#when someone tries to figure out how to arrange their fingers to best twine them with kurt's tridactyl hold his heart Sings with affection

[nachtsoklein]

kurt n his hunger for touch my most beloved

[officialleehadan]

Fourteen Jars

“When you said you would get me a meeting with the emperor,” Ella said uncomfortably, and fiddled with the coffee mug in her hands. “this is not exactly what I had in mind.”

“If you want to wait until we make the Pacifica, I can get my suit and show up with the full imperial security detail,” Luka suggested with a faint smile. They were in the medical bay as his doctor, a vampire by the name of Shine, muttered dire threats under her breath as she patched up her bleeding emperor. “It won’t be long. She’s already here.”

“No, that’s okay,” Ella said flatly. “Wouldn’t want to get arrested for getting you shot.”

“I’ve already arranged the pardon, if you’re still worried,” Luka assured her, and hissed when his doctor coated his side in antiseptic spray. “One of the benefits of rank.”

That brought her up short. “Wait, getting you shot is actually a crime?”

“Endangering the Imperial Personage is a grade-four felony.”

“Oh god, I’m going to jail forever.”

Before she could really start to panic, Luka shrugged off his doctor long enough to claim Ella’s hand. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“You can’t promise me that,” she said, although she did let him reel her in until he could press a kiss to her cheek. “You don’t know what we’re up against.”

“So tell me,” he suggested, and nodded to Shine as she finished wrapping him up and made herself scarce. “I figured if it was life-or-death you would have found some way to get the information to emperor-me sooner, but since you haven’t been pushing to cut time off our trip, I haven’t worried too much.”

Right. The secret that had ruined her life, and maybe saved it too.

“It’s Duke-Lord Holland,” she said in a rush, relieved beyond measure to finally, finally, be sharing the information with the one person who could actually use it. “He’s planning a coup. An assassination of the whole royal family, and maybe the Senate and the House of Lords too.”

“How?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Ella said helplessly. “He was talking about the self-destruct of the Pacifica on the Signing of the Senate, when all the newly-voted Senators are welcomed in, and the whole Royal Family is present.”

“It’s one of the few times the entire court, the Imperial House, and the House of Lords are all on Pacifica at the same time,” Luka explained. He twined their fingers together. “The Pacifica does have a self-destruct. All of the Carriers do, in case of capture, but it’s one of the better-kept secrets of the military. I wonder how Holland found out about it.”

“Isn’t he one of your advisors?”

“Yes, but only because he’s less trouble when I can watch him. Killing the whole government in one go. I’ll give him credit, that’s more ambitious than I expected,” Luka said, brow furrowed as he thought. “There will be plenty of people there who could survive that self-destruct one way or another. Most of the Senate of Others could take a blow like that, and I wouldn’t want to be on their bad sides.”

“He had crates full of old-looking jars. Big ones,” Ella remembered and dug in her pocket for her old, broken communicator. It was in rough shape, but it still worked and she kept it on her person at all times for one vital reason. “Here. I took pictures, and recorded as much as I could. I got them talking about their plan, I think. Some of it anyway.”

“You’re amazing,” Luka said sincerely, and took the communicator. A crackle of his technopathy later, and the little box was connected into the medical screen, and he was scrolling through the pictures. Most were nothing special, but he stilled when he found the ones that were. 

“Oh hell,” he whispered, face pale as he regarded the half-obscured photo of Duke-Lord Holland, and a guest. There were fourteen jars, arranged neatly behind them, each spun of a single piece of seamless brass and capped by a heavy lead stopper. It was hard to see in the picture, but there were ancient inscriptions marking each of the stoppers. “You don’t know what those are, do you?”

“No,” Ella traced the photo she spent hours staring at, just hoping for some shred of information that would bring everything together. “They were speaking in old-earth Arabic. I recognized it from my father’s stories when I was small. I know a little. Enough to know what they were talking about, but not all of it.”

That distracted Luka for a moment. “Your father spoke Old-Earth Arabic? You speak Old-Earth Arabic?”

“Not very much. Grandfather did too. Papa always said he would tell me the story of our family when I was older, and then he died.” Ella tried to find out more about her family, but she never had access to the kind of records that might have answers. All she had was the hazy memories of a child and a few ancient stories. “What are the jars?”

“The greatest weapon in the Empire, and the most dangerous thing still in existence,” Luka said, and flipped through the photos until he found a close-up of Holland’s guest. He was tall and strongly-built, in his early forties, and carried a distinctive iron cane that was topped with a brilliant green gem. “And worse, in the possession of one of the very few people left who know exactly what they are. We need to get to the Pacifica as quickly as possible.”

“What are they?” Ella asked, eyes darting over the grainy photograph. Her hands shook every time she met the man’s eyes, even though he was nothing but a picture. Something about him sent terror, cold and creeping, down her spine. “And who is he?”

“His name is Abu Hasan Zoba’ah,” Luka said grimly, and gathered up the old communicator carefully. The screen blinked and went dark. Ella followed him out of the medical room and up the stairs towards the cockpit. “And those are the last of Solomon’s Jars, thought to be lost to time. Each one contains a djinn, sworn to grant three wishes to whomever opens their jar.”

“And Duke-Lord Holland has them,” Ella whispered, her mouth dry with fear. “How do we stop him?”

“I don’t know,” Luka said as he woke his ship with a few practiced gestures and got them off the ground. “But out best hope is on Pacifica. If anyone can stop him, it will be Sheik Al’Mudhib, and the other five Djinn Kings.”

+++

HGE - Rise Above

Elizabetta Ralet saw something she  shouldn’t, and met someone who might be able to fix her problems, if he  doesn’t get them both killed first.

Hands on the Wheel

Dirt and Glitter (Subscriber only!)

Blackbird

In the Late Hours

Night District (Free on Patreon!)

Drop in a Vial

By My Authority

 +++

More Stories!

+++

Support me on Patreon

[minttoy]

Daylight

CHAPTER ONE

Summary: “She spent so much time counting her days. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.” - Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war.

Pairings: Linhardt/Lysithea

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

At the war’s conclusion, Lysithea comes up with the idea to plant daffodils in the monastery greenhouse.

Nothing seems more suitable than the soft, yellow-petal flower meant to symbolize new beginnings. With Edelgard’s new reign, Fódlan is due for a drastic change, including an overhaul of crest-related policies and caste systems. Lysithea can note with some measure of gladness that the value of crests should fall, but more so that the war is finished. No longer will she pay the toll of using two crests in battle.

Admittedly, she never frequented the greenhouse much in her academy days. Most of her free time was spent cooped up in the old and dusty library, or learning new spells. Nowadays, there is little need to return to her studies. She should learn how to garden instead, or cook and bake. Her family will have little to spare due to restoration efforts anyway.

In the greenhouse, the keeper teaches her to pick apart the weeds and suckers from healthy sprouts. She learns how deep to plant her daffodil bulbs, and how to predict which ones will grow. For the first time in her life, she gets on her knees and digs into the dirt. Soil gathers at her fingernails despite wearing gloves, but she doesn’t mind much. They work away in silence, time ticking away unnoticed.

Before long, a knock resounds the room. She glances up to find the green-haired sleepy crest scholar standing at the doorway and stifling a yawn.

“Lysithea? When you have a chance to talk, I would like a moment of your time.”

He sounds tired, but she cannot recall a time when he’s not. Her eyes drop to the leather suitcase sitting at his feet before she tells the greenhouse keeper it’ll only be for a few minutes. She discards her gloves and gives her hands a wash. Linhardt waits patiently, and only pushes himself off the door when she beckons him to follow.

They make the short trek to her room. She leaves the door open because she knows this won’t take long.

He starts off with a sigh. “A while ago, I made a promise to show you the results of my research. It disappoints me so, but as of currently, I have yet to determine a conclusive way to remove your crests.”

Lysithea leans on her desk and looks at him earnestly, even though she expected as much. Wartime left them with little time to indulge in personal matters.

He shakes his head. “…While I am certain it is still possible, I require more time. For now, it remains a work in progress and for that, I am terribly sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one. “You’ve done more than enough. The fact that you went out of your way to research in the first place…well, I’m grateful. I should be thanking you.”

Her words offer little ease to his dissatisfaction, because in truth, Linhardt has always had strong convictions of his own – it just lies dormant behind a façade of laziness and apathy. He tries to prove he doesn’t care, but failure is not an option for him, and he’d be damned if he had to settle for it. In this case, he might have to, and it shows.

She attempts another tack to ease his mind. “Considering the state of the church, there will be little need for crests anyway. I’m certain Edelgard will make it so.”

He gleans nothing from it. “But what of your life? The war has reached its end and your days are still numbered. It hardly seems fair.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

The two of them reach a standstill and she stares at him for a bit, wondering what he’s thinking.

Lysithea doesn’t know how to counter that so she doesn’t. Eventually she shifts her focus.

“I just remembered. I have something for you,” she pipes up, turning to her pack. After some rummaging, she fishes out a small bag of twine. “…I suppose you can consider it a gift, or maybe just something to remember me by.” She offers the bag to him, and he accepts it easier than she expects. “Just a few daffodil bulbs. I know it’s not much, but I had some to spare.”

“Hmm, daffodils. How fitting,” he acknowledges, inspecting it briefly before pocketing it in his coat.

“I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty, but I figure someone else could plant them for you.”

He gets a small laugh out of that one, not offended in the slightest bit. “You know me too well, but know that I appreciate the gesture. I’m afraid I didn’t prepare anything for you in return.”

She shakes her head and dismisses his concern. In retrospect, they’ve come a long way since their academy days. A time when she would, quite literally, run and hide if they passed through the halls. He’d corner her and ask uncomfortable questions. She would fire back rudely, and tell him not to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong. He even tricked her into revealing her secrets in the first place. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit then, but he’s changed for the better.

“Are you leaving?” She gestures to the suitcase at his feet.

His expression sours into a childish pout. “Indeed. As much as I don’t want to return, my father has been summoning me back to the manor since the war ended. It’s rather troublesome, seeing as I’d much prefer to stay here with Professor Hanneman and continue my research.”

She offers a smile. “Maybe you could – one day.”

“Perhaps. In the meantime, I want to request something of you.”

More probing and inquiries. She braces herself out of habit.

“Please write to me every now and then,” he requests, surprising her a bit. “Forgive my bluntness, but your situation is rather…precarious. It would give me great relief to know you’ve made it home safe and sound. If you’re busy, I understand. You could send an empty page and it would suffice.”

She cannot tell if he’s joking. “Will you write back?”

“Well, of course. If I have a breakthrough, how will I let you know otherwise?”

She eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. This could be the last she’ll see of him. Although she will never admit it out loud, she will miss him. As if coming to the same realization, he exhales deeply and then reaches for his bag.

“Goodbye, Lysithea.”

On his way out, he gently lifts her chin with a finger, tilts her face so she’s looking at him instead of the ground. He scours her features, as if committing them to memory, and then he lets go. Grievance lingers in his eyes as he leaves.

----------

To: Linhardt von Hevring

I write to inform you that I am home safe and sound, just as you asked.

Lysithea von Ordelia

----------

To: Lysithea von Ordelia

Thank you. Do take care of yourself.

Linhardt von Hevring

----------

She’s been home for nearly three months when Marianne pays her a visit. She stays for only four days, but Lysithea wishes it were longer. The nearest town is a three mile walk, which is a long way to go for social conversation. The house is also quiet, just the sounds of crackling fire and creaking floorboards. Even though she doesn’t consider her parents to be dull company, loneliness finds her fast.

Their yard hasn’t been tended to in years, so Lysithea takes it upon herself to remove the shrubs and greenery growing wild and unchecked. She trims them to proper size and weeds the grasses before they grow too large. It’s back-breaking work, she quickly learns, so Marianne’s offer to help is a welcome reprieve.

One day, they commit the long distance walk to town and return with flower and vegetable seeds in their baskets. Lysithea adds to her repertoire and plants more than just daffodils. Marianne teaches her what to do with the trimmed overgrowth – how to arrange bouquets with only shrubs and greens, or how to press petals and leaves onto sheets of parchment.

Once she leaves, Lysithea pens another letter to soothe her loneliness:  

To: Linhardt von Hevring

I understand it’s been a while. Things are going well at home with the exception of one thing: I’m terrible at baking. Rations are difficult to measure. I burned my last attempt at pastries. My dough does not rise enough in the warmer. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. We’ve let go of our kitchen staff to keep afloat, but I miss the cakes and sweets they served at the monastery every Friday.

On a more positive note, I’ve started gardening. With Marianne’s help, I’ve planted honeysuckle shrubs and lilies in our yard. At least that was a success.

Hope all is well with you.

Lysithea von Ordelia 

She slips her best pressed flower into the envelope and sends it off with the town courier.

----------

A package addressed to her name arrives one month later:

To: Lysithea von Ordelia

I will be honest and tell you my situation is rather troublesome. I’ve been forced to help with restoration efforts. As you can guess, I have no willpower to sort out bland paperwork, nor do I have the muscle to assist with repairs. I have argued as much, but reason seems to evade my father.

I have asked a gardener to plant your daffodils. I’ve also been sleeping to catch up on lost time. I have no advice to offer on baking, so feel free to find the answers to your questions in the cookbook I have sent.

Oh, and Edelgard stopped by. She hopes you are well and healthy.

Linhardt von Hevring

----------

To: Linhardt von Hevring

Sleeping, huh? Sounds like you. Don’t forget to eat as you sleep for two days straight. And please send Edelgard my regards when you see her next.

Lysithea von Ordelia 

----------

To: Lysithea

How inconvenient for both of you to make me your messenger. Why not write letters to each other instead? It’s really quite simple.

Linhardt 

----------

To: Linhardt

You can a stubborn pain sometimes, you know that?

Lysithea 

----------

To: Lysithea

Yes, I have been well-informed.

Linhardt 

She crumples the paper in her hands and rolls her eyes at his lackadaisical response. Linhardt is an intellectual, but comes off petty when he wants to be. And yet, in spite of it all, she also misses that part of him. Even after a year’s time, he crosses her mind every week, just to wonder what he’s doing, where he is, and how he’s coping with family affairs.

She mails her response a month later, and deposits it quick before she regrets it:

To: Linhardt

I miss you dearly. Although it is unlikely, I hope we see each other again.

Lysithea 

----------

She waits one month. Two months, and then three.

She gets nothing back. Perhaps the last letter was a mistake.

The town mayor approaches her one day and she forgets it temporarily. Her neighbours know she used to attend Garreg Mach Academy, but what they don’t know is that she helped end the fight against an immaculate demon with origins older than Fódlan itself. She doubts anyone would believe her. Regardless, she’s asked to eliminate the giant wolf beast prowling in the town outskirts.

She accepts the mission mainly for compensation, but she doesn’t expect the struggle that comes with it. She knew eventually how her powers would wane, but she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Her miasma comes out in short sprouts and small doses, her swarm is sluggish and her seraphim is difficult to conjure. It might be her lack of practice. In the war, she overused these things until it became second nature. It also didn’t hurt as much. Now, only one day of use and her palms burn, her wrists hurt and her blood pulses unnaturally. Her crests fight for dominance, and she’s lost control of both of them.

She stumbles home that night coughing up blood and sputum. Her body weak and trembling, her mind ravaged with head pains. She’s bedridden for a few days and she’ll lose the battle to her crests if she continues to fight. For now, she wards off magic use indefinitely.

----------

Lysithea is coming down the stairs and hefting a laundry basket higher on her hip when the front door rings. It’s the courier, she thinks, to bring in their daily mail and paper. Dropping her basket, she wipes her hands across her apron and opens the door to a halting shock. He’s definitely not the postman she was expecting.

“L-Linhardt?”

He smiles at her, too casual for her liking, and follows up with a lazy hand wave. “Morning, Lysithea.”

Her shock morphs into disbelief. She sneaks a quick glance into the living room, where her parents are sorting out paperwork, and she lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m here to resume my research, of course,” he says so nonchalantly, as if it’s obvious.

She makes a quiet, but exasperated noise. His aloofness is less than helpful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at her strange. “Oh. Is this the first time you’re hearing this? I thought I informed you, or perhaps I forgot.”

“You forgot?” she repeats after him, raising her voice a little.

He puts a hand to his chin and thinks back several months prior. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t put it past myself, and it does sound like something I would do…I suppose it would also explain your lack of response.”

Lysithea drops her face into one hand and drags it all the way down. “Linhardt, I haven’t heard from you in months.”

He sighs and puts on his most sincere expression. “How callous of me. Please accept my apologies. I’ve spent the last few months at the monastery actually. It’s kept me awfully busy, but I needed to pick up a few supplies and research material from Professor Hanneman’s office.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“Oh, goodness no,” he says, repulsed by the thought of it. “I renounced my noble claim months ago. I’ve been released from duty, and figured I should try being a scholar instead. Clearly, I’m not fit to do much else, nor am I particularly interested.”

She bites her tongue and cools her rage. It occurs to her suddenly that he’s come to help her. She doesn’t even want to imagine what other sacrifices he’s made in order to be here.

“I will require your consent, of course,” he pipes up, sparking her curiosity. “As you know, my goal is to develop a safe process in which we can remove your crests, and for that I would also need your active participation.”

She figured as much. And while hesitation rings in her mind and heart – by now she’s already come to terms with her shortened lifespan – some part of her still clings on to hope, desperate and foolish as it might seem. Strange enough, it’s almost easier to be blissfully ignorant and think it impossible.

“Umm, I…” she starts, fingers worrying and fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. His gaze is patient and sincere, and the conviction written on his face makes her want to believe. She supposes she would be stupid to refuse. “…Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes with uncertainty.

She nods once. “Okay. I consent.”

He smiles. “Wonderful. To be honest, if you had refused, I would find myself in a very awkward and unfortunate situation.”

She’s about to dig in and ask what exactly prompted him to come all this way – goddess knows Linhardt is rarely motivated by anything – when the sound of footsteps draw near.

“Lysithea, dear? Who are you speaking to?”

Her mother enters the room and Lysithea prepares for the inevitable. Linhardt shoots her a look, silently asking if she prefers to make the introduction. She would, of course, because knowing him, he would go about it in the most nonchalant way possible, as if liberating someone from a cruel fate is no big deal.

----------

He’s invited for dinner that night.

As she helps with meal preparation, Lysithea quickly cuts and shoots down any suspicion that he’s seeking courtship. He is here for research and requires her help. They are nothing more than former classmates. They also don’t need to house him, seeing as he’s already made his own accommodations at the town inn.

Linhardt arrives at approximately sunset, dressed in warmer robes. As he parks his horse at the front, she observes him more carefully. His hair is tied half-up and half-down, but it’s wavy and loose now. On the other hand, his features are still as delicate and pretty as she remembers. He seems relatively optimistic, but she holds on to her doubts.

Unfortunately, the dinner doesn’t go as well as she hopes.

The two of them do their best to explain the nature of their relationship. He explains his desire to help her, and then proceeds tells them in the most humanizing way possible that she is his subject. Lysithea observes carefully, and finds a growing fear and apprehension hidden in her parents’ eyes; all of this is sounding an awful lot like the initial experimentations. She knows it’s not his fault, but the mere notion of crests and blood and transfusions can trigger the horrific experiences.

To spare them the atrocious memories, she puts a hand on Linhardt’s knee and stops him from explaining the process any further. It might not even help, because the damage is already done and the conversation has taken a turn. The atmosphere is tense and almost unbearable. For a split second, she wonders if she is foolish to hope.

She changes the topic then, going back to happier memories untouched by war. Their favourite professors, classes and days at the academy. None of it helps their cause, but she does it anyway.

When the sun sets, Linhardt thanks them for dinner and politely excuses himself, explaining he should return to the inn before the night turns pitch black. Lysithea throws on a coat and follows after him, if only to escape the stiff atmosphere lingering in their dining room.

“I’m sorry if I made a poor impression,” he says with sincerity.

She watches idly as he prepares his horse, her mind heavy and deep in thought. “It’s not your fault. I should have saw it coming. My parents…well, let’s just say the world hasn’t given them much reason to be hopeful.”

He raises a brow at her words. “That would explain their skepticism.”

She sighs and nods in agreement. “Don’t be discouraged by it.”

Linhardt just shakes his head. “Of course not. All the more reason to remove your crests, actually. That’s how I see it, at least.”

She focuses on the dirt ground, wondering if he’s oblivious to the confusion that clouds her mind when he says things like that. After a while, he pats the mare and deems her ready to go.

He must be tired, having travelled from Garreg Mach to Ordelia territory the past few days, so she doesn’t keep him for long. Knowing Linhardt, he needs as much sleep as he can get. Before he leaves, he plants a kiss on her cheek – his own way of telling her to keep faith.

Suddenly there’s a knot in her chest she can’t quite explain.

“For now, I only ask that you trust me,” he says softly.

Her expression softens and loses its edges. “Okay.”

----------

[dinoswrites]

Clothed in Light || Chapter 7: In the Embers

Arranged Marriage AU. Asra/Apprentice/Muriel. Ongoing.

| Previous | Masterpost |

—

Asra tries to heal the rest of Kai’s wounds as she begins to calm a little, kneeling on the floor with her in front of the entire court.

The Pontifex approaches first, waving their hands furiously. “What the hell was that?” they demand, and over the mess of Kai’s hair Asra can see their wild eyes, and the genuine fear they’re trying to hide behind their scowl. “Since when could a useless schoolgirl burn a man alive from the inside out?”

Cinis snarls when the Pontifex gets too close, raising his hackles.

They take a few hurried steps back—and that’s when Asra’s mother catches up to them, grabbing their arm and yanking them farther away. “Kalani just saved the city, you ungrateful shit,” she snaps. “Now if you would do your job and see to the rest of the enemy forces in this room?”

When Asra looks to Lucio’s soldiers, standing under guard, he sees them pale-faced and slack-jawed. One of them, whose armour is decorated with protective magic sigils, clears their throat and stands a little taller, once they realise they are under scrutiny.

“I can confirm that there was no outside interference in the duel—the young lady has won under the terms agreed. Our forces will disperse.”

It seems like the whole room lets out a collective sigh of relief. Some cheer—though they are few and far between. Asra sees fans fluttering and people whispering to one another as they glance nervously at Kai, and he sees guards getting up off the floor and trying to straighten their uniforms, asking one another, what happened?

He only gets a glimpse of Muriel slipping through a side door.

The count’s voice rises above the sudden rush of noise. “Then we will leave you to make the announcement to your troops.”

The room falls still once again. Asra looks to his uncle and finds his face impassive, his expression calm. As if speaking about the weather.

The mercenary who had spoken only glances at the count—instead, they keep their wary gaze mostly on Kai. “If the Sun-Sighted is the least among your magicians, ours cannot best them. You have our word—we will honour the terms of the duel.” 

Count Sahir smiles, and leans back in his chair.

No matter how much Asra glares at him, the count does not glance at them even once.

Asra leads Kai away from court, up the back stairs, rushing her past servants and courtiers who look at Kai with a mix of awe and fear. Muriel is already in their room, waiting for them, sitting with Inanna on the floor and stroking her fur.

There are tears tracking down his cheeks already. They begin anew when he sees her, and his eyes follow the lines between her broken nose, her battered cheek, and the dark bruises already forming on her neck.

She starts crying again when she sees him: his uniform torn and scuffed, and dirt on his face. Even as he surges forward to embrace her, she tries to reach for his face and turn it.

Asra watches Muriel hold Kai like glass—and watches Kai cling to him, as if he is a rock and she is drowning in a river. She cries, and cries, and he does not say anything. He just holds her, tears streaming down his face and into in her hair.

Eventually Kai cries herself out again. She sits on the bed, still as stone, while Asra heals her nose. She doesn’t even wince as it snaps back into place—but as his hands ghost over her throat she shivers, closes her eyes, and takes a steadying breath.

She clutches Muriel’s hand with white knuckles.

Muriel looks about to say something—but he closes his mouth, then takes a breath, and lets Asra finish healing her throat. 

Asra takes her other hand in his, passing healing magic over her broken fingers and wrist. She inhales sharply as the bones shift back into place, and it trembles as she lets it out again.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice low but whole again. She twines her fingers in Asra’s, and squeezes them tight—tight enough to hurt, but he doesn’t mind.

After a while, after immeasurable heartbeats in silence, Kai opens her mouth and says, “I need a bath.”

They help her out of her tattered and bloodstained dress together, having to peel it off her skin in places where the blood has crusted and dried. 

Asra has never seen Kai’s tattoos before—he had caught glimpses of them while they were healing, has seen where they start on her arm when her shirt has slipped down her shoulder. He sees the sun now, over the back of her shoulder, etched into her skin in bold, dark lines.

He finds himself staring at it until Kai steps around the corner, and disappears into the bathroom.

Inanna, Faust and Cinis watch over her as she bathes, while Muriel and Asra give her space, sitting on the couch in the receiving room.

Over and over, Asra thinks of that first meeting with Jay, five years ago. And no good at the other primals? Wind? Water? Fire?

“Your uncle,” Muriel starts to say, then stops.

Asra glances over. Muriel is frowning, as if trying to figure out what to say. 

Before Asra can say, I’ll deal with him, Muriel looks Asra in the eye and says, “He wasn’t surprised.”

Asra frowns, uncomprehending. “What?”

Muriel clears his throat, and shifts uneasily. “Nothing that happened today surprised him. Not—not hearing that Lucio wanted a duel, not that he chose Kai, Cinis, not—not the end. He was just… sad. The whole time.”

Asra is still processing that when he hears Faust call to him—and he goes to the bathroom immediately, heart in his throat.

But Kai is still standing by the bathing pool, clutching a robe around herself with a worried Faust looped around her shoulders, and a glowering Cinis standing guard at her side. She has not stepped into the pool—she’s only staring at the gently steaming water with a vacant expression.

“Kai?” he asks, and she takes a sharp breath. “Is it too hot?”

“Yeah,” she says, at length. “If you could—just a little.”

He touches the charms that keep the water hot to turn then down, and then cools the water with his magic until the steam subsides. It’s tepid, he thinks, but Kai gives him an attempt at a grateful smile for his efforts.

He helps her step into the pool, and pointedly looks away while she removes the robe. He takes it from her, and when their hands touch she does not shy away.

“I think I need help with my hair,” she says, into the silence. “Maybe you and Muriel could…?”

As Kai soaks in the cold water, Asra gently washes her back, and the blood from her face, while Muriel combs the tangles out of her hair with short, delicate movements. Asra disposes of her dress and the bathrobe while Muriel starts combing oils through her hair to make it shine again—and then Asra combs her hair a little, too, because it makes him feel better.

After a while, Kai tucks her knees up to her chest, and rests her chin on top of them.

“There was a position for me at court, in Manakea.”

Asra’s hand stills. But Kai keeps staring ahead, so he just keeps combing her hair, gently, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

“My father had arranged it. Said it couldn’t wait—so he came all the way to school, to convince my professors to take my exams early.”

Cinis, lying next to Asra, lifts one massive paw and rests it on Kai’s shoulder.

“They… they allowed it. And I didn’t want to leave, so… I failed them on purpose.”

Asra keeps combing her hair as gently as he can, and Muriel scratches Inanna’s ears slowly, studying Kai with a thoughtful expression.

“And the headmaster… she got angry. She knew I was faking it, knew I could have passed. She accused me of trying to tarnish the name of the school. And then she said she would be my opponent in my combat magic exam. Which… I had never studied.”

Faust slithers from Asra’s lap to her shoulders, and gently presses her face to Kai’s cheek until she looks up again.

“I guess—I should have started with this. Should have—there’s a test you take, when you first go to the school. To see what you’ll study. And… I was good with earth magic, and plants, and no good at everything else… Except then they had me hold a candle, and light it by thinking about it. And I tried, and someone was yelling at me because I wasn’t getting it…” She shrugs. “I lit their robes on fire, but it was an accident. And then the whole room, and it wouldn’t stop… And it was fine, no one got hurt, but… But I was six. Every time they tried to put me in a class and have me use fire magic, I just froze up, and started crying. Until my botany professor talked to the headmistress, and they stopped.”

There’s a buzz like a low rumble in the air, and Kai turns to smile at Cinis. “I wasn’t afraid of you at all,” she tells him, fondly. “No—you were helping. You were so good.”

That seems to appease the big cat a little. He blinks at her slowly, and then leans forward until she presses her forehead to his.

When she’s settled in the bath again, she continues. “So when I duelled the headmaster, and she was yelling at me, and she was deflecting all my spells and breaking my barriers… I got so scared, I just lit her on fire. I didn’t mean to. And it was—it was bad. No one could put it out, and everyone started yelling at me but I didn’t know what to do…”

She trails off. Eventually, Muriel shifts closer, and places a hand on her shoulder.

“That’s how you were expelled,” Muriel finishes for her. 

Kai lets out a trembling breath. “She… She got an awful scar. And I swore I’d never use fire magic again, but…”

She starts shaking. She bites her lip, hard enough Asra worries she’ll bite right through it—and then she starts crying again.

“Hey,” Asra says, softly. He drops her hair and leans forward, taking her shoulders firmly in his hands. “Hey, Kai, it’s not your fault. Nothing—nothing that happened today was your fault. Okay?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t—this time it was one person, what happens next time? Is it two? A hundred? I don’t want this to come around again I can’t—I can’t—”

And Asra doesn’t think about his clothes, or even that she’s naked. He gets into the water himself, at her side—fully dressed, jewellery and all—and she latches onto him, weeping incoherently, as he tries to hush her, and wraps his arms around her, ignoring the cold temperature of the water.

When Muriel makes to stand up, embarrassed, Kai reaches back without looking for his hand. She tugs at him until Muriel joins them as well, still in that guard uniform. Water spills out over the sides of the bath, but no one pays it any mind; Asra only notices at all because Cinis lets out a disgruntled rumble as his paws get wet. 

Muriel encircles them both, one arm over Asra’s shoulders and the other protectively across Kai’s back, and tugs them close to his chest, and closer still to each other.

All three of them are shivering in the water before Kai finally allows herself to be led to bed. She falls asleep faster than Asra expected her to—but she’s exhausted to the bone; from crying, from her wounds, from using so much magic. She curls into Muriel’s broad chest, and Asra lies against her back while she clutches his hand close to her heart.

Muriel’s other hand comes to rest in the small of Asra’s back. Their eyes meet over Kai’s hair; Muriel looks a wreck, worry having carved dark circles under his eyes and drawn his face in pale lines.

Asra can’t imagine he looks any better.

They wait together until Kai’s breaths even out, and she falls asleep. And then Asra waits a little longer, feeling her steady breathing, and Muriel’s hand warm on his back. They do not speak, for fear of waking her—but neither can they fall asleep.

Asra’s thoughts spin, uselessly, to keep him from remembering the sound of Kai’s screams. Of her nose breaking. Or the sight of her on the floor, or Lucio’s face when he picked her up by the throat.

Her eyes gone white, burning with a fire to rival Cinis.

Sun-sighted. But—it’s a metaphor. She can see through illusions—that’s what that means.

Again, he thinks of that first meeting with Jay, five years ago: A Sun-sighted girl-child, from our line, practically radiating…

Radiating with what? She hadn’t finished that thought, had she?

He buries his face in Kai’s hair and tries to think—but instead he thinks of his uncle, who was not surprised. Who heard Kai enter the room in the midst of all that chaos, and looked relieved.

What did he whisper to Kai?

Why did he let Lucio choose?

Eventually, Asra gives up on sleep. He slowly untangles himself from Kai and Muriel. The latter only moves enough to watch him, a knowing look in his eyes. Well, trust Muriel to know what Asra wants to do before Asra does, himself.

Kai is too exhausted to even stir—not even as Muriel curls tighter around her, and Cinis slips into Asra’s place.

The great panther’s ember orange eyes meet Asra’s. Asra feels that low rumble in his thoughts again—and he’s not sure what Cinis is trying to say, but he thinks the whole impression is… slightly murderous. Possibly possessive. Not directed at Asra, however.

I’m only going to talk, Asra thinks back, clear and steady.

Cinis huffs, unimpressed. But then he presses his great head into Kai’s hair, and finally settles down around her.

The halls of the palace are surprisingly busy for the early hour of the morning. Asra casts a never mind me spell with a thought, and everyone just moves past him. Mostly servants or guards, each of them too exhausted now to be even hurrying. At this point it’ll have been a full day and more on their feet, for everyone Asra sees—most of them seem asleep on their feet already.

Most people aren’t talking. There’s a sombre air in the palace—grateful, Asra thinks, relieved even, but sombre. Even the usual gossipers seem both too exhausted and too in awe of how close they came to destruction to be chatting now.

Asra comes upon his uncle’s wing just as the Consul is leaving. He lacks his usual polish and poise, but he still holds himself with a straighter back than anyone else Asra’s seen tonight.

The Consul sees Asra through the spell—hard to simply not mind him here, he supposes—and pauses, his expression troubled.

“Young lord,” the Consul says. “How fares your wife?”

Asra opens his mouth to answer. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he closes it and simply shrugs.

The Consul gives him sympathetic, if exhausted, smile. “She performed no small feat for this city. I understand she was not prepared for the reality of combat—such as that was. If she should require a sympathetic ear… I know some who are trained in the art of easing grief. In healing the spirit.”

Asra is too exhausted and too awake to feel indignation, or gratitude. He can only nod. “Thank you,” he says, his voice at once too soft and too loud in the hall. “I will pass that on. Is… the count still awake?”

The Consul inclines his head. “I could not convince him to rest.”

He finds his uncle on the balcony, sitting at a table set with a chess board. He looks out to the faintest hint of sunlight at the horizon, so Asra cannot he his expression as he approaches. There is an open bottle of wine on the table, nearly empty, a clean wine glass next to it and a full one in Sahir’s hand.

As Asra comes to stand on the side of the table opposite his uncle, Sahir finally turns and looks at him, his expression so blank it must have been forced that way.

“Asra,” his uncle says, after regarding him a moment. “How is Kalani?”

The heat of anger mixes unhappily with uncertainty in Asra’s belly. He clenches his fists in his pockets.

Sahir gestures with his wine glass. “Come, sit. Pour yourself a glass of wine. It’s been too long since we played a game of chess.”

Asra takes a deep, unsteady breath. His uncle will not quite meet his eyes, and speaks with the slowness of one who is a little drunk, or one who is watching carefully what they say.

“You tell me what happens next,” Asra says, his voice tight.

Sahir only stares down at his wine.

“Do I get drunk with you on the balcony? Do we play chess? You probably win, since you already know all the moves we’re going to make.”

His uncle sighs, lifts the glass to his lips, and drains it. He reaches for the bottle and pours the last of it into his glass, before saying, “Only my own, Asra.”

Asra wants to throw his hands in the air. He wants to launch himself at his uncle and strangle him. He paces instead, too furious to stand in one place.

“How long have you known?” Asra snaps.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” his uncle drawls. “How long have I known that my sister would have a child with white hair and unparalleled magical power? Since I was four. How long have I known that you would discover my secret and storm in here? Since I was twelve.”

Asra lets out a sigh that sounds more like a frustrated growl. “You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do. I have seen this conversation in my dreams over a hundred times, now.”

Asra rakes a hand through his hair. “Who else knows?”

“No one. You are the first.”

“First?”

But Sahir ignores that question to take a long drag from his wine glass. “I knew a sun-sighted woman would save our city before I knew I would even lead that city. I saw the fires burn in her eyes before you took your first halting steps in my dreams. Before I knew she was your wife I knew her, and I knew she would weep in your arms when it was done before you were old enough to hold anything at all. I have known today would come most my whole life, Asra, and I have not enjoyed that knowing. Not at all.”

He shakes his head, incredulous. “You didn’t try to stop it? You didn’t warn her?”

He keeps watching his uncle’s expression, trying to get anything out of him. Anger, or regret, or sorrow—anything.

Sahir only drinks his wine, and stares down at the chessboard. “Of course not,” he says. “If she were not there to fight for Vesuvia, you would have fallen, and Lucio would be Count in my stead.”

“You can’t know that.”

Sahir sighs darkly. “Have you already forgotten why you came here to yell at me? I can know that, and I do. In every other possibility, Lucio wins. If you and Faust fight him, you hesitate when it is time to strike the final blow, and he tears your heart clean from your chest. Your mother and father attack Lucio to try and save you, the terms of the duel are violated, and the city burns.”

“You can’t know that!” Asra stands over the table, trying to loom but his uncle’s blank expression makes it clear he’s not impressing anyone. “You can’t know that your way is the only way things have to happen. You can’t—decide for us, what we choose.”

“I decided nothing,” Sahir says. “I agreed to the duel, and that Lucio should choose his opponent. He chose the terms—he chose death.”

“Kai—”

“You leaned over your teacup and told her to run. She did not. She came to the palace, when battle was inevitable, and offered her help.”

“She didn’t choose to fight! To kill someone! She didn’t choose to marry me, either!”

“She chose to stay. She chose Vesuvia, its people, over her own assured escape. She became its champion because of those choices, Asra, your marriage only made her eligible for the position.”

“He could have killed her!”

“That,” says Sahir, “was never a possibility.”

“I don’t care,” Asra snaps. “I don’t care what you think, what you’ve seen. You wanted Kai here to win your duel for you? Fine. She’s won it. But I’m not making her stay in this palace a moment longer. She deserves better than that.”

With that, Asra turns on his heel and storms off, stuffing his shaking hands in his pockets.

“She’ll stay where she chooses, Asra,” the count says, as Asra stalks off. “Not where you think is best.”

Asra slams the door behind him.

 --

Muriel and Inanna stay with them for a week.

Kai does not leave the room once the entire time.

By the end of the week, Cinis is restless. He spends most of his time the size of a housecat, and rarely goes farther than a few paces from Kai. If someone knocks at the door, however, Cinis turns back into a panther in the space of a heartbeat, a low rumble in his throat to greet whoever approaches.

The staff are, understandably, terrified of him.

It does not stop them from trying to bring Kai gifts.

Every meal brought up is a rotating selection of her favourites. The second day, a guard goes out of their way to bring fresh pumpkin bread from the city, saying that it always cheers them up—it’s not Selasi’s, but it does make Kai smile a little. People bring potted plants in varying states of health, and it doesn’t take long for Kai to start tutting over the scraggly ones and make room for them on the balcony, where they’ll get better sunlight.

Serris, with her cane and her straight, straight back, is utterly undeterred by Cinis’s posturing. She barges right in the last day of that week, wrinkling her nose and charging right through the sitting room to the bedroom, where Kai is sitting on the windowsill and looking out to the city.

“That is quite enough moping, all three of you,” she scolds them. “It smells like a menagerie in here, and I have just been informed that your wolf is antagonizing the peacocks.”

“They started it,” Muriel grumbles, while Inanna folds her ears flat against her skull, chastised.

She sighs. She turns to Kai, and leans on her cane while her expression softens. “Lady Kalani,” she says, her voice softer than Asra’s ever heard it. “We are all of us, very grateful for what you had to do to save our city, and we all understand how awful it must have been to go through that. But you are not one of your houseplants, and a few hours on the windowsill is not an acceptable alternative to going outside and getting some fresh air. I am sending in people in tomorrow morning, bright and early, to clean, and if I find you here I will be dragging you out into the gardens myself. There’s a sickly tree by the southeast wall, and the gardeners could use your expertise on the matter.”

She leaves shortly after—and Muriel pets Inanna, while Cinis as a small cat once again curls up on Kai’s lap, and she strokes his fur, still staring out at the city.

“I should take Inanna home,” Muriel says, at length. “There’s too many people here… she doesn’t like it.”

There’s a question hanging in the air—Asra can feel it, and can see it written all over Muriel’s face.

But Kai doesn’t turn around, or even acknowledge that he spoke.

“Kai,” Asra starts to say—but Muriel approaches her, and very gently takes her hand in his.

She looks up at him. Her expression is blank, but Asra can make out all the cracks in it.

“I’ll come back after if you want,” Muriel tells her. He doesn’t even blush; he just rubs the back of her hand with his thumb.

Kai tries to smile. “You go on home, Muriel,” she tells him. “I’ll be alright.”

Still, Muriel hesitates. But Asra can see that being in the palace is grating on him, even if he very rarely sees anyone but Kai and Asra. So Asra says, “I’ll let you know if Kai needs you,” and then sees Muriel and Inanna all the way out of the palace grounds.

But before Muriel slips through the gate leading to the south end of town, he turns back to Asra with a thoughtful frown. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Asra says. “She’s—she’s doing great. She’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

From Muriel’s expression, he can tell Asra doesn’t really feel it.

Asra takes his time making his way back up to their room. When he returns, he finds Kai exactly as he left her—sitting on the windowsill, her cat piled up in her lap, and her gaze still fixed on the city below them.

He watches her there a while. He watches her watch the sky, how the sun begins to approach the horizon and the faintest shade of gold begins to highlight the clouds.

“Kai,” he says at length. His voice feels heavy, saying her name.

She finally turns and looks at him.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know.”

Her brows furrow ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

Asra takes a deep breath. “I mean…” He pauses to rake a hand through his hair. He decides, after a moment, to join her on the windowsill. “I talked to the count, a few days ago.”

She raises an eyebrow. If she’s noticed that Asra has stopped referring to Sahir as his uncle, she has not said anything about it. “And?”

He wants, very badly, to take her hand. He does not. “He… Muriel told me that he wasn’t surprised, that day. When everything happened. Everyone was surprised but him.”

Kai’s eyes narrow again, and then widen a little. “He’s a Seer.”

“Yeah.”

Her fingers curl in Cinis’s fur, and he lets out a mrr. “I shouldn’t be surprised he has magical talent, with your mother, but… He knew? That all of this would happen?”

His throat feels thick. “Yeah. He did.”

Kai doesn’t say anything for a while. Asra watches her face for a bit, but she seems to be coming to the same conclusions he had, and he finds that he can’t watch it—so he looks down at the city, trying to ignore the pressure building in his chest.

“That’s why he wanted us married,” she says at length. “Even when your parents suggested just giving me a position at court.”

He closes his eyes. “… Yeah.”

“That’s why he said—”

Whatever she was about to say, she does not finish. She sounds both furious and distraught, and Asra cannot bring himself to look at her to figure out which it is.

In her lap, Cinis starts to purr, but it doesn’t seem to be calming her down like it normally does.

After a while, Asra says, “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”

“What?”

He still can’t bring himself to look at her. “If you want to go and… live in the woods with Muriel, then that’s okay. That’s great. I’ll come visit whenever I can, and I’ll bring pumpkin bread—”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“What?” He finally looks at her, but her expression has drawn neutral, and guarded. “No, no, Kai, I never—I’m only saying that I don’t want to make you stay here any more—”

“That’s what you think,” she says, her voice flat. “You think I’m only here because you’re making me stay here.”

“No—”

“But now I’ve done what your uncle wanted me to, so now I’m no longer of any use to you. Is that it?”

He recoils. He slips off the windowsill and stands. “I never—that’s not what I meant—”

“Well you can tell your uncle that he’s stuck with me,” Kai snaps. “Because—because I’ve earned this, now, haven’t I? I’ve earned calling this place home, and living here, and all the food and the clothes, and you can’t just kick me out now that I’ve killed for it.”

Asra stares down at her, all the words he wants to say catching in his throat.

She stares up at him, and then takes a deep, shaking breath, tucks her knees close to her chest and looks out into the city once again.

“Kai,” he starts to say.

“Leave me alone,” she interrupts him, her voice shaking.

He thinks of reaching out and touching her. He wants to—so, so badly. But she is still angry—he knows because Cinis is on her shoulders now, glaring out of the mess of her hair at him and starting to growl, his orange eyes starting to glow brighter.

“Go away,” Kai snaps.

Asra finally turns away. He crosses to where Faust wavers, distressed, on the bed, and picks her up. She slithers into his scarf, shaking with uncertainty, while Asra walks over to the door without saying a word.

He hesitates a moment before leaving. He looks back at her, curled up into herself on the windowsill.

He opens his mouth to say something—and then shakes his head, and leaves, closing the door behind him.

[asofterfire]

Here, have this MCxOpal fic I will probably never finish...

I got stuck and I just can’t figure out how to continue with everything else going on right now D’:

~~

You lift your hand as you step out from the shop, splaying your fingers to shield your eyes from the cheery rays of the early morning. The sun is climbing ever higher in the vast sea of blue above and there’s not a cloud to be seen… But for some reason it doesn’t seem to lift your spirits at all. Asra is gone, again. You would think by now you’d be used to it, but this particular disappearance stings more than you’d like to admit. You absently reach into your satchel, fingering the note tucked in the linen bag, “MC, I’m sorry to leave on such short notice, and I know now was not the best time… but it was urgent. I promise to make it up to you when I return. Asra.” 

Feeling the corners of your lips twitch further downward, you wave your hand over the door, magic tickling your fingertips as you begin the short walk to the market. If Asra is not around to spend time with you on your birthday, you vow to enjoy yourself despite him.  A heavy sigh leaves you, shoulders slouching as the thought of being alone swirls around your head. You can hear the hustle and bustle of the morning market, footsteps shuffling across bricks and rugs, voices raised to hawk their wares louder than the vendor next to them. The sweet smell of freshly baked pumpkin bread fills your nostrils. Your stomach responds in turn with an excited growl. At the very least you can treat yourself to some birthday sweets. 

As you descend the steps the market comes into view. Vibrant crimson lanterns sway with the gentle spring breeze overhead, sunlight creates dappling pools of light in the street, flashing brilliantly off the golden jewelry of people passing by. A familiar voice calls out from your right, “Ah! MC! I see the promise of fresh pumpkin bread has risen you from your shop!” The baker chuckles a hearty laugh from deep within his belly. Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. There’s no way to sulk around such a delightful man. You step over to his stall, the warmth of the stone oven licking at your cheeks, the spicy scent of pumpkin bread hitting you like a tidal wave. Your stomach lets out another, louder growl, a few of the closer market patrons turning to glance over their shoulders. The baker roars with light-hearted laughter, and a heat you know isn’t from the oven tinges your cheeks. “So it’s true!”

“Good morning, Sebastian.” You reply with a sheepish grin, hovering over his stall. The jolly man in a flour speckled apron grins at you, pushing his sleeves up past his elbows before hoisting a well-loved bread paddle up from its resting spot beside the oven. 

“Good morning, MC!” Sebastian flings the stone oven open. Cinnamon and nutmeg tickle your nose as he thrusts the paddle into it’s glowing maw, your eyes watching carefully as he gently eases a fresh loaf from the flames. “Just you today?” The easy smile that had settled on your lips flickers before disappearing, not even the thought of warm pumpkin bread able to revive it. 

“Asra is away… on business.” Sebastian merely nods, continuing to pull fresh loaves from the oven, completely unaware of the mood settling over you. Sebastian lets the bread paddle rest again, closing the oven in one smooth motion, before grabbing a simple brown bag from a shelf beneath the lip of his stall. 

“Ah. Well,” He gingerly reaches for the first loaf he pulled from the oven, the caramel colored bread still steaming, “No need for you to share this, then.” He eases the warm loaf into the bag, rolling up the opening before offering it out to you. You fish in the purse at your hip, trading a simple coin for the bag, pushing on a smile as Sebastian waves you goodbye. 

You begin to wander further into the market, the heat from the bread causing condensation on your palm. Absently, you tuck your treat into your satchel as you move, weaving carefully between market goers. Your eyes travel to the left and to the right, your feet drawing you to stray from your path every so often when you notice something you need for the shop. Time trickles by, the day growing warmer, your mood seeming to even as you make your purchases. Though… you can’t seem to kick the proverbial rain cloud hovering over your head. 

You pass a small weathered tent, an elderly woman tries to beckon you inside with promises of telling your future and reading your palm. You merely shake your head, turning to slip down a side road, trying to find any excuse to decline her offers. You already know how the day will end. Another night alone at the shop. Another day wondering when Asra will return. Another… 

You pause, eyes grazing over a ratty old mat at your feet. Colorful trinkets litter the fraying fibers of the mat, a small herb rack constructed entirely of twigs and twine resting by the corner. A bouquet of dried wildflowers hangs beside bundles of yarrow and patchouli. You step aside to kneel in front of the rack, gently reaching out to caress the petals of a statice in the bouquet. Despite being dried, it is still a brilliant shade of amethyst. As you marvel at the arrangement, a figure seated at the back end of the mat shifts, drawing your attention to the vendor for the first time. 

It takes nearly everything in you not to stare. It isn’t a rarity to see foreigners in Vesuvia, but it is a bit uncommon to see someone so… unique. Your eyes dance over the heavy looking silver ankhs that pull down her lobes, the dark ink of the symbols scrawled across her torso and arms, before disappearing beneath a billowing blue blouse. You catch sight of a rather jagged scar on the right side of her chest, partially hidden beneath the bold tattoo, which is beginning to remind you of the ritual circles Asra has taught you about. “Five copper, if you’d like it.”

You snap out of the moment’s lingering gaze, eyes sweeping up to the vendor’s face, intense green eyes catching you off, “E-excuse me?”

“The bouquet. Five copper.” Her voice is a seldom used contralto, soft yet rough, as if she has had to search for it. There is a noticeable lilt to her words, an accent that floats through your ears in a melodic sort of way. You drop your hand from the dried flowers, a nervous grin catching your lips. 

“Oh! Yes. They’re beautiful. Did you collect them yourself?” You drop your eyes to the bouquet again, shifting nervously, the vendor’s fixed stare seeming to trap you like a cat with a mouse. Her lips twitch into a gentle smile at your nervousness, the thin silver ring hugging her bottom lip cocking slightly to one side. 

[sorrelchestnut]

EVERYBODY’S PICKIN’ UP ON THAT FELINE BEAT, PART 36

I came back to work on this a little and realized that I had enough to post.  And yes, I am still working on this, slowly but surely.

Part 1.  Part 2.  Part 3.  Part 4.  Part 5.  Part 6.  Part 7.  Part 8.  Part 9.  Part 10.  Part 11. Part 12.  Part 13.  Part 14.  Part 15.  Part 16.  Part 17.  Part 18.  Part 19. Part 20.  Part 21.  Part 22. Part 23. Part 24. Part 25. Part 26.  Part 27. Part 28. Part 29. Part 30. Part 31. Part 32. Part 33.  Part 34. Part 35.

Title: everybody’s picking up on that feline beat Author: Sorrel Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor Series: Part 3 of everybody wants to be a cat

  It’s late when he gets back.  A few hours after sunset, probably, though he's not exactly sure how many.  His time-sense has gotten all out of whack lately.  He always gets confused at the tail end of summer, when the days aren't the length they're supposed to be, and he's gotten used to having a chrono on-hand, as it were.  Even if it's not his hand.

  There's just enough moonlight coming through the skylight that he can navigate his way through the dark, empty atrium, picking his way past the bodies they left where they fell.  If the Institute comes looking, they'll find a den of raiders that took advantage of their distraction to steal their chemist, and a bloodbath that followed when a Brotherhood squad came through to clean up the mess.  As far as anyone would be able to tell, they were never here at all.

  His knees go a little weak when he spots the short, lumpy shadow of the packs at the base of the steps.  Both packs.  She's still here.  She waited for him.

  He's not sure if that feeling in his chest is relief or terror.  Maybe both.

  His head aches as he climbs the steps to the second floor, moving dreamy and slow, like he's underwater.  He hasn't slept since yesterday afternoon.  Apparently it shows, based on how hard High Rise lobbied for him to crash in one of the spare rooms, but Deacon just dropped off his report and headed out with a smile.  There were one too many curious looks, people wondering why he was on his own.  Too many questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

  There's a door open at the end of the hall: their makeshift bedroom, the one with no external windows and a minimal amount of blood on the walls.  It's where they slept before, waiting for the op, and it's where Whisper's sleeping now: curled up in a little ball on the stained mattress, with one hand on the knife under her pillow and the other tugging her too-big coat up over her shoulders like a blanket.  Her face seems hollow and strange in the faint greenish light of her Pip-boy, sitting on the upturned crate she's using as a night table.  She doesn't usually leave it turned on when she's not wearing it, says it runs down the battery.  She only leaves it active like that when she's trying to keep her comms line open.  She must still be wearing her earpiece.  Fell asleep waiting to hear from him.

  Ah, fuck.

  He's not sure if she heard him coming up the steps, but she doesn't move when he comes in and sits down on the end of the mattress, so he knows she's awake.  He waits, staring silently at the gang tag spray-painted on the wall, for her to say something.  Yell at him, maybe, for running off.  Demand what the fuck he thought he was doing.  Hell, even make a joke—it'd tear at his insides, making light of this, but what the fuck, right?  It's what they do.

  But she says nothing, and that's when he knows what he has to do.

  "When I was young," he says to the wall, "a hell of a long time ago, I was… well, scum."

  She stays silent, but he senses movement, quickly arrested.  When he sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, her eyes are open and fixed on his face.  He looks quickly away.

  "I was a bigot.  A very… violent bigot.  I ran with a gang in University Point.  We called ourselves the U-P Deathclaws."

  "Catchy," she says, her voice hoarse from the clinging remnants of sleep.

  "I know, right?  That's what happens when you let teenagers name things."

  "No taste at all," she agrees.  Her heavy-lidded gaze is watchful.  "So what'd you do?"

  "Oh, the usual.  Drank, stole shit, took inadvisable amounts of chems, kicked around trash cans—you know, the same shit hooligans always do when they're trying to make themselves look tough."

  "Sounds familiar."  She hauls herself to a sitting position, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, her back to the wall.  Her face is fully clean; she must have found some solvent to scrub off the last of the grease paint.  The green light from her Pip-boy gives her face a gaunt, somber cast.  "We all make mistakes when we're young."

  "A mistake or two, yeah.  But what I did…"  He takes a breath, lets it out slow.  "One of the older boys, he had a real mad-on about the Institute.  His mom disappeared when he was a kid—everyone figured she just took off, but his dad swore up and down the Institute must've taken her, and we all believed it.  So when we thought someone might be a synth, it just seemed right, y'know? We'd make their lives hell, and it was just.  It was fair.  The Institute took from us, so we sure as fuck were going to take back from them.  Any fucking way we could."

  From the look on her face, she already knows where this story is going to go.  But he tells her anyway: the whole sordid story, piece by excruciating piece.  She doesn't say anything when he tells her about the beatings, and doesn't say anything when the beatings graduated to a lynching, and she keeps on not saying anything when he tells her about getting out, starting over halfway across the Commonwealth.  The only time she makes a sound is when he tells her about Barbara—he hears a quick intake of breath when he says her name, so quiet he wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been listening.  But when he looks over, she's just watching him, her face and body arranged into perfect, doll-like stillness.  Giving him nothing.

  "And that's when I got approached by a recruiter from HQ," he says, finally.  "I guess they figured I'd be sympathetic, seeing that I'd lost my wife.  And, well."  He shrugs, a short minimalist roll of his shoulders. "What I did afterwards."

  "They didn't know you used to run with the Claws?"

  It's the first time she's spoken in a while, and the familiar pitch of her sleep-roughened voice tears at his throat like a feral's teeth.  Deacon looks down at his hands, the fingers twining restlessly together.  "It'd been a few years, and I using another name. And I'd just killed everyone who could recognize me from that life.  Still.  Think I spent the first year, at least, waiting for the other shoe to drop."  Until the Institute almost wiped them out, anyway.  Then it was too late.  "Never did.  Nobody ever figured me out."

  "You are good at what you do," she says, neutrally.  She's not wearing her shades, but she might as well be, with how little he can get off her face.  "So that's how you ended up with the Railroad?"

  "Yeah.  That's me.  The best con I ever pulled, after getting Barbara to marry me.  Not like I was any more honest with her than anyone else."  He stretches his legs out in front of him, studies the toes of his boots so he doesn't look at her face.  "That's who I am, you know.  A liar.  You think I'm like this because of the job?  Hell, no.  I'm a fraud right down to the core.  Always have been, always will be."

  Out of the corner of his eye he sees her open her mouth, but keeps going before she can say anything.

  "I mean, why do I even lie anymore?  Who could possibly give a shit? But I do.  I can't stop. Everyone—Tom, Dez, even that asshole Carrington—they deserve to be in the Railroad.  You?  You're a fucking hero.  You belong here.  I don't.  I'm everything that's wrong with the whole fucking Commonwealth."

  "Deacon-"

  Her voice is shredded.  There's a shine of tears in her dark eyes, and he holds up a hand to stop her, panic scrabbling inside his ribs.  "Let me finish, okay?  I had a whole speech here."

  She opens her mouth, and then closes it again, very deliberately.  He sees her twining her hands together, as if to keep herself from reaching out, and has to look away.

  "You're my best friend, you know?  Probably, uh.  Probably the only one, since we're on honesty hour here.  You're… you're pretty much all I've got.  So."  He takes a breath, feels it rattle anxiously in his chest when he exhales.  "I know I don't deserve for you to be okay with this.  And, hell, I'm not even asking for it.  I just…"  He stops. Clears his throat.  Tries, and fails, to bring himself to look her in the eye.  "I just figured you should know."

  Whisper says nothing—and keeps on saying nothing, for so long that he eventually, inevitably, has to give in and sneak a glance back towards her.  She's still watching him, with that steady, assessing expression: the same way she studies raider dens and mutie camps and every stupid, gullible mark that wears their heart on their sleeve, like a lever just waiting to be pulled.  She's never looked at him like that before and he hopes she never fucking does it again, because right now he feels more naked than he's ever been, fully dressed and wearing his shades and still stripped to the bone by the brutal clockwork efficiency of her regard.  Whatever dusty fragments of honesty he managed to pry up for her ruthless inspection, in that moment he knows that she's observed and cataloged a dozen things more he didn't even notice.  He's taught her too well for her to do anything else.

  When he finally manages to nerve himself up to catch her gaze, however, she still doesn't say anything.  Just rolls up to her knees and shuffles down the length of the mattress, tapping the earpiece of his shades with an inquisitive expression.  Gut churning, but basically unable to tell her no to just about anything right now, he nods and slides them off, tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt.  She meets his gaze, makes sure to hold it, and then kneels up and swings one leg over his thighs.

  His hands come up automatically to to steady her, then drop away to the mattress like they've been burned.  She shakes her head and settles more firmly into his lap, clutching his sleeve for balance, and he reaches up again, tentatively, to cup around her hips.  She smiles, a little sadly, and then leans down to press a kiss very precisely to the middle of his forehead.

  Deacon closes his eyes against the stupid, inexorable prickle of tears, and she kisses each eyelid, light as a butterfly.

  "You do what you gotta do to survive, D."  Her voice is a low murmur; intimate, almost confessional.  The kindness in her dark eyes detonates in his chest like a frag mine.  "That's all there is.  You take one step, and the next, and you tell yourself whatever you have to to keep moving, because if you don't you'll fall down and you'll never get back up again.  I know.  I know."

  "Whisper-"

  "And you don't have to apologize to anybody for it," she continues, relentless and beautiful with the same steely determination that takes out raiders and muties and Kellogg and anything that gets in her way.  "Not Dez, not Carrington, not me.  Especially not to me.  Okay?"

  There's really only one thing he can say.  "Yeah, okay." It takes a moment to remember how to move, but when he does he slides his hand up under her hair to cup the back of her neck the way she likes.  "Copy that, partner.  Loud and clear."

  Relief flashes across her face like a lightning strike.  "Good. That's- yeah."  She leans into his grip, breathing a sigh he feels down into his bones, and closes her eyes.  "That's good.  That's exactly what I needed to hear."

  They sit together for a while after that, just the two of them in the quiet.  After a bit Whisper shifts so that she's sitting sideways in his lap, her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder but determinedly keeping her grip on his sleeve.  He wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on the top of her head, and closes his eyes, gratitude a hazy burn at the back of his throat.

  He doesn't know what the fuck he did to deserve this, but damned if he's going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Eventually, she stirs, nuzzling a haphazard kiss to the underside of his jaw.  "We should sleep," she murmurs into his neck, and he shivers at the hot wash of her breath against his skin.

  "Probably a good idea," he agrees, but he doesn't move until she does, lurching out of his lap with a grunt.  He subtly stretches out one leg, and then the other, trying to shake away the tingles as blood goes flooding back, and then drops next to her longways on the mattress, not bothering to take off his boots.  She immediately rolls over and fits herself against his back, wrapping one skinny arm around his middle and fitting her knees up behind his like silverware in a drawer.

  "Thank you," she says, into his shoulder.  Already half-asleep, he grunts something that might have been an interrogative, and she sighs and nuzzles against the knob of his spine.  "For coming back.  For telling me.  For being here.  Just. Thanks."

  His jaw works for a moment before he can speak.  "Anytime, partner," he manages, and then she flicks off the light on her Pip-boy, and there's nothing but silence.

~*~

    He would have thought he’d sleep for shit, given everything that went down last night, but when he wakes up the next morning he feels almost refreshed.  He's not sure exactly what time it is, their room being distinctly lacking in windows, but there's a hint of dampness to the air slipping through the leaky siding, a breath of fog the sun hasn't yet had a chance to burn off.  Still early, then.  They probably weren't out more than four, five hours at most.

  They shifted positions sometime in the night, and Deacon lies there for a while, staring up at the ceiling and enjoying the warm, heavy weight of Whisper sprawled across his front.  She's breathing quietly into his collarbone, not quite a snore, and he'd love nothing more than to let her stay there forever, but they do, after all, have somewhere to be.

  "Whisper," he murmurs, running a hand down her back.  "Whisper, hey.  Time to get up, pal."

  "Kill you," she mumbles indