23!!

These fics will also be posted on AO3!

So, without further ado, may I present to you my Gwynriel Part 1:

Double Blind

~GWYN~

When Gwyn stepped into the training ring not long after midnight she was quite unsurprised to find the shadowsinger already in the middle of a dazzling dance with his trusty dagger. The Valkyrie tried not to stare, but the way his muscles rippled, causing the tattoos on his shoulders to shift and twist like the shadows that constantly surrounded him… Any female – any living, breathing being – would find it hard to look away.

Azriel didn’t appear to be trying to work himself to exhaustion, at least not tonight. She remembered the first time she’d found him driving his fists into the padded pole; how he’d sheepishly explained his attempt to tire himself out enough to find some sleep. All while she wrapped his bloodied knuckles.

Tonight it seemed more like his goal was peace. Grounding. As if he were frustrated by something and needed to refocus. Gwyn chose Mind-Stilling when she needed to do such things, and it appeared that this towering Illyrian male preferred the graceful choreography of the eight-pointed star.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she crooned, making her presence known. Much to her surprise, Azriel’s movements didn’t falter. But she spied the way his lips twitched, one corner of his mouth tilting upward. It wasn’t much of an acknowledgement, but she couldn’t find it in her to complain as she watched his long, lithe limbs moving through his enchanting practice. He was a wonder to behold; beautiful and deadly. And so the priestess made herself comfortable on a mat next to the stone wall and began to stretch, observing the powerful shadowsinger as demurely as she could.

Eventually, as she was bent over in a stretch to her toes, Azriel joined her on the mat, wiping the perspiration from his face with what she could only assume was his shirt. For a moment she thought to scold him for it, but then thought better of it. After all, she’d much rather his shirt be in a ball in his hands than hiding his muscled torso from her view.

“No sparring tonight, Berdara?” he asked, his voice low, betraying nothing of the effort he’d just exerted. Of course he’d taken notice that she had not donned her leathers. Gwyn was also in search of peace this night.

And perhaps the listening ear of a trusted confidant. 

“Your observation skills are so very keen, Shadowsinger,” she teased. “It is no wonder you are the Spymaster.” Azriel reached over and flicked her thigh in playful admonishment.

“Shall I continue to impress you by guessing that you’ve come here for my impeccable conversation?”

“If only the world knew of your conversational prowess,” Gwyn laughed, her nose scrunching with her grin.

“My reputation would be in grave danger,” the shadowsinger answered, leveling her with a look as dark as his voice had been. She supposed it was his attempt to be intimidating, but it only sent her into another fit of giggles.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Gwyn reached over and patted him on the cheek. Her hand fell away as he turned his head and dipped his chin to look straight into her eyes, and she found herself wondering if she really wanted to have this conversation. But she needed someone to talk to about this; someone other than Nesta and Emerie, who were clearly enthusiastic about the idea.

“So what is it, Gwyn?” His voice was so sincere, his expression so gentle and kind. And if Gwyn wanted the shadowsinger to be open and honest with her, always, then she would have to grant him the same courtesy.

“Nesta and Emerie… they’ve set up a blind date for me. And I…” Gwyn swallowed, trying to give herself more strength. “I just… don’t know what to do.” She studied his face, unsure of what exactly she was looking for, as she worked through her whirling thoughts. Had his eyes guttered a fraction? Had a muscle in his jaw twitched? Was his encouraging grin genuine?

“Do you want to go?” he asked. As if it were as simple as wanting to go or not. She sighed.

“I’ve been thinking that perhaps I’m ready to explore the idea of intimacy with a male,” she began, weaving her fingers together as she tried to explain. “But not knowing who it is I’ll be meeting is, admittedly, a bit daunting.”

Azriel’s responding hmm was less than satisfying. But when she cocked an eyebrow at him with a pointed look, she found him gazing up into the night sky. “You know Nesta and Em wouldn’t allow anyone near you unless they knew you would be safe.” He turned to face her again, now with a small, heartbreaking, lopsided grin. “Nesta would eviscerate a male for even the slightest untoward thought.”

“That’s true,” Gwyn agreed with a shrug. This time it was she who looked wistfully into the stars.

You know Nesta and Em wouldn’t allow anyone near you unless they knew you would be safe.

What was she supposed to say? ‘That may be true, but whoever it is, it won’t be you’? And what could she expect in return? Azriel didn’t seem to be disappointed or unhappy that she had this chance.

The silence stretched between them, and for the first time it wasn’t companionable and comfortable. It was suffocating, and not knowing what was going through the spymaster’s head was infuriating to her. But nothing would have prepared her for what he said next.

“Feyre and Cass have been trying to set me up, too.”

Oh.

“We’re just surrounded by busybodies, aren’t we?” she asked, praying that the strain in her voice wasn’t noticeable. Gwyn shouldn’t have been so blindsided by the idea. She knew about his infatuation with the beautiful middle Archeron sister. It shouldn’t be some great surprise that his closest friends would want to help him move past that. And wasn’t that what Nesta and Emerie were trying to do for her, as well? “Do you want to? Meet whoever this female is, I mean?”

