#we're getting close to the end and this chapter…

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (49/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Climbing up the mountain can be very freeing.

Warnings: angst (self-doubt, insecurities, mentions of abuse in a relationship, Charles is very insecure about himself), the end is a bit fluffy, but don't expect too much

Word Count: 4.1k

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A/N: I feel like this describes Charles well. I cried when writing this chapter. I hope you like it. feedback is appreciated.

It is the first time in years that Charles has no desire to climb the mountain on those stupid skis. 

His feet hurt, he is cold even though the jacket he is wearing is suitable for even colder temperatures, and his hands are so stiff from the frigid air that they painfully curl around his ski poles. 

The snow blinds him because of the bright sun, his bones feel heavy, somehow his mouth is so dry that he would like to rinse it with water every five meters.

But maybe that's just because he'd rather be at home in Monaco. Because that's where you are. And there is no place he would rather be right now. 

Closing the door behind him and leaving you alone in the apartment was incredibly difficult. He would have loved to put you in his bag and take you with him, but you would only have distracted him from training. 

And if he wants to be world champion one day, he can't afford to make any mistakes. 

It's been two days since he's seen you and heard your voice. In the morning, when he wakes up and gets ready for the day, you are still fast asleep, and during his training, Andrea has his phone so that Charles can collect his thoughts and stay focused. Only in the evening, when Charles is in bed, he manages to text you a few messages before falling asleep, cell phone in hand, completely exhausted. 

He misses you every second. 

Before he met you, he would never have imagined that he could miss someone he had only known for a few days so much. He had missed Annika from time to time, after all, he had definitely loved her at some point, but he had never longed for her or anyone else the way he did for you now. 

As soon as he has a moment to himself, whether it's in the shower or on the toilet or when Andrea isn't bothering him with calories or carbohydrates or protein for a moment, he misses you so much that he can almost feel the physical distance between you. 

But most of all, he misses you in the morning when he wakes up. When he is in that one second when he is neither sleeping nor fully awake. Snuggled up warm in the blanket and against the pillow, where in the evening he imagines it would be your body that he is snuggling up to. And in the morning, for a brief moment, it feels as if you are actually lying next to him, which is why the second he realizes that you are miles away from him hurts the most. 

“Are you okay?” Andrea asks, who has slowed down a little to run up the hill next to Charles. ”You're suspiciously quiet.”

Charles, who hasn't realized that he has slowed down at all, looks at his trainer in confusion. “Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?”

Andrea shrugs. ”Usually you're chattering away at me during training. That usually helps you to distract yourself from how exhausting it is.”

He has a point there. Charles pushes himself forward on his skis. “I don't know. This time I don't feel like you're torturing me up this mountain. It's still the same route we usually take, isn't it?” He looks around as if he can recognize the surroundings. 

Andrea raises his eyebrows and also picks up the pace. ‘We're in a completely different area, Charles.’ He points to another mountain with his gloved hand.

If his friend hadn't told him, the man from Monaco would never have noticed, so absorbed is he in his thoughts about you. The mountain Andrea is pointing to seems more familiar to him than the one in front of them. And a lot smaller. If they had taken the familiar route, they would have been at the summit long ago. 

“You asshole,” Charles curses and wipes his face. ‘Why did you choose a different mountain? And especially one that's higher?”

Andrea can't help but grin. ’You came in second in the championship this year. I'm hoping that if we increase your training, you'll come in first next season and...”

“And what?” Charles interrupts his trainer. "The whole thing is useless if my strategists and the whole team mess up so much during the race. I can train as much as I want. It won't work." He gets so caught up in it that he doesn't notice how quickly he pushes himself up the mountain on his skis. 

“Charles –”

“No, Andrea. This whole thing cost me the title. Wrong tires? Last-minute changes in the pit? What the hell?” he gets worked up. He knows that his anger is unfairly directed at the wrong person, after all Andrea is only there for Charles's well-being and not for what happens on the track, but it just comes spilling out. And he can't stop it. 

His ski poles dig deep into the white snow, which Charles barely notices. He only sees the summit in front of him and hears Andrea breathing loudly next to him as he continues to complain. 

“It's not right that I come in second because of such little things! If I had caused accidents, then at least it would have been my fault and I could have dealt with it more easily,” he says, annoyed. ”But what kind of stupid plans were these, anyway? Even a toddler could come up with a better strategy!”

Andrea, who knows full well that Charles needs to vent his anger, walks quietly beside him and lets the storm pass over him. It's not often that Charles gets this angry. And normally he blames himself, but he certainly doesn't take such serious mistakes on his head. 

Charles knows that making mistakes is an inevitable part of competition, and sometimes, they're the difference between standing at the top of the podium and finishing second. Being the runner-up in a championship can feel bittersweet – so close to victory, yet just short of it. 

Being second in the championship feels like a mix of pride and frustration. On one hand, Charles has achieved something incredible – outperforming almost everyone, proving his skill and showing that he deserves to sit in the red car with the horse on it. But on the other hand, there's that lingering thought inside of his head – he was so close. The tiniest mistakes, the small miscalculations in his strategies, or someone else having a slightly better day made the difference in the end. 

There's this ache inside of him, knowing he was almost the champion. The podium felt different when he looked up at Max Verstappen holding the trophy he desperately craved. Charles felt a lot of things in that moment – disappointment, regret and even anger – at himself, the situation, the team and at the margin that kept him from winning. 

“I could have won the title. Max will definitely win the next season too, as strong as Red Bull is. How will I ever live up to my reputation then?” He clenches his jaw. ”I feel like I'm stuck with what I'm doing now. And I'm doing my best, Andrea. I really am. But it's apparently not enough. Do you know how incredibly frustrating that is?”

Being second carries a unique weight – a strange middle ground between triumph and heartbreak. And hell, Charles heart broke with every race that put more distance between his and Max's points. He feels like a failure, like he failed his team, his family and friends. He failed his fans, that support him through every decision he makes on and off track, that defend him whenever he makes a mistake during races. 

And it haunts him. What if he had pushed just a little harder, made one less mistake, reacted a second faster? What if he made a different decision that would've outweighed the mistakes his team made? What if he became world champion in the famous red car he worked so hard to get into? The famous red car that his dad loved so much?

Disappointing his dad was the worst part of it all. It was a different kind of pain, heavy and crushing. It's not just about failing at something – Charles feels like he simply isn't good enough. Like he let someone down who believed in him. He could have been champion this year – he was so close to standing on top of the podium. What if he never gets this close to winning? What if he never holds the big trophy in his hands, dedicating it to his dad, who always wanted to see him drive in the Ferrari?

Charles' anger has been building up for so long that he doesn't know where to put it. If only he had concentrated more on the season and hadn't been so distracted by his personal problems - 

“And Annika. What a waste of time the whole thing was. I should never have gotten involved with her. I should have ended the relationship when I realized that she wasn't the one. When I realized that I couldn't give her the attention that a healthy relationship requires.”

Charles would never admit it, but Annika’s betrayal in their relationship cut deeper than expected. It’s not just about broken promises – it’s about broken trust, the foundation of any meaningful connection. It shook everything Charles believed to be true about Annika – or love in general. 

The worst part wasn’t the act itself or that he caught them right in the act, but the realization that someone he trusted with his heart made the choice to hurt him. After the break-up he questioned everything – was any of it real? Was Annika lying to him the whole time? Even after everything, the wounds linger. 

Some betrayals are survivable with time and effort, but others leave scars that never fully heal. They change people – it changed Charles. It hardened his heart, made love feel dangerous to him and made him create walls where there once was openness. 

He guarded himself like a survival instinct. At first, it was solely for protection – he told himself that if he didn’t let anyone in, nobody could hurt him. The walls became his shield, keeping out disappointment, rejection, and the risk of being vulnerable again. 

But over the course of the weeks, Charles noticed the walls he put up brick by brick didn’t just keep the pain out – they kept everything out. Love. Connection. The chance to feel something real. Hell, he didn’t even tell his Maman that he was back home in Monaco. He pushed his family away, his friends, acting cold and distant – not because he didn’t want love, but because he’s so scared of what happened when he let someone else in. 

It took Charles some time to figure out the truth, that the walls didn’t keep him safe and sound – they kept him stuck. They stopped him from healing, from growing, from experiencing the things that make life meaningful. But he was so scared of breaking them down when it took him so long to put them up, that he didn’t know what to do when he met you. 

It was terrifying, letting you in slowly and hesitantly. He’s spent so long guarding himself, convincing himself that no one except his close ones can be trusted, that it almost felt unnatural to let you in. At first, he resisted, kept his distance. But the fact that you didn’t even know who he was felt so good, made him feel safe to share his story with you and then – you stayed. You didn’t push too hard, but you didn’t walk away either. 

Surely, this friendship has had it’s ups and downs, but this is what happenes when two people, who protected themselves so much that they become too careful, too hesitant to let someone in fully. 

And instead of forcing your way through, you waited. You were there. You proved in small, consistent ways, that you’re not like the woman who made him built those walls in the first place. 

And then, without realizing it, he stopped expecting the worst. He let you see his wounds, his fears, his past, and instead of running, you stayed. You stayed with him through awkward dinner conversations about his ex, you stayed with him when he didn’t correct his family about your relationship status, you stayed when he overstepped the boundaries of your friendship. Your gentle touch, your honest conversations while burning Annika’s things. 

You stayed when he revealed to you who he really is. You see him – the real him – and don’t flinch at what you see. Little by little, cracks form in his defenses. He finds himself wanting to trust again, to love again, even though it scares him to death. 

When you look at him, it feels like sunlight creeping through the cracks in the fortress he thought were unbreakable. It was unsettling at first after being in the dark for some time. But you didn’t break down his walls in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. 

It was quiet. Subtle. It sneaked up to him in moments he didn’t even realize – they way you looked at him when he played your song on the piano in the bookshop, when you let him hold you while you cried like his arms were the safest place in the world, when you showed him that you want him for who he is. 

But even though you broke down most of his walls, he still can’t admit that you’re all he needs. 

He can’t let you in fully after what Annika did to him, he can’t let you touch him like he wants you to. He can’t let himself feel so much for you because what if those feelings he has for you – the feelings he swore he’d never harbour for anyone again – are not enough for you?

What if he gives you his all and you decide that it’s not enough? That he is not enough? He can’t tell you why he doesn’t want you to touch him, because what if you’ll see him differently? What if the things he wants, he needs, are different from what you want? 

He feels like he isn’t good enough. The scars Annika left on him made him question his worth, his value, his ability to be loved. There are moments where he feels too far gone, too damaged, not strong enough to break free from the fear of losing you that he’d rather keep you at arms length hurting himself than push you away and out of his life. 

He can’t let you touch him after Annika, because sex with her felt wrong, like he was broken because he wanted different things than her. Because he craved intimacy like his life depended on it, the safety that comes with it, but it always felt like he needed to deliver, even if he didn’t want to. It felt like a chore, no gentle touches or loving words, only demanding hands and lips and thighs and he swore to himself he’ll never let it happen again. 

If you don’t touch him at all, there’s no chance you could hurt him like that.

He’d rather give you all he’s able to give instead of letting you return anything.

“I could have waited for…”

“Charles.” Andreas‘ voice is gentle and soothing, in contrast to Charles’. When the man from Monaco looks at his friend, he smiles at him. ”We're here.”

The wind howls at the summit, biting and cold, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel it. He can’t feel anything except the weight that presses down on his chest. He stands there on top oft he world – and all the space in the world couldn’t quiet the chaos inside him. 

Andrea chose this route to help Charles clear his head, the mountain was supposed to be his escape, his victory. He climbed every inch of it, each slide of his skis pushing him further from the mess he feels inside. The view from the top is actually breathtaking: endless stretches of jagged peaks, skies that feel closer than ever. He should feel something – pride, accomplishment, freedom. But instead, there’s only the overwhelming silence that gnawed at him. 

For a moment, everything is still. He pulls his beanie and glasses from his head, closing his eyes and trying to ground himself in the beauty around him, but the images, the memories, everything – it all comes flooding back. The things he can’t outrun. The words that had been sad. The choices that had left him fractured and alone. 

A sob caught in his throat, sharp and unexpected and he falls to his knees in the white snow at his feet. The tries to fight it, but the tears come anyway – slow at first, then faster and harder. They burn against the cold wind, mixing with the salt of the sweat on his skin – and he can’t stop them. 

They stand for everything he hasn’t been able to say, everything he has be scared to face. He thought he could bury it, hide it behind the walls he built, behind the distance from it all. 

His hand tremble on his thighs, his chest tightening with every broken breath. His vision blurred, the edges oft he mountain fading into the background. It doesn’t matter that he’s at the top – he feels smaller than ever. The tears slip down his cheeks like a rush of a river too long dammed. 

„I’m not enough“, he whispered almost unaudibly. A confession only the mountains and his friend could hear. „I’m never going to be enough.“

The world stretched out before him, magnificent and indifferent, and in that moment, he realized that being on top oft he mountain didn’t mean escaping it all. He had climbed all this way, but he couldn’t outrun himself. The hurt, the mistakes, the weight of everything he’d buried deep inside. 

He doesnt flinch when he feels Andrea’s hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing and reassuring him that whatever he feels right now is okay. That the tears that fall down onto the snow have their right to exist after being bottled up for so long. 

The sobs faded, leaving him gasping for air in the stillness of the summit. He wiped his face, trying to wipe away the brokennes, but it lingered in his chest. His hands still trembling from the release, from the rawness that had bubbled to the surface. For a long moment, he just sits there, the wind biting at him, the emptiness inside him as a vast as the world stretched out before him. 

And then it hit him, like a sudden punch that knocked the breath from his lungs. 

You. 

Your laugh. Your smile. The way you always seem to know what he’s thinking, the way you care in the quietest ways – how you’ve been there for him, even when he pushed you away. How, despite everything, you stayed. 

He tried so hard to tell himself that he’s better off alone, that he doesn’t need anyone else to fill the empty spaces inside him. He thought he could bury his feelings, run from the truth. He has told himself that love was something to fear, something that could trap him, break him, leave him just as broken as he’d been before.

But now, sitting on top of the world, it all makes sense. 

He loves you. He always has. He can feel it in every part of him, the truth that has been there all along, buried under layers of fear and pride. It’s not something he can outrun, not anymore. He can’t ignore the way his heart always beats faster when you’re near, the way everything seems to fall into place when you smile at him, the way your presence has been the one thing that feels like home. 

The moment of realization hits him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. It’s undeniable. 

He loves you.

Not in the casual, passing way he once tried to convice himself was enough for his relationship with Annika, but in a deeper, truer sense. It’s always been you – only you. Right from the start when the both of you stood in the small apartment. 

But the weight o fit, the sheer force of that truth, felt like it could crush him, especially when he realizes how long he’s been running from it. 

His heart races, pounding hard in his chest, but it isn’t the kind of excitement he thought would come with such a revelation. Instead, it is quiet terror. The terror of feeling too much. Of feeling anything at all. 

His breath comes in shallow gasps as the cold mountain air cuts through him. It isn’t the altitude or the wind that chills him – it’s the fear of being too vulnerable again. Of letting anyone close enough to hurt him. The thought of telling you, of exposing his raw, vulnerable part of himself, feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no way to climb back down. 

He stares out over the vast horizon, the world stretching out endlessly beneath him, and for a moment, he considers it. The possibility of going back, of telling you everything he has just realized. But the thought of your eyes on him, the weight of the words, the vulnerability—it‘s too much. Too raw. Too dangerous.

So, he stays silent. He stays with the truth, buried deep inside of him. The love he feels for you is now his secret, locked away like a fragile thing, too delicate to share. He can‘t find the courage to let it out—not now, not after everything that had happened.

But there is something about knowing, about feeling it — just knowing that he can love again — that makes the world feel a little less heavy. It isn’t perfect, and it doesn‘t fix everything, but it is enough. For the first time in a long time, he doesn‘t feel so broken. He isn’t empty. He is filled with something — something soft, something he thought was gone forever.

Maybe he isn’t ready to tell you. Maybe he will never be ready. But the knowledge that love still exists in him — that it can still find him, even after everything — is enough to hold onto for now. It isn’t a victory, not in the way he wants, but it is a beginning. And in that, there is a quiet peace. A peace that, despite all the fear and hesitation, he coul still feel, still hope.

And that, for the moment, is enough.

[edupunkn00b]

Progression: Chapter 7, Traitor

Photo by edupunkn00b

Prev - Traitor - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

The Muse (and his twin) turn twenty-one. Written for @imnotgrimimjustagrumpyreaper's @dukeceit-week-2024, Day 7: Dive Bar. WC: 3287

The Muse paced the length of his room, a heavy tome gripped in both hands as he forced his eyes to follow the hand-lettered text. Since the Purge, volumes like these were a treasure and though the edges of his pants were ragged and frayed, his hair shorn short at the back of his neck to stop himself from yanking it out, he cradled the book like the precious rarity it was.

"’A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to—’” he muttered aloud, shaking his head. He closed the book, slowly, carefully, just like Jannie had showed him and he stroked the woven cover. His feet stopped in front of the shelf and he scanned the other spines before swapping one for the other.

“‘And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick,’” he read as he paced, gaze fixed on the book as his body led him over the well-worn path. The carpet had begun to fade in long meandering strips, marking off the longest contiguous trails around the room.

The words wobbled with each step, or maybe it was Orwell’s text.

“‘And that you just said it to make them stop and didn't mean it. But that isn't true.’” His voice fell away as he continued to read for three more laps before making a gagging sound at the back of his throat and changing that book for the next on the shelf.

His mouth twitched as his fingers trailed over the embossed title of the next book. A hundred years, huh? "’El mundo era tan reciente que muchas cosas carecían de nombre, y para nombrarlas había que señalarlas con el dedo…’” The words flowed off his tongue, falling into little drops of honey along his path. Perhaps you only had to point at things to name them, but The Muse could name a thing to make it. “‘"Saca esos malos pensamientos de tu cabeza", le dijo. "Vas a ser feliz".’”

The Muse frowned and closed the book, not as gently as the first. “No, you won’t.”

The next book was no better. “‘She used to give me a thrashing every morning—’” 

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope…

This one he slammed shut and shoved back onto the shelf, whispering a quiet apology before selecting one last volume. He started at the end, eyes dancing over the page. “‘This funeral wasn't about honoring truth, but about honoring a memory.’” 

He mouthed the words again and tried to imagine what the author might’ve sounded like. Sinking to the floor, he sat with the book cradled in his lap and continued to read. “‘‘It was about honoring the friend they had lost, whether they had lost that friend a day ago, or five years ago.’” A slow smile spread over his face as he flipped the slim book to the beginning to start at the start.

The Muse was on his third re-read when warmth rippled toward him from the hall, soft and wispy, smoke after you blow out a flame. He hugged the book to his chest and leapt to his feet. He’d nearly reached the door controls when Jannie spoke.

-”May we come in, Muse?”- The warm trickle turned into the comforting blast of the furnace, opening the oven on a frosty day. The scent of fire and vanilla, burnt sugar and those tart winter berries Papa Bear like to pick. Jannie was in a good mood, which meant the ‘we’ was him and Lucas.

“Fuck, yes, you can come in!” The Muse shouted and stepped back from the door, ready to fling himself at Jannie’s arms. The door panel lit up and, as Jannie stepped inside, he remembered the book just in time and laid it on the little table by the door before he threw himself at Jannie. “You’re here!”

A bubble of heat enveloped them, pushing away the sticky cold sadness just under the surface of Jannie’s skin. “Of course I’m here, Muse…” His voice was shaky, like he hadn’t spoken aloud in a while. He had to tell Jannie his trick, reading out loud to keep his throat limber and smooth and—

“It’s your birthday,” Jannie continued, one gloved hand carding through his hair. He wished Jannie would take them off. Maybe later. Maybe that was the plan, especially with Lucas here. Lucas always helped them both stay calm when, wait, it was his birthday already?

“It’s not my birthday, Jannie,” he argued, laughing, and pulled back, only a little, only enough to look into Jannie’s eyes. “My birthday’s not for another week, it’s…” 

His smile froze in place as Jannie’s hand slid down and over his cheek, the soft material of his gloves—his good ones, the old cotton ones he used to keep in that box in his dresser he and Ro had found—his gloves, they were soft but they caught on the thick growth on his jaw.

He’d shaved this morning. Hadn’t he?

“It’s… it’s been a week?” Jannie looked down and their little warm bubble shrank, ice fizzling on the edges.

“It has, Re.” Lucas stroked Jannie’s cheek, his bare cheek, the skin soft at the touch and glowing white hot so bright The Muse had to close his eyes. Static brushed his mind. When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor, Jannie and Lucas in front of him.

Lucas’ eyes glowed softly.

“Where’s Ro?” he asked, eyeballs bouncing between the elder Mad Lads, waiting for one of them to speak. Jannie’s shield was strong and The Muse danced around the border, the tingle of static tickling his fingers with each little poke. “Can I see him, maybe just for…”

He couldn’t see past Jannie’s shield but his silence spoke for him.

“He’s not ready,” Lucas answered instead and gripped Jannie’s hand. Slowly the static eased and Jannie smiled up at him. Sad and small but a soft smile. A good smile. A strong one that wouldn’t break if he pushed at it.

The Muse nodded. “Yeah, I… I figured. Is he… is he having a good birthday?” The room grew brighter, daffodils and honeysuckle sprouting in the corners. “I… I was gonna make him something, I…” He blinked and looked around the room, a large box covered in red cloth he’d stitched together sat by the door. “Oh, I did make him something. Will you give it to him?”

Jannie reached for him, patting his arm through gloves and his shirt, too, too much between them to really feel it. “Of course we will, Muse,” he spoke and said, the words flooding his mind and raising it up, wind under wings.

He floated, a feather on the breeze. “But first, Muse, we wanted to do something for your birthday. Even if…”

Even if he couldn’t be with his brother.

“I’d like that. I’d really, really like that!” The Muse leapt to his feet, swaying slightly. If he hadn’t really shaved this morning, had breakfast not been this morning, either? His sink was empty, the stove cold and spotless. Maybe not. “Can…” What if they said no? A little lump of ice grew just above his stomach. “Can you both stay? I’ll make us something yummy and—”

“Actually, Muse,” Jannie caught Lucas’ gaze, eyebrows high in a question The Muse couldn’t help but hear. Not that he tried very hard not to listen in. -”Do you think he’s ready?”-

Lucas nodded and Jannie’s smile grew, just a bit. “We thought we might try something different.”

~

Luc's gentle touch still tingled against his skin, long after he'd turned his attention—and the focus of his power—to The Muse. Janus knew he'd been concerned, remembered the tight twist in his chest as they'd taken the elevator down to The Muse's rooms, remembered the icy spike in his gut when the Muse admitted he had lost an entire week. The warmth of Luc's touch spread through his skin, a whisper of reassurance.

He watched Luc's hands glow where he touched The Muse's temples, the deep amber bleeding out from between his eyelashes. After a long while, Luc lowered his hands and smiled at The Muse. “How do you feel, Re?”

“I feel great,” he smiled back and held out both hands, soft gaillardia blooming in his palms. They grew slowly, waving gently in a breeze none of them felt. He closed his fingers around them, gently and when he opened them, the flowers were gone. “I’m in control,” he grinned. “Look at that!”

Luc’s eyes glowed next to him. “You are,” Janus smiled. “Ready?”

“Ready!”

~

The trio flew the smaller transport north. Not far, just looking to get a little further from the hubbub of the migrated seaports and cities sprouting up around the new Federated Capitol Building. The Muse sat buckled in his seat, face pressed to the window as he watched the sun set over the lakes. Luc laughed from the pilot seat. “ still there, love!” He pointed at a flickering blip on the main navigation screen and grinned. “Still transmitting! I can’t believe they’re still open! Do you remember?”

Lucas shared a flash from their first visit to The Inn. Younger then, they’d danced together long into the night. In the dim light of the bar, surrounded by Powered and Traditionals alike, couples and constellations had drawn together and celebrated all they shared instead of clashing over all the distinctions carved between them in final throes of The Purge. 

Over”hearing” the shared vision, The Muse hummed in his seat. Under the heavy dose Lucas had used, The Muse’s eyes moved a little slower, his smile a little… Janus’ mind supplied the word dull but it was merely less sharp than it usually was. Less jagged. Softer. Like his face moved through water to change with the thoughts racing through his mind.

They landed smoothly, The Inn’s old system recognizing Luc’s old stolen—borrowed—transport beacon. “Where everybody knows your name…” Muse sang quietly, where he’d heard that melody was beyond Janus’ understanding. He barely remembered the old passphrase.

Luc grinned and lowered the ramp. “After you, ma cheri,” he murmured, offering an arm to The Muse in turn. “Ready to dance?”

The bar’s exterior hadn’t changed much. The faded, sagging awning was still there, though a closer look underneath revealed the old metal frame had been replaced by cheaper plexisteel. Bartered for scrap during the worst of it, Janus guessed. Same for the old glass window panes. He’d be nearly anything they’d been bartered in exchange for the licensing board looking the other way when the tumult had ended.

A rumble of heavy bass rattled the chipped sign above the door, beckoning them in with a simple, Welcome, All.

The Muse’s gaze went far away, seeing through the bar’s façade, seeing through his own façade. He grinned, broad and… spacey. “I like it here, Jannie.”

“I thought you might,” he nodded, the tightness in his throat and his chest easy to ignore. He opened the door and ushered them both inside.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you all in a long while,” Andrew called from behind the bar. “‘Fraid you’d… Y'know—” He made a cutting motion across his throat and pulled a face.

“Nah, we’re too bitchy to kill,” Luc laughed, leaning over the bar to hug the wizened owner. “You know that.”

“Glad to see it. You brought some young blood with you, too,” he said, coming around the bar to accept a long hug from Janus. “Well, even younger than you two,” he added with another laugh.

The Muse stiffened, eyes locked on Andrew’s face, reading him. He shuddered, knees twitching in the darkened club. Andrew didn’t catch it, but Luc did.

“This is Re,” he said and wrapped an arm over The Muse’ shoulders, fingers grazing the back of his neck. His fidget disappeared, the spiky energy pouring off him smoothing out at the edges.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, palm outstretched with a tiny green orchid blossom nestled at the center.

Andrew’s eyes widened and he took a half-step back. “Oh, he’s—” Features carefully schooled, Traditionals wouldn’t’ve noticed his fear.

But Janus wasn't a Traditional. “He’s with us,” he said, voice low. 

Andrew nodded slowly, looking between the three of them as he wrestled the flurry of thoughts spilling from his mind. Finally, he smiled, nearly genuine, and returned to the taps behind the bar. “First round on the house, then.”

“Water for me,” Luc smiled.

“How 'bout the D.D. special then,” Andrew laughed, and poured Luc a purple fizzing beverage before passing two glasses of beer to Janus.

The Muse grabbed his arm, spilling a bit of foam from one of the steins. “Can we dance first?” he asked, eyes bright.

“I was hoping you came here to dance,” a low voice behind them rumbled.

A cold itch crawled up Janus’ spine and he moved between the interloper and Muse. He was a Powered, a strong man like Pat, as far as Janus could tell. Very low Esper, which made it easy for Janus to prod, to see what beyond the typical ick of a bar pick up was hidden in the man’s intentions.

Looking just over Janus’ head, he smiled at The Muse. “Unless you’re otherwise occupied tonight?”

“Nah, I’m not with them,” The Muse laughed, taking the other man’s hand. “They’ve got each other to keep them company. Right?” he added with hopeful eyes at both Janus and Luc.

“Enjoy yourself, Re,” Luc said, threading his fingers through Janus’. -”He can handle himself, love,”- he added silently. -”Besides, we’re right here.”-

-”Yeah, Jannie,”- The Muse jumped in with a little dance of his shoulders and absolutely zero decorum. He blew them both a kiss and followed the man out onto the patch of carpet that served as a dance floor. “Happy Birthday to me!” he cheered when the song transitioned to a faster tempo.

Janus pointed to a table as far from the speakers as he could manage without putting any other tables between them and the dance floor. He sat facing the dancing couples and Luc settled into the seat closest to him. “He’s having a good time,” he said, nudging Janus’ knee under the table. “We're in a safe space. You can relax a little while."

"Perhaps," Janus nodded, a golden bubble wrapped around his worries. He sipped at his beer before the bubble popped. Setting aside all pretense or propriety, Janus locked in on the thoughts swirling around the dancing pair. He just needed to know.

The Muse was… nervous, but giddily so. Happy. Happier than Janus had seen him in years. Not since he’d been a child, playing with his brother or pranking teenage Virgil. Janus watched The Muse dance before nodding and taking another sip.

“He’s having fun,” Luc whispered behind his glass, nursing the purple concoction. “And look—” As the music slowed, The Muse took one of the man’s hands and traced colorful shapes against his skin. “He’s in full control.”

“Thanks to you,” Janus said, focusing on the man’s expression. He looked unsurprised. He'd probably clocked Muse as a Powered before he’d even approached them. The implications twisted in his stomach, cold and prickly. Luc’s hand on his forearm was warm, though, and after a moment he sighed, all but a spot of worry leaving him with his breath. “You’re right, he’s having fun.”

“He is,” Luc murmured, leaning closer to kiss his cheek. “Now,” he grinned and slid his now-empty glass into Janus’ hands. “Why don’t you get us a refill while I keep watch. We can take turns.”

Janus laughed and took Luc’s glass. “I see Andrew’s mixology skills haven’t faded with time.” He stood, then leaned over to swipe his own small kiss. “Either that or you’re just as cheap of a date as you ever were.”

“Bah!” Luc scoffed, one lovely hand pressed to his chest. “I resemble that remark!”

Still chuckling, Janus sauntered over to the bar, eyes forward but his thoughts stretched out toward the other patrons, the other dancers. To The Muse and his dance partner. The music had slowed, a steady, undulating beat that traveled up from the floor and through Janus’ shoes. He hummed, following the cover-of-a-cover-of a song that had been an oldie when he was still a child, young enough his Powers had not yet been discovered.

Look at the way… We’ve got an eye on what we’re doing Cause what would they say If they ever knew and so we’re—

“Lucas likes this mix, yes?” Andrew grinned from behind the bar, sliding over a full glass before Janus had even asked. Something itched at the base of his skull, fighting past the calm Luc had given him.

‘Re’s completely keyed in to your moods, love. If he can feel you scared, if he can feel you worried, he’ll feel like you don’t trust him and he won’t trust himself.’ 

Luc’s words had been soft. Certain. He shook his head and the itch grew. Luc’s refill cradled in his hands, he looked over his shoulder. Luc was blinking slowly, a crooked tipsy smile on his face. Janus whipped around and stared at Andrew. “What’s in this?” he demanded.

But Andrew wasn’t looking at him. No, he was staring past Janus’ shoulder at something on the other side of the bar. He followed the bartender’s gaze.

Just in time to see Muse slip outside with his dance partner.

“Luc!” he cried over the music and ran toward the door, sidling past the sudden surge of patrons crowding his path. -”Luc! Luc, let’s go!”- 

-”What’s wrong, love?”- The fuzziness in Luc’s response shattered his calm. He was closer to the door than to Luc, though, and he pushed through just in time to be hit with a wave of fear.

Muse’s fear. 

-”Muse! I’m coming!”- He stepped out into the muggy night air. The landing pad was lifeless, a few airskiffs and smaller transports like theirs dark and idle. He closed his eyes and a light bloomed from the dark alley next to the waste bins. Muse!

Janus ran, following the faint scuffling sound and the overpowering sense of panic. He staggered under the weight of it, heavy ropes tightening around his chest, squeezing his heart. His pulse pounded in his ears, a syncopated thud, his own layered with Muse’s. The bar door slammed open just as he reached the alley. 

“Jan! Jan, wait!” Luc called after him, heavier footfalls catching up fast.

A cry more animal than human pierced his mind and Janus dropped to his knees, both hands over his ears. Strong hands—Luc’s?—helped him up and together they followed the shadows in the alley. Leaning heavily against Luc’s side, Janus fumbled in his jacket for a light. Finally activating it, the beam bounced wildly until it landed on the man from the bar, doubled over and gripping his own head.

Muse towered over him, shirt ripped and eyes closed. He didn’t speak and when Janus reached for him, pain ripped through his mind until he pulled back, wrapping his mind in his own strongest shield.

“Please, Muse, no!” he shouted, fighting to be heard over the cacophony in his own mind. The man’s cries intensified and he began to bang his forehead against the dirty pavement. “Stop it! Stop, Muse, you’ll—”

And in the next breath it was over. Suddenly silent, the man slumped over. Deadweight. His head struck the pavement with a loud, wet thwack and Janus’ light trembled, illuminating dark blood seeping from his eyes in its shaky beam. Muse knelt before the man's body, shoulders shaking and a horrible high-pitched sound spilling from his lips.

Muse laughed.

[emloafs]

chapter 11 of 'i'm wanting it back' is now posted!! featuring a meddling Miguel at his finest 😈

[separatist-apologist]

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

Elain was brought to Nesta, standing in a little alcove that offered them the illusion of privacy. Nesta looked exhausted, eyes ringed with dark circles and her face paler than Elain remembered. She watched Elain approach, nostrils flaring and lips thinning.

“I don’t know which of you is worse,” Nesta hissed when Elain reached her. “Tell me the rumors aren’t true.”

Elain should have known Nesta hadn’t come to hug. “What rumors?”

There were so many possibilities, and Elain didn’t dare to admit to anything. Nesta narrowed her eyes, but said, “You killed a High Lord?”

“That was Eris Vanserra,” Elain said automatically, just like Cadmus had instructed. Nesta looked like living flame just then, like she might combust entirely. “I was only in the room.”

“That’s not what Killian has said. He’s frantic.”

“Why?” Elain genuinely could not fathom what would have Killian so worked up. If Eris wanted to hold Elain accountable, surely he would have called in the troops by now. 

“Because you assisted in killing a High Lord,” Nesta hissed, speaking slow as though Elain were simple. “Why aren’t you more concerned?”

“Because Eris Vanserra isn’t going to share any of the credit,” Elain replied snappishly. “And this is just another attempt on Killian’s end to drag me home. I’m not going.”

Nesta stared at her for a moment, blue eyes unreadable. “Feyre said the same thing,” she mused, more to herself than to Elain. “No one wants to return.”

“Why are you here, Nesta?”

“Because the rumors circling you are concerning. Shacking up with a Day Court Prince—” Nesta’s nostrils flared again, lip curling in triumph when she realized that must be true.

“Assassinating High Lords. Three of them are dead in the span of a day, and our family is at the center of all three. Not to mention Hybern is in Spring—”

“What?” Elain breathed, trying to recall if Lucien had told her that.

Nesta’s amusement died again. “Tamlin is a fool. His father had some bargain with their king—one that was broken when he died, and should have remained broken. But Tamlin…Tamlin invited their general in anyway, and has been giving them tours of the wall.”

“Why would he do that?” Elain demanded, heart frantic in her chest. There were defenseless humans on the other side of that wall. Not to mention, her family was centralized in Spring, left to the whims of Hybern. Maybe her father would be fine, but would everyone else? Nesta waited for Elain to have the same realization she must have had. 

“Because he truly believes Rhysand has kidnapped Feyre and is holding her mind, and nothing short of a thousand years married to her will convince him otherwise. Lucien Vanserra’s assertion that she was not spelled and quite herself didn’t matter. Tamlin is willing to sacrifice everything to get her back.”

“So what do we do?” Elain asked, stepping a little closer. “I could talk to the High Lord—”

“We need to go home,” Nesta said, reaching for Elain’s shoulders. “All three of us. We need to go back, and I can’t convince Feyre this is the right thing.”

Elain blinked. “You want me to…”

“To talk to her? Yes. I want you to tell her that Tamlin isn’t listening to reason. He needed to see her, hear it from her own lips.”

“And what then? What if he doesn’t?” Elain demanded, pulling from Nesta’s grip. “What if you’re right and he won’t believe her unless she marries him. Are you asking me to convince Feyre or that, too?”

“No. There will be no convincing her, not when—” Nesta pressed her lips together tightly, arms crossed over her chest. “If Tamlin can’t be convinced, there is still one brother who could rule. Killian has some sense, at least. He hates Amarantha.”

“You don’t need me for that,” Elain murmured.

“You’re the only one who has seen a High Lord die,” Nesta disagreed, eyes pleading. “And I can’t do this by myself. I don’t want to go back either, Elain. We have to. Spring has been our home and the thought of letting it fall…I…”

Elain knew if she told Lucien this plan, he’d intervene. He’d come up with a hundred reasons for her to wait, or for him to accompany her. She thought of her promise—she wanted to make things permanent between them. 

“How much time do I have?”

“I’d like to leave right now,” Nesta said gently, as if she guessed Elain’s thoughts. “It’s not forever. That mate of yours will survive a week without you.”

Elain didn’t bother asking how Nesta knew. Of course she did. She must have scented it the moment Elain walked into the room. 

“A week?” Elain questioned, sliding the ring on her finger in circles. Nesta nodded her head, though Elain thought it was smart not to make any promises. A week could become a month, or even a year if they weren’t careful. 

“What happens if Feyre says no?”

“Then we go back and you can explain to me exactly how you ended up in a room with the High Lord as his son murdered him.”

Nesta’s eyes glittered with promise—she knew Elain was lying. Elain didn’t bother to correct her, even as she thought the plan was awful. Beron had been seduced by a younger, prettier female and put in a compromising position. Elain very much doubted she or Nesta could tempt Tamlin into the same.

He likely would have heard the details, besides. The only person who was going to ever get close enough to Tamlin was Feyre. And if Feyre was smart, she wouldn’t agree to go back. She’d say no and stay safe in Night with the new High Lord and whatever friends she’d made. 

“Did mother write to you?” Elain asked, thinking of her things dumped wordlessly into Lucien’s bedroom. What kind of welcome was waiting for her at home?

“She did,” Nesta said, her voice laced with pity. “She is…unhappy, but not unswayable.”

“She’ll never approve of him,” Elain insisted, her voice thin and reedy. 

“It’s not her life,” Nesta said fiercely. “She made her choices with father, and you get to make yours, too. What male wants another male’s mate, besides? Killian thinks he will but the scent coming off you makes my hair stand on edge. Mother had a life planned for us all, and we’ve wrecked it.”

“Sorry about Atticus,” Elain murmured. Nesta had always been slated to marry him just as soon as she finished her studies.

Nesta smiled—a genuine thing that made her far more beautiful than she already was. “Why? The High Lord of Night did me a favor. Atticus, too, if we’re honest. I don’t think he ever wanted me as a wife, either.” 

“If we’re going to leave, we should go now,” Elain murmured, looking behind her sister toward the window and the rising sun. Lucien would eat breakfast and meet with his father before coming to look for her again. 

He’d understand, she reasoned. Lucien wouldn’t like the deception, but he’d understand. And he’d be careful, too. Rationalizing that if things went so wrong, Elain could take refuge in nearby Autumn, she reached for Nesta’s hand and began leading her through the palace. Her home. 

I’ll be back, I’ll be back, she chanted in her head. Careful to keep her heart rate steady so she wouldn’t alert Lucien that anything was amiss, Elain managed to get Nesta through the palace without much notice. Courtiers and scholars still fluttered through the halls, glancing her way before returning to their conversations. She was nothing interesting anymore—a princess, so commonplace most of them just barely inclined their heads. 

Later, when Lucien was looking for her, this moment would be cited. He’d know she left intentionally, that she avoided him to keep him from convincing her to stay. It would take no effort on his part—Elain didn’t want to be parted from him. Not today, not ever. Her vision still loomed heavy in her mind. Was she walking straight into it? Or had she derailed just enough that Lucien would honor their marriage vows, deception or not?

Elain simply had to trust that whatever Lucien swore he felt, he meant. That it would take more than one small act of defiance—one made to try and save her home from utter ruination—to sour his feelings for her. Lucien had said he would want her, bond or not.

And though it was so deeply unfair to make him prove it, there was no other choice. Elain stepped into the humidity and the bright light, tilting her head against the warmth while Nesta hissed in disgust. Elain closed her eyes against the cold wind of Nesta’s winnow, wishing that when she opened her eyes, she’d be back in bed with Lucien.

That she’d find this had all been a dream. 

Elain opened her eyes to a city made of moonstone and marble. If Day was burning sunlight, this place was glittering starlight. Elain had never given much thought to the Night Court, and never truly considered what it might look like. This, though, with its shining, clean streets and neat buildings lined up in elegant rows, was beautiful. 

There was no screaming, no pleading or rivers of blood. There was even sunlight, hazy up above and far colder than Elain was used to. She wished she’d grabbed a cloak on her way out. Nesta smiled for a moment, unbidden and bright before she caught herself and replaced that smile with a scowl. A male was striding toward them. He was handsome with his thick, dark hair that fell in waves around truly massive shoulders. Elain didn’t think she’d ever seen someone as broad and muscular as this person. Tattoos crawled up his neck, vanishing dark leathers conforming to his powerful body. Red gems glinted in the light, flaring with what Elain suspected to be excitement when he saw her sister. 

His massive wings, once tucked tightly against his back, flared out for a moment. “Hey, Nes. She came.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nesta snapped as Elain turned to look at her elder sister. Nes? 

“I’m Cassian,” the large, impossibly tall male told her as he extended a hand. “Elain?”

“Elain,” she agreed with a broad smile. “How do you two know each other?”

“We don’t,” Nesta insisted as Cassian, still holding her hand, replied, “I’ve been training her.”

Training her in what? Judging from the flush staining Nesta’s cheeks, it wasn’t just a sword. There would be time to untease all that later—maybe when Elain had Feyre to herself and they could giggle like they were children again, far out of Nesta’s earshot. 

“We’re here to see Feyre,” Nesta interrupted, spine impossibly straight. Cassian’s grin merely widened, as though he were used to these sort of displays and enjoyed them immensely. 

“Lucky for you, she’s at the town house with Rhys. I’ll walk you to her.”

“There’s no need—”

“Oh, I insist,” Cassian interrupted smoothly. “It’s my job to welcome your sister into our court.”

“Well. Welcome her, then,” Nesta snapped. Cassian’s grin was just as sharp, just as lethal as Elain’s eldest sister. Had Nesta met her match here? 

Cassian turned to Elain, sweeping into a half bow. “Welcome to the Night Court, Elain Archeron.”

LUCIEN:

“You wanted to see me?”

Lucien’s father turned from his place in front of the window, his study in disarray. “I did. Elain is with her sister for the day, and I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

Anything to pass the time, he thought to himself. Lucien was unreasonably excited that when he returned to his bedchamber later, Elain would be waiting with food. She was going to accept the bond and they’d have a private celebration. No one could take her from him, then. No matter where they went, no matter how they were separated, she would always belong wholly to him.

Lucien needed something else to think about while he waited or he’d be too tempted to track her down. 

“Of course.”

“I need you to meet with your brother.”

Lucien looked up at the ceiling, sighing heavily. “What has Eris done this time?”

“Nothing,” said Helion, turning to face his son. “That’s the problem. War is on the horizon and Eris has all but closed his borders. I thought we could count on him…but…”

But Eris was self-serving above all else. And if he felt the risk was too great to himself personally, he’d stay out. Just like his cowardly father. Lucien was trying so hard not to hate his half brothers, especially after what they’d done for Elain. He owed them for that—Eris and Cadmus could have locked Elain up and held a trial, could have used what she’d done as an excuse to march into Spring or Day, depending on their mood. 

And instead Cadmus had brought her home while Eris gleefully announced to the world that he’d killed his father and then pardoned himself for crimes of treason, all while sitting with a Day Court courtier on his lap. Presumably. Lucien couldn’t picture Eris putting Arina on his lap—that’s just what he would have done if he’d killed Beron and had his mate with him.

Eris probably had Arina stand at the foot of his throne in one of those dresses that buttoned to her neck, penciling in when they ought to have sex based on some ridiculous calendar of her courses so he was certain to get his precious heir. 

“I’ll go. I want to see Arina, anyway.” That was true. Lucien wanted to offer her an out if she’d changed her mind. He knew how overwhelming the mating bond could be and how heady an experience it was. Surely the fog would be clearing, her senses returning. Assuming she hadn’t done anything stupid—like accept the bond and married his brother—Arina could still come home. 

Even if she hadn’t, Lucien might try and smuggle her out anyway. He could always lie and say she’d run away. His parents would kill him for it, but Lucien thought it would be quite fun to steal Eris’s wife right from under his nose just as his father had done to Eris’s father. 

“Take your time,” Helion instructed, unaware that Lucien was itching to get back to Elain. Or maybe he did, given his eyes slid to the mating band on Lucien’s hand. “Keep that from your mother. You’ll break her heart.”

“She’ll get her big celebration,” Lucien promised, though he ducked his hand behind his back all the same. Disappointing his mother was one of the worst things he could imagine. “This was just for us.”

A soft smile slid across his father’s face. “I know the feeling well. Keep it to yourself.”

Lucien nodded, making his way back into the palace. He did go checking after Elain, unable to help himself. He wanted to tell her he was leaving without her, and that it had nothing to do with her abilities or skills. A servant informed him she’d taken her sister into the city and Lucien thought it was best not to bother them given how sad she’d been about her mother and father’s rejection. Maybe Nesta Archeron could smooth things over for Elain’s family so by the time he visited, everyone was on better terms.

Lucien dressed himself, unable to take his eyes off the still rumpled bed in the center of the room. Elain’s trunks were still scattered about, half opened with clothes spilling out. He knew when he arrived, all her things would be neatly stored, the trunks put away. Maybe, having spoken to Nesta, Elain would feel better about where she’d left things with her parents, too.

Assuming, of course, Nesta hadn’t come to drag Elain back home. Lucien wasn’t willing to entertain that possibility, twisting the mating band around his hand nervously. She was his wife—he could go into Spring and bring her back, kicking and screaming if he had to.

And Lucien suspected he would. If Elain went home under some misguided belief she needed to do right by her family, Lucien would flex his muscles as heir of the Day Court, bring that signed scroll with Elain’s uncoerced signature on it, and put her right back in his bed.

Shaking his head, Lucien shoved the thought out of his mind. Elain wouldn’t—she’d wanted to get married, and she wanted to accept the bond. She wasn’t going home, barring some unforeseen disaster. She was safe in the city, likely showing her sister all the best parts of Rhodes. He’d meet them for dinner if he was home in time and hopefully charm the eldest Archeron into loving both his home and himself, and then have Elain moaning beneath him before the night was through. 

It was too hot to have a jacket buttoned to his neck. Lucien opted for a hunter green tunic with a white shirt beneath. Lucien used gold sleeve garters right above his elbows in lieu of his usual armband, and picked out his nicest pair of trousers and a gleaming pair of boots. That ought to satisfy Eris and his ridiculous court would be looking for anything to pick apart—Lucien didn’t intend to let them find it in his appearance.

Still, for the moment he stood outside, the outfit was unbearably hot. Itchy, too. Lucien winnowed quickly before sweat could cling to his skin and make a mockery of him, landing on crunchy leaves just outside the Forest House. 

Beron is dead, he reminded himself. It did little for his crawling anxiety, especially when the guards surrounding the palace watched him, arrows pointed straight at him as he walked to the entrance. 

The smell of cinnamon and wet soil slammed into his senses, far stronger than it had ever been outdoors. Lucien frowned, already missing home. A guard was waiting in a crisp red and white uniform, beckoning for Lucien to follow after him. The palace seemed thinner than Lucien remembered—fewer courtiers meandering the winding halls, watching for something to gossip about later.

Absently, Lucien wondered if Eris hadn’t culled them. It was possible they’d also fled for another court, though Lucien wouldn’t fathom who would want Autumn’s set living within their walls. 

Familiar golden doors were thrust open when Lucien approached, though there was no Beron Vanserra sneering at him as he entered. No open insults, no hateful eyes. Only Eris, casually positioned in that wooden chair made of twisting branches. Arina was propped on his knee, crowned in a burnished laurel leaves and draped in a pretty, burgundy dress that cut far lower than anything Lucien had ever seen on an Autumn Court female. Rubies adorned her throat, a match for the pretty ring on her finger.

She shot upward the moment she saw him, gathering her skirts as she jogged the four steps to the wood floors. Lucien kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for that flash of anger his father would have given.

Eris merely seemed amused. Indulgent, even. Lucien didn’t know what to make of that.

Arina flung her arms around his neck, and Lucien, still testing her brother, hugged her back with a little too much intimacy. He caught Eris’s expression shift to irritation, lip curling over his teeth before he smothered it.

“Where is Elain?” Arina demanded, pushing back just enough to peer around him.

“Busy, unfortunately,” Lucien replied, scanning his friend for any tell-tale signs of bruises or other harm. “How are you?”

He expected Eris to jump in, furious at the insinuation. True, his brother stiffened on the throne, gripping the arms so tightly Lucien heard the wood creak beneath his grip. But he kept silent so Arina, bubbly and vivacious as ever, could say, “I’m fine. Don’t look at me like that—Eris could only dream of getting one good hit in.”

“I don’t dream of that,” Eris said, his first words since Lucien had arrived. “I am content to let my wife speak for me.”

Arina rolled her eyes with affection, looking over her shoulder as Eris stood. 

“He had to make such a show of it. Did you know he’s High Lord?” she teased as Eris rolled his neck before slowly making his way toward them. “He reminds us all no less than ten times a day.”

An affectionate smile spread across his brother's face, so at odds with the male Lucien was accustomed to seeing. What had Arina done to him? It was impossible to consider that Eris may have always been this way.

“Brother,” Eris said by way of greeting, sliding one arm possessively around Arina’s waist. Was Lucien also that obnoxious? Arina reeked of Eris’s scent, the bond between them nearly overpowering. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, a warning not to get too close unless he wanted his throat ripped out.

But Eris was keeping it together, given Lucien had just been rubbing his hand up and down Arina’s spine. 

“Have you come to ensure I’m not mistreating my mate?”

“Among other things,” Lucien replied, not bothering to deny it. 

Eris exhaled. “Spend as much time with her as you like.”

Lucien didn’t think he could stand to, though it certainly put some of his fears to rest. If Eris had things to hide, he surely wouldn’t hand her up on a silver platter. Not when the mating bond was still riding him so hard, at any rate. “It’s tempting. A sleepover, like old times?”

Lucien relished the growl that slipped past Eris’s throat. It was too easy to rile him up now. Arina poked Eris in the ribs, leashing Eris before he could do or say something that might start an incident between Autumn and Day.

“Why are you really here, brother?’

“You know why,” Lucien retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “This potential war. Father wants to know where you stand.”

Arina looked up at Eris, eyes wide. “War?” she asked. 

“How poorly you inform her,” Lucien sneered, earning a smack in the chest from Arina.

“Knock it off,” she warned, looking between the pair of them. “What war?”

“Maybe war,” Eris interrupted, pushing the words through his teeth. “As far as I can tell, Tamlin is merely giving Amarantha a tour of his home.”

“Of his borders,” Lucien clarified. “Why would she possibly need to know that? And ships are pouring in from Hybern in the dozens. I doubt it’s all goods for trade.”

“What do you want, then? A promise I’ll march with Helion if Amarantha decides to invade?”

“Yes,” Lucien replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Eris held Lucien’s gaze. “Fine. I’ll agree—on one condition.”

Gritting his teeth, Lucien replied, “What is it that you want?”

“For you to stay two nights. Here. With your brothers,” Eris clarified, perhaps guessing Lucien would merely waste his time hanging out with Arina. “Otherwise tell Helion he can get fucked.”

“Are you serious?” Lucien seethed, well aware his father would not be so forgiving if he returned home without securing this alliance all because he wanted to sleep beside his wife. Eris must have guessed, eyes sliding to the band on Lucien’s hand. 

“It’s time to put the past behind us,” Eris said, slinging his arm around Arina’s neck. She beamed, clearly loving this plan and wholly unaware of what a bastard her mate was. 

“Oh, Lucien, you should. Things are so different—you’d love it. Invite Elain to spend some time here, too.”

“I’m sure Cadmus would love to see her,” Eris added. Lucien swallowed the urge to beat Eris to death with his fists.

“Fine,” he gritted out. He’d write Elain and explain himself. “Two days, and you agree to support Day if Spring lets Amarantha use their territory as a base.”

Something dark flickered over Eris’s face. “And Day will agree to house any refugees from my court should she come over our borders.”

Lucien would need to talk to Winter, too, but it was reasonable enough. Extending his hand, he nodded.

“Deal.”

[maingh0st]

chapter 14 of my name is whatever you decide is up <3

She considers his sharp features, his clever mouth, the sweet scattering of beauty marks that she has mapped many times over with her gaze. When she puts her palm to his cheek, it's warm to the touch. "Larkin Gorm Garrett," she whispers. The rush of power is immediate—a warm certainty that floods her body, headier even than faerie fruit. She wonders if this is how the Folk feel every time they use their magic. She can't imagine why they would ever stop.

[honeydots]

⭐ and here is one for lovers stigmata. your favorite scene of the most recent five chapters (guy who is super behind on lovers stigmata)

directors commentary ask game

putting this under a cut for anyone who hasn't read anything starting from about chapter 43 and would prefer to avoid spoilers heh

SO. MY FAVORITE SCENE. i think it has to be the one that happened during the anankos battle with the awakening trio. i've had that scene planned out for a REALLY long time....... part of why i love it is bc i do think the awakening trio deserved to have a moment of sorts with anankos during the fight. it's disappointing they didn't have anything in-game, so i wanted to include something here. i had a rly specific tableau in my head for it, scenes are often clear to me but this one stood out. and i want to draw it very much (cries in no pen pressure). it was one i wanted to be careful with, too, because there's a lot of emphasis on it being corrin who actually ends the fight (which makes sense in a lot of ways!) but the awakening trio providing support that only *they* could provide was special to me.....

[feral-renaissance-cat]

I swear I am finishing this fic even if it drives me insane.

Special guest in this chapter! And I use a lot of dialogue from the actual episode because otherwise it would be nothing but descriptive paragraphs as I try to fast-forward through all the action and the original character dialogue was really good! And most importantly it's time for BOWLGATE!

[apocalypticpsiboys]

Even more chapters!! Ya'll are getting spoiled! Closing in on the end as well!

Chapter 21 is now up!

In which Claus and Ninten finally escape from Fassad's compound-- with the help of the Tazmilians, the Ultimate Chimera, and Ninten's powers … much to Claus's dismay.

Chapter 22 is now up!

In which more solid plans are discussed, truths are revealed, and confessions are told. Ness and Lucas share a quiet moment together, worried for their future.

[misslisamiray]

Oh, hi. I uploaded Chapter 11 of Down With the Rickness over a week ago on Ao3, ff dot net, and of course here on Tumblr, but I just realized today I didn't post the links. Sorry - between work at pays-the-bills-job being crazy more often than not, having four posts to work on for the social media part of my volunteer job, and then me getting sick, It. Has. Been. A. Week.

Anyway, here's the Ao3 link for Chapter 11! Ff dot net link will be up in a few minutes. Chapter 12 is mostly typed out and should be posted in a few days (barring real life throwing some bullshit at me to delay that happening).

Also, here -have this picture of me and Rick Bear from a few nights ago.

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Looking over my draft for chapter 7, I want to say I have about...70% of it done? Or at least at a point where I think I'd dub it mostly finished?

I've still got a ways to go, but there's a lot more finished than I'd initially expected! Maybe I'll try buckling down and seeing how much of it I can get done in the next few weeks, and hopefully get it out before the end of September~!

[pttucker]

[< Star Streams >'s Final Scenario is being reset!] [< Star Streams >'s Final Scenario will be…] CRAAACK! The streaming sentence came to a sudden stop. A single sword was stabbing into the spot where the sentence had been cut off. The aura containing the ominous power of Chaos was disrupting the order of the sentence. And then, a new sentence was generated, instead. ⸢The sole existence who had seen the end of this world after wandering for the inordinate amount of time.⸥ The broken chains clanged in the empty air. Shadows from countless regression turns were overlapping on top of a certain black coat as if thousands of afterimages were gathering as one. Right at that moment, I realized that my judgement was wrong. ⸢There is. One person, who did.⸥ A being who had already killed the 'Dokkaebi King' before. [Story, 'Hell of Eternity', has begun its storytelling!]

YOO JOONGHYUK! YOO JOONGHYUK! YOO JOONGHYUK!

Actually, yeah, that makes even more sense than either Dokja or Sooyoung changing the ending. Because this whole novel has been about the characters deciding the story for themselves and Sooyoung herself told Dokja that once you start writing, you're no longer in control of what the characters do. (Something I think every writer has experienced.)

Or, rather, the author, the reader, and the character all make the story together, in their own ways.

[inonibird]

He stood above an average human male’s height, but proportionally mirrored a humanoid build in most ways, save the digitigrade slant of his legs. His scaly skin showed a muddy russet red like old blood and slitted golden eyes glared out of a rather unpleasant face bristling with multiple tusks, a spade-shaped nose and pointed ears. His hair hung in long twisted locks like braids, falling past his shoulders to the middle of his broad chest. As her eyes flicked from his restlessly curling fingers, four digits tipped with sharp claws, to the breadth of his biceps, she imagined he could just as easily, bodily dispatch her guards as the droids that still stood armed with their staves at the foot of his ship’s boarding ramp. This creature looked the very definition of “hired muscle”.

She did not care for the implications carried by the IGBC finding it necessary to send along a brute like this to check in on matters.

Keeping her calm, she stepped forward, stopped a short distance from the representative and bowed. “Olarom. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Concordia,” she said. “It isn’t every day I host an alien species I’ve not met before. What do you call your kind, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He returned the bow, a perfunctory formality he didn’t look at all comfortable executing. “With all due respect,” he replied in a gruff, distinctly accented voice, “I didn’t come here to make small talk. I came here to meet with Governor Vizsla.”

“I’m afraid the governor is quite busy. You will be meeting with me, instead, Mr…?” She tilted her head in patient expectation.

His expression was easy enough to read; he hated all of this. “Grievous, Commander of the Collections and Security Division.”

Haar’chak. The IGBC wasn’t messing around.

—

Chapter 9 of Part Four - Collector of the Sahuldeem series is up! (Chapter art shouldn’t take too long to post)

[softmangoes]

all these nice comments i've been getting about my sunny day jack fic are making me so....so??? i'm falling to the ground and i will not get back up

[megaawkwardhuman]

happy yet another mothman memo monday everyone!

hope y'all don't mind the fact that it's only one chapter this week and enjoy :]

[stoneclaw]

please read omniscient reader's viewpoint

[horrocious]

the one commenter who reliably comments on every new chapter of just the right bullets is the real MVP