The priestess wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

Gwyn tried to ignore the twinge of sadness and the flare of jealousy. After all, who was she to begrudge him a chance at happiness? Cassian and the High Lady knew him well. They would know a good match.

So, even though her heart wanted him to balk at the idea of a romantic evening with any female other than herself, she took a breath and straightened her spine. “Okay,” she breathed, extending a hand across her body in offering. “I’ll go on mine if you go on yours.” Gwyn watched as he looked down at her hand, then back up at her. How frustrating it was that she couldn’t see beyond his mask. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? What emotions were swirling in those eyes of gold and green?

All he did was take her hand and shake it firmly. There was a tingling that started in her palm and skated around her wrist as he murmured, “It’s a bargain.”

And when she pulled her fingers away from his, there was a winding swirl of black around her wrist. A bargain cast between two friends. And as she looked at it and huffed a disbelieving laugh, she couldn’t help but feel a seed of despair taking root. They had agreed to embark on a potentially romantic endeavor; with different people. It had been too easy for him to agree. Too easy for her.

But she had told herself from the beginning. No matter what she felt for him, no matter their connection, she would never hold him back from what would make him happy. And if that wasn’t going to end up being her…

She would deal with that.

~AZRIEL~

Azriel couldn’t count how many times he’d cursed himself since making that bargain with the priestess. Cursed himself for encouraging Gwyn to pursue whatever male that her sisters-in-arms had determined would be suitable for her. Of course, he trusted Nesta and Emerie to keep her safe. But this male, whoever he was, wouldn’t be good enough for her.

Nobody would. Especially not himself.

But that didn’t mean that his heart and his shadows hadn’t been screaming at him to say something – anything – when she’d said she was ready to explore intimacy with a male. No, instead he’d made a bargain with her that they would both attend their separate dinners organized by separate family members with separate people. And he’d told himself over and over that he was fine with it. If Gwyn wanted to pursue someone else, who was he to say no? As enamored with her as he was, he had no claim on her. He’d had no reason to tell her not to agree to meet this male.

He’d almost caved when he saw her waiting on the balcony with Nesta and Cassian for Mor. For all of them to winnow down into the city and send the priestess on her way into a potential future. Gwyn was radiant in a gown of navy velvet, heavy enough to endure the chilly evenings of the new spring. Her cheeks had grown rosy when he’d given her a small smile, and the grin she’d offered back outshone the moon in the sky. Cassian had only given him a wink.

“I’ll be back for you, brother.”

To Azriel, that was almost as much of a threat as it was a promise.

All the general said when he returned was, “Sevenda’s. The far corner of the balcony, closest to the river.” Cassian made a show of straightening the collar on the spymaster’s jacket and brushing off the lapels. “I’m surprised it isn’t covered in dust, as little as you wear anything other than your leathers.” Azriel just rolled his eyes and gave his brother a half-hearted fist to the gut.

But then Cass sobered, a broad hand landing on the shadowsinger’s shoulder. “You trust me, don’t you Az?”

“With my life.” His brows furrowed in confusion as the general’s golden gaze fixed upon him.

“Then trust me now, brother. You look as if you’re walking to your doom.”

Azriel couldn’t find it in him to explain why it felt like he was. But something in Cassian’s mischievous gaze lit a glimmer of… hope. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps things weren’t as it seemed. After all, few people in the world knew him better than his Illyrian brother. He should trust in that.

So, with a wry grin and a nod, the shadowsinger launched into the sky, heading toward… Gods-only-knew what.

Sevenda’s wasn’t far – a few beats of his wings and a glide away. He could have stepped through the shadows, but the rush of air calmed his churning stomach and pounding heart. As he strode through the dining room he was met with mostly dubious stares, although a few friendly faces stood out. No matter where, his reputation preceded him. And with his great wings and shadows billowing behind him like a cloak, it was no wonder so few people found themselves able to smile at him when he walked by. 

To be fair, he wasn’t smiling at them, either.

When he stepped through the archway onto the back patio his eyes slid to the corner table, closest to the Sidra. And there, sitting at the table with a glass of what promised to be some fruity wine was…

“Gwyn?”

Her eyes grew wide over the rim of her glass, and his heart stuttered as they lit up with recognition and joy. Somehow he pulled his gaze away from those ocean depths to look around. Had Cassian told him the wrong table? There was only one other occupied table on the patio, in the opposite corner, and as he turned back to Gwyn she stood. Her smile was tender as her fingers twisted nervously in front of her, her eyes glittering with mirth.

“I believe we’ve been duped, Shadowsinger.” Her cheeks were a delicious rosy pink, and he was so taken with the pretty blush that he almost missed what she said. But then the puzzle pieces began sliding together with startling clarity. How they both were being set up for a blind dinner date. Apparently on the same evening. Strategically arranged by different parties, yet still connected.

“Surrounded by busybodies, indeed,” he muttered, taking the few remaining steps toward the table and the lovely Valkyrie who was, apparently, the female he was supposed to be dining with this evening. Her shy smile was everything, and she giggled at his grumbling. She seemed to visibly relax, her fingers falling to the surface of the table.

“I know this isn’t quite what we expected, but we did make a bargain.” She lifted her wrist and nodded to the delicate tattoo that was mirrored on his own. “Would you join me for dinner?” Azriel’s face split into a huge grin, and part of him worried he might actually look terrifying.

But this was what he’d wanted – what he’d cursed himself for not suggesting on his own.

“Bargain or no bargain, Berdara. Nothing would make me happier.”

[foundress0fnothing]

Happy April 9th! I’m thrilled to be able to bring you the second installment of Double Blind for the ACOTAR Writing Circle, organized by @azrielshadowssing. The fic was a delight to continue—I hope you like it!

The story was originated by the incomparable @hlizr50 (who also designed this beautiful header) 💕 You can read Part 1 here. Stay tuned for the third and final part of the story on April 23rd.

Many thanks to UBC for their suggestions for Azriel’s go-to bar drink, and for @ofduskanddreams for hitting the nail on the head with a simple, classic G&T.

Bonus points if you can spot the line I lifted from Pirates of the Caribbean 👀

Read here on AO3!

——————————————————————

GWYN

Gwyn felt her blush heighten at Azriel’s words. What was she supposed to say in response to that? Thank goodness, because I was wishing this date was with you anyway? Or No, Azriel, nothing would make me happier? Or Yes, let’s get out of here right now and go somewhere quiet to see just how happy we can make each other?

No. All of that was too serious, too soon. Especially that last one. And anyway, perhaps Azriel was just relieved at the promise of an easy evening spent with a friend. Nothing more—no flirting, no romance, no intimacy. Just friends. 

Even if the sight of him standing there in a black jacket was almost enough to make her blurt all of those foolish thoughts out anyway. Had she ever seen him out of his leathers before? He was magnificent in them, certainly—all muscle and cold, breathtaking brutality. But out of them, in normal clothes? His beauty was brutal in a wholly new way, both more terrifying and more inviting all at once. She wondered what it would be like to slip the coat off of his well-muscled shoulders, tracing the strength in his arms, undressing him bit by bit until he stood bare before her.

And had he ever seen her out of her priestess robes or her leathers? Gwyn was suddenly aware of the neckline of her dress and the way the velvet clung to every curve, remembering with no small amount of mortification that she had announced to him that she was “ready to explore intimacy with a male.” And here she was with him. On their date. While he looked like that. 

Cauldron boil her. 

Caught in a lusty daze, she only slowly realized that his eyes were watching hers almost … expectantly? 

Right. She had to say—had to do—something. They had their bargain after all, and Gwyn was determined to uphold her end of it, even if just platonically.

Hoping that Azriel hadn’t noticed the reddening of her cheeks and her too-long silence, she gestured for him to sit in the chair across from her at the table and decided a teasing response would be best. Safe, even. Familiar territory for them and all that. “Nothing? Nothing at all would make you happier?” She challenged, offering him a grin as he took his seat.

Azriel paused for a second, blinking at her and furrowing his brow. Then, easing off his coat to reveal a forest green shirt that Gwyn was definitely, positively not staring at, he simply said, “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not … I don’t know, new training leathers? A good night’s sleep? Finally beating Cassian in an arm wrestling contest?” 

The Shadowsinger only scoffed and arched an eyebrow at her suggestions, silently asking if she was done.

Was she? The teasing had helped her feel more like herself around him, and the adrenaline rush she had felt at the surprise of seeing him as her date had mostly dissipated. She could be normal, friendly Gwyn to normal, friendly Azriel.

But still … she wanted something from him, something just to confirm her suspicions that they were there as friends, and only friends. Even if they had both expected romance tonight—even if the alcove where they were seated was candlelit and cozy, and the sunset off the river behind them glinted in a way that made the gold in Azriel’s hazel eyes shine more brightly, and the wine she had been drinking—bubbly and sweet—made her want to see if kissing Azriel would make her feel the same way. And even if Gwyn had to admit to herself that she wouldn’t mind it overly much if this actually was a date—a real date—with Azriel. And that she sort of hoped it still could be, if he wanted it to be real too.

So, not letting it go, she asked, “What about world peace? Lasting peace in Prythian and the Continent. That would have to make you happier than dinner with me. And,” she continued, taking a sip of her wine to give herself something to do with her hands, “if you disagree, then I think you might just be a terrible male, much as I would hate to say it.” She arched her brow in question, watching his eyes glint at her mock seriousness.

Rather than returning her jest like she expected, however, his eyes grew serious, and he said, “Then I suppose I will be terrible, Gwyneth, if it means I get to have you tonight.”

Gwyn felt her blush, which had finally faded, return with a vengeance as she looked away, her mind filling with thoughts about what Azriel having her tonight might mean—his hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her, or cupping her breasts as he licked his way down her stomach, or palming her ass as he dropped his head to taste between her thighs. She was on fire, heat pooling in her stomach as she prayed to the Mother that her scent wouldn’t shift. That was certainly not a conversation Gwyn wanted to have with Azriel. Not yet, at any rate. 

She dared to glance up at him only to see that he too was blushing, having realized the innuendo in his declaration. Was he embarrassed? Did he regret what he said? Or only its implications? Or … neither? Not for the first time, Gwyn found herself wishing that his hazel eyes were slightly less inscrutable. 

Before either of them could say anything, however, a female Gwyn didn’t know chose that moment to come over to their table.

“Well, Shadowsinger,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d see the day that you finally decided to grace my humble restaurant with one of your dates.”

Gwyn giggled at Azriel’s scowl, and the female—who must have been Sevenda—smiled back sweetly at him. Gwyn could read the fondness, the familiarity in the gesture. “You two are close,” she remarked, more a statement than a question.

When Azriel didn’t answer and only continued scowling, Sevenda huffed a laugh. “Yes. Old friends. And he’s one of my best customers, even if he has no manners to speak of.”

At that, Azriel’s scowl deepened. “My manners are perfectly fine, Sevenda. Cassian is the one without any, as you know.”

“Then why haven’t you introduced me to your lovely date, hmm?”

“When have I had a chance?" Azriel grumbled.

Gwyn, barely holding in her laughter at the banter, decided that it was time for her to jump in. “Gwyneth Berdara,” she said, smiling up at Sevenda, “although most people just call me Gwyn. I’m a priestess in the library.”

“And a Valkyrie. And a Carynthian.” Azriel supplied her other two titles, pride and something Gwyn couldn’t quite name in his voice.

“Well, Gwyneth Berdara—priestess, Valkyrie, Carynthian—I am honored to meet you,” Sevenda said with a wink. “And to feed you! You already have a drink, yes?”

Gwyn held up her half-full wine glass.

“And your usual for you, Shadowsinger?”

He nodded. “Thank you, Sevenda.”

“I’ll be back in a minute to get your food orders, then.” Looking at the two of them sitting together, she declared, “Good,” and then turned to walk back to the bar at the front of the restaurant.

“What did she mean by that?” Gwyn asked Azriel as soon as Sevenda was out of earshot. “What does ‘good’ mean?”

Azriel hummed noncommittally. “Probably nothing.”

Gwyn narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

She wanted to know what Sevenda meant—and what it meant to Azriel to hear it, if it meant anything at all. Although the tension of the moment before Sevenda appeared had passed, Gwyn couldn’t get Azriel’s serious look out of her mind, couldn’t stop hearing the bass of voice rumble as he declared he’d pick having her over anything else.

Azriel sighed, breaking Gwyn’s train of thought, and then said, “Sevenda’s known me for a long time. If her ‘good’ meant anything, it’s just that she’s happy to see me here. With you.”

“With me?”

“With someone who makes me happy,” he amended, the grin from when he first saw her at the table shyly sliding over his face again. 

“And do I … do I make you happy?” Gwyn knew the answer, she hoped, but she wanted to hear it anyway.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Berdara?”

“At least once more, Azriel.”

Gwyn watched him close his eyes briefly as she said his name, and she wondered how it sounded to him, if hearing his name fall from her lips warmed him as much as hearing him utter hers warmed her.  

Opening his eyes, he reached out and took her hand. Gwyn’s teal eyes met his hazel ones as her breath caught in her throat. She found she could finally read what he was thinking, could finally make out the feeling that lay behind the impenetrable mask. But he voiced it anyway. “Yes, Gwyneth Berdara—priestess, Valkyrie, Carynthian—you make me very happy.”

Gwyn blushed, and then decided that she too could be brave. “You make me very happy as well, Shadowsinger.”

“Oh, do I?” If possible, his smile grew larger, and Gwyn thought she had never seen a more breathtaking sight. Still holding her hand in his, fingers skirting the bargain tattoo inked on her wrist, he asked, “You know what else would make me happy?”

“What’s that?” Gwyn’s answer slipped out a little breathier than she would have liked, but his fingers on her wrists were driving her to distraction, teasing and tempting all at once. 

“If I knew if this was a real date for us. Or if it’s just two friends helping each other fulfill a bargain.”

Gwyn felt her heart stutter to a stop. “Do you want it to be real?”

Azriel only hummed, fingers still moving over the tattoo. “I asked first.”

She didn’t allow herself time to overthink, to worry about what might happen to their friendship if she got this wrong. Gwyn only said, “Yes.”

And without breaking eye contact, Azriel lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, chastely, but that didn’t stop Gwyn from feeling the heat of his lips travel up and across her body, suffusing her with warmth. “It’s been real for me since the moment I saw you at that table.”

AZRIEL

As Gwyn polished off the plate of Sevenda’s food in front of her—dill yogurt pasta topped with spiced lamb, currants, and nuts—Azriel wondered what he had done to get so lucky.

Because Gwyn was here with him. As his date. And not just to fulfill a bargain. He could have whooped with joy, had he been the whooping type, when she said yes to the feelings between them being real, when she let him kiss her hand. 

And, oh, he wanted to kiss more—so much more—than just her hand. He hadn’t realized how thoroughly the feeling of her skin beneath his lips would wreck him, how much it would make him burn with the need to know exactly how the rest of her tasted. Her cheeks and her chest were flushed from the heat of the restaurant and the wine, and Azriel wondered how far down that blush extended past the maddening neckline of her dress.

He hoped he would get to find out.

Gwyn cleared her throat, and Azriel simultaneously realized that he had been staring too long and that his shadows—the meddling, disloyal assholes—had decided they no longer needed to mask his scent.

“See something you like, Shadowsinger?” Gwyn asked, grinning wickedly.

Azriel flushed, thanking the Mother that Gwyn seemed pleased at the development rather than repulsed. 

Deciding that no verbal answer would rescue his dignity, he settled for grabbing his drink, polishing off what was left in one final gulp.

She laughed and said, “It’s still so predictable that your drink of choice is a gin and tonic.”

He scowled. “How is it predictable?”

“It just …” she paused, looking for the right words. “It just fits what I’d expect you to look for in a drink. Simple, easy to make.” Gwyn’s eyes took on that playful glint that Azriel knew meant she was about to start baiting him. “Dare I say … safe?” She grinned at him, waiting for his reaction.

And he took the bait, as he always did. “Like fruity wine is that adventurous.”

Gwyn sniffed primly. “It had bubbles, at least.”

But her eyes crinkled at the corners, and Azriel found himself rolling his eyes fondly. “You’ll come to love gin and tonics eventually, Berdara.”

“I think I just might, Azriel.”

And he didn’t think she was just talking about drinks anymore.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asked.

Gwyn looked at him, suddenly serious.

“There’s no pressure for this date to be any more than what it’s been already, Gwyn. But if you’d like—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “I would like.” 

Azriel thought he might die right there. Whatever else the night became, this moment was perfect, untouchably perfect. 

“But I don’t want to go back to the House. I’m not ready to face those busybodies and have to admit they were right.” She wrinkled her nose.

Laughing at how scrunched her face was, utterly smitten, he stood and held out a hand to her. “Come on. I know a place close by.”

[serabellyms]

  PLOTTED STARTER !     ⤷ @downs1de ✧ rustin cohle.

Finally, finally, she'd been able to take some leave. It was difficult, given the intensity of her training, but now that there were final evaluations for those who'd be deemed N7 status (and her passing all of the previous levels with flying colours), she had time to wait until she'd know whether she'd been chosen for such an esteemed vocation. It'd been a difficult journey, and so far... she'd passed. Now, she had a chance to take a break, and she’d sent a message to Rust, letting him know where she was staying if he’d like to come visit. She hadn’t received a message back, but she figured he’d see it eventually.

What she didn’t expect was hearing a knock at her door late at night. She was up in a flash, grabbing her sweater and pulling it over her head to conceal the garish scars that marred her arms and shoulders. Who would be coming at this hour? She hadn’t received any messages; surely if it was emergent, one of her COs or her training officers would’ve sent her a message. Raising a hand, she pulled her pistol close with her biotics, setting it out of sight in case of an intruder, but somewhere she’d know where it was. No need for her to answer the door holding it; she didn’t exactly need a gun to defend herself, after all.

Opening the door, she was... surprised at what she saw. Dishevelled was one way to describe it; clothing rumpled, tie loosened, and a half-abused bouquet of flowers that looked like it'd been bought hours ago. The only saving grace was his hair; it always looked like that, a little tousled. The rest was easy to figure out; even if she couldn't smell the alcohol yet, she certainly knew the look of a man who'd had one too many drinks.

At least he'd taken a cab, identified by the car that was leaving now that she'd opened the door. Oh, god, what did you do? At least he looked... okay, for the most part. No bruises or cuts, which mean no fights, but something had happened. Sighing softly, she reached for his arm to gently coax him inside, resigning herself to... whatever this was. If he'd come to her in this state, there had to be a reason he'd picked her over everyone else.

"C'mon," she encouraged, guiding him to the couch. "Do you... want some coffee, or do you just want to sleep it off?" Either option didn't matter to her; she doubted she'd be sleeping much, given she'd be too damn busy worrying. Once he was sitting, she pulled two glasses from the cupboards, filling them both with water; if nothing else, she’d get him to drink at least one glass of water, and she herself probably needed one. Of course, water wasn’t the only thing she grabbed; reaching into the fridge, she juggled one of her usual electrolyte drinks, knowing that ought to be a hell of a hangover cure for a non-biotic.

Setting the glass down in front of him as well as the bottle, she took a seat next to him, sipping the second glass of water herself. “Drink. The water first, then that. It’ll at least save you from being dehydrated in the morning. They’re, uh—they give them to us after… long stints groundside.” Hopefully he wasn’t apt enough to notice her cover-up; she’d yet to tell him about their real purpose: to keep biotic soldiers hydrated, given the amount of calories and electrolytes burned in combat generating and controlling mass effect fields.

[acourtofquestions]

"I didn't break," she said quietly. His heart cracked at the words. "I didn't tell them anything."

She didn't say it for praise, to boast. But rather to tell him, her consort, of where they stood in this war. What their enemies might know.

"I knew you wouldn't," he managed to say.

"She ... she tried to convince me that this was the bad dream. When Cairn was done with me, or during it, I don't know, she'd try to worm her way into my mind." She glanced around the cave, as if she could see the world beyond it. "She spun fantasies that felt so real..." She bobbed under the surface. Perhaps she'd needed the cooling water of the lake to be able to hear her own voice again; perhaps she needed the distance between them so she could speak these words. She emerged, slicking back her hair with a hand. "They felt like this."

Half of him didn't want to know, but he asked, "What sort of illusions?"

A long pause. "It doesn't matter now."

Too soon to push—if ever.

Then she asked softly, "How long?"

It took the entirety of his three centuries of training to keep the devastation, the agony for her, from his face. "Two months, three days, and seven hours."

Her mouth tightened, either at the length of time, or the fact that he'd counted every single one of those hours apart.

She ran her fingers through her hair, its strands floating around her in the water. Still too long for two months to have passed. "They healed me after each ... session. So that I stopped knowing what had been done and what was in my mind and where the truth lay." Erase her scars, and Maeve stood a better chance at convincing her none of this was real. "But the healers couldn't remember how long my hair was, or Maeve wanted to confuse me further, so they grew it out." Her eyes darkened at the memory of why, perhaps, they had needed to regrow her hair in the first place.

"Do you want me to cut it back to the length it was when I last saw you?" His words were near-guttural.

"No." Ripples shivered around her. "I want it so I can remember."

What had been done to her, what she'd survived and what she had protected.

Even if the woman treading water before him didn't seem to have vengeance on her mind. Not so much as a hint of the burning rage that fueled her.

He didn't blame her. Knew it would take time, time and distance, to heal the internal wounds. If they could ever really heal at all.

But he'd work with her, help in whatever way he could. And if she never returned to who she had been before this, he would not love her any less.

Aelin dunked her head, and when she emerged, she said, "Maeve was about to put a Valg collar around my neck. She left to retrieve it." The scent of her lingering fear drifted toward him, and Rowan lurched a step closer to the water's edge. "It's why I—why I got away. She had me moved to the army camp for safekeeping, and I ..." Her voice stalled, yet she met his stare. Let him read the words she could not say, in that silent way they'd always been able to communicate. Escape wasn't my intention.

"No, Fireheart," he breathed, shaking his head, horror creeping over him. "There ... there was no collar."

She blinked, head angling. "That was a dream, too?"

His heart cracked as he struggled for the words. Made himself voice them. "No—it was real. Or Maeve thought it was. But the collars, the Valg presence ... It was a lie that we crafted. To draw Maeve out, hopefully away from you and Doranelle."

Only the faint lapping of water sounded. "There was no collar?"

Rowan lowered himself to his knees and shook his head. "I—Aelin, if I'd known what she'd do with the knowledge, what you'd decide to do-"

He might have lost her. Not from Maeve or the gods or the Lock, but from his own damned choices. The lie he'd spun.

Aelin drifted beneath the surface again. So deep that when the flare happened, it was little more than a flutter. The light burst from her, rippling across the lake, illumining the stones, the slick ceiling above. A silent eruption. His breathing turned ragged. But she swam toward the surface again, light streaming off her body like tendrils of clouds. It had nearly vanished when she emerged.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say. Again, that angle of the head. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He did, though. He'd added to her terror, her desperation. He'd— "If you had not planted that lie for Maeve, if she had not told me, I don't think we'd be here right now," she said.

He tried to rein in the twisting in his gut, the urge to reach for her, to beg for her forgiveness. Tried and tried.

She only asked, "What of the others?" She didn't know-couldn't know how and why and where they'd all parted ways. So Rowan told her, as succinctly and calmly as he could.

When he finished, Aelin was quiet for long minutes.

She stared out into the blackness, the rippling of her treading water the only sound. Her body had nearly lost that freshly forged glow.

Then she pivoted back toward him. "Maeve said you and the others were in the North. That you'd been spotted by her spies there. Did you plant that deception for her, too?"

He shook his head. "Lysandra has been thorough, it seems."

Aelin's throat bobbed. "I believed her." It sounded like a confession, somehow.

So Rowan found himself saying, "I told you once that even if death separated us, I would rip apart every world until I found you." He gave her a slash of a smile. "Did you really believe this would stop me?'

She pursed her mouth, and at last, those agonizing emotions began to surface in her eyes. "You were supposed to save Terrasen."

"Considering that the sun shines, I'd say Erawan hasn't won yet. So we'll save it together."

He didn't let himself think of the final cost of destroying Erawan. And Aelin seemed in no hurry to discuss it, either, as she said, "You should have gone to Terrasen. It needs you."

"I need you more." He didn't balk from the stark honesty roughening his voice. "And Terrasen will need you, too. Not Lysandra masquerading as you, but you."

A shallow nod. "Maeve raised her army. I doubt it was only to guard me while she was away."

He'd put the thought aside, to consider later. "It might just be to shore up her defenses, should Erawan win across the sea."

"Do you truly think that's what she plans to do with it?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't."

And if Maeve meant to bring that army to Terrasen, to either unite with Erawan or simply be another force battering their kingdom, to strike when they were weakest, they had to hurry. Had to get back. Immediately. His mate's eyes shone with the same understanding and dread.

Aelin's throat bobbed as she whispered, "I'm so tired, Rowan."

His heart strained again. "I know, Fireheart."

He opened his mouth to say more, to coax her onto land so he might at least hold her if words couldn't ease her burden, but that's when he saw it.

A boat, ancient and every inch of it carved, drifted out of the gloom.

"Get back to shore." The boat wasn't drifting—it was being tugged. He could just barely make out two dark forms slithering beneath the surface.

Aelin didn't hesitate, yet her strokes remained steady as she swam for him. She didn’t balk at the hand he extended, and he wrapped his cloak around her while the boat ambled past.

But Aelin turned toward them, hair dripping onto the stone at her bare feet. Half a thought from her could have had her dry, yet she made no move to do so. "We're being hunted."

"We know that," Lorcan shot back, and were it not for the fact that Aelin was currently allowing him to rest a hand upon her shoulder, Rowan would have thrown the male into the lake.

But Aelin's features didn't shift from that graveness, that unruffled calm. "The only way to the sea is through these caves." It was an outrageous claim.

"And I suppose they told you that?" Lorcan's face was hard as granite.

"Watch it," Rowan snarled. Fenrys indeed bared his teeth at the dark-haired warrior, fur bristling. But Aelin said simply, "Yes." Her chin didn't dip an inch. "The land above is crawling with soldiers and spies. Going beneath them is the only way."

Elide stepped forward. "I will go." She cut a cold glance toward Lorcan. "You can take your chances above, if you're so disbelieving." Lorcan's jaw tightened, and a small part of Rowan relished seeing the delicate Lady of Perranth fillet the centuries-hardened warrior with a few words. "Considering the potential pitfalls of the situation is wise."

"We don't have time to consider," Rowan cut in before Elide could voice the retort on her tongue. "We need to keep moving. Gavriel stalked forward to study the moored boat and what seemed to be bundles of supplies on its sturdy planks. "How will we navigate our way, though?"

"We'll be escorted," Aelin answered.

"And if they abandon us?" Lorcan challenged. Aelin leveled unfazed eyes upon him.

"Then you'll have to find a way out, I suppose." A hint-just a spark-of temper belied those calm words. There was nothing else to debate after that.

And they had little to pack. The others gave Aelin privacy to dress by the fire while they inspected the boat, and when his mate emerged again, clad in boots, pants, and various layers beneath her gray surcoat, the sight of her in clothes from Mistward was enough to make his gut clench.

No longer a naked, escaped captive. Yet none of that wickedness, that joy and unchecked wildness illuminated her face.

The rest of their party waited on the boat, seated on the benches built into its high-lipped sides. Fenrys and Elide both sat as seemingly far from Lorcan as they could get, Gavriel a golden, long-suffering buffer between them.

Rowan lingered at the shore's edge, a hand extended for Aelin while she approached. Each of her steps seemed considered—as if she still marveled at being able to move freely. As if still adjusting to her legs without the burden of chains.

"Why?" Lorcan mused aloud, more to himself. "Why go to these lengths for us?"

He got his answer—they all did—a heartbeat later. Aelin halted a few feet away from the boat and Rowan's outstretched hand. She turned back toward the cave itself. The Little Folk peeked from those birch branches, from the rocks, from behind stalagmites. Slowly, deeply, Aelin bowed to them. Rowan could have sworn all those tiny heads lowered in answer.

A pair of bony grayish hands rose above a nearby rock, something glittering held between them, and set the object on the stone.

Rowan went still. A crown of silver and pearl and diamond gleamed there, fashioned into upswept swan's wings

"The Crown of Mab," Gavriel breathed. But Fenrys looked away, toward the looming dark, his tail curling around him.

Aelin staggered a step closer to the crown. "It—it fell into the river."

Rowan didn't want to know how she'd encountered it, why she'd seen it fall into a river. Maeve had kept her sisters' two crowns under constant guard, only bringing them out to be displayed in her throne room on state occasions. In memory of her siblings, she'd intoned. Rowan had sometimes wondered if it was a reminder that she had outlasted them, had kept the throne for herself in the end.

The grayish hand slipped over the rock's edge again and nudged the crown in silent gesture. Take it.

"You want to know why?" Gavriel softly asked Lorcan as Aelin strode for the rock. Nothing but solemn reverence on her face. "Because she is not only Brannon's Heir, but Mab's, too."

A throwback to her great-great-grandmother, Maeve had taunted her. Who had inherited her strength, her immortal lifespan.

Aelin's fingers closed around the crown, lifting it gently. It sparkled like living moonlight between her hands.

My sister Mab's line ran true, Elide claimed Maeve had said on the beach. In every way, it seemed.

But Aelin made no move to don the crown while she approached him once more, her gait steadier this time. Trying not to dwell on the unbearable smoothness of her hand as it wrapped around his, Rowan helped her aboard, then climbed in himself before freeing the ropes tethering them to the shore.

Gavriel went on, awe in every word, "And that makes her their queen, too."

Aelin met Gavriel's gaze, the crown near-glowing in her hands. "Yes," was all she said as the boat sailed into the darkness.

[miktoast]

so i was just re-reading my reference sheet for Miraculous Ladybug AU's when i found this bit that i'm absolutely in love with. for some context, i was explaining the various nicknames characters have for each other and how they came about. also, please note that this is an AU where Stoneheart took place on the first day of their second year of lycee. Also note, in this AU, Ladybug goes by Coccinette.

Adrien's Nicknames for Marinette and Ladybug:

—Ma Cherinette (as in "my dear [cherie] Marinette" after Nino's short film, where Adrien makes an inside joke of pretending to act like their old roles but with their own names) [Adrien to Marinette]

"Agent Dupain-Cheng! Ah, how I've missed you, ma Cherinette!" Adrien swooned, draping one arm around Marinette's shoulders while the other clutched at his chest. He could feel her tense momentarily and hunch into herself before drawing on the confidence that made her a worthy Madame President when M. D'Argencourt got akumatized, and worthy Buginette when Coccinette was out of town and Marinette had to face Evillustrator herself.

Her spine straightened as she rose to her full height under the weight of Adrien leaning against her, and as every time before that they had done this little bit of improv, his admiration for his friend resurged with vigor.

"Oh, Officer Agreste, mon cœur, I have burned every second we've been apart. The next mission, won't you ask me to stay?" She turned to him, causing his arm to slip from her shoulders until his hand caught on her hip. She grab his hand from his chest and held it delicately between her own before turning her face upward so he could meet her eyes.

Her eyes… They were shining so blue, so filled with love and heartache, that Adrien himself began to feel an ache in his chest, as if he had just learned to breathe and had only ever been suffocating before.

"You know I'd follow you anywhere, if only you'd ask. Even if you wish to wander only in this little town." She closed her eyes, and the spell should have been broken, but still he found himself captivated as she pressed her cheek against his knuckles, as if they were his lips giving her tender kisses. Her words burned him deeply, echoing with his own sentiments towards a girl, and surely it must be the girl in front of him that he is so attached to, for surely no other could set his chest ablaze with as much ferocity as she.

He exhaled softly, and thought that he must be blowing smoke into her hair as the blaze burned higher. "Cherie… you are a brilliant phoenix, and I would never think to cage you at my side. You set my heart on fire, and the embers burn even when we are apart. Let us feed the flames now, so that when you must fly, I will still feel your warmth."

His hand, which had been gripping bruises into her hip, rose to the back of her head. He pulled her forward until her forehead came to rest on his collarbone, and he buried his nose in her hair, thoughts only on how his knuckles pressed into the supple flesh of her cheek, how his fingers dug into the base of her hairline, how his lips brushed her scalp, and how certainly she would remember him, if only by the watercolor marks on her hip.

It was only after several minutes that he seemed to remember that he wasn't some detective who finally returned to his distant lover when he heard giggling and the shutter-click of a smartphone camera. It was several extended seconds more when he finally brought himself to raise his head, dreading to break the scene and have Marinette leave his arms. Alya met his eyes over black hair, a sly grin on her face while she waved her phone screen from only a meter away.

He couldn't stop the glare as he reluctantly pulled away.

“Oh, drop the look, ‘mon coeur,’ you know Nino would never forgive either of us if someone didn’t get this on camera for him to use later,” Alya snorted, stepping towards the pair.

Adrien simply huffed in reply, finally letting his arms drop. His skin immediately began to feel too hot without Marinette’s soothing coolness to sap the extra heat. He noticed, with no small amount of smug, that Marinette shivered, and goosebumps raised on the back of her arms once his heat no longer blanketed her. Even better, it took her several more moments to pull his hand from her cheek, and even more after that to actually drop his hand. Once her grip relaxed, he allowed himself to squeeze her fingers before finally letting go.

All the while, Alya continued to watch, thankfully not recording this time. These soft moments with Marinette, where he allowed himself to dip into his bursting stores of love and get a little out of his system, he wanted to keep only for himself and Marinette. He wanted to keep Marinette’s soft moments only for himself. He wanted no one else to get to see how Marinette acts when indulging in affection, however unrealistic that possessive want may be; after all, Marinette was full of affection and gave it freely.

But this affection?

These embraces, these kisses of the knuckles against her cheek like a cat, this “burning” devotion (however pretend), this affection which Marinette only seemed to give to him? He wanted it all. He didn’t want to see Marinette get a partner and give these affections to them. He didn’t want others to leech off of these affections with their seeing and their hearing when they indulged in these morning rituals. He wanted it to be only Marinette’s and his, he wanted them to be done for him alone, for the rest of time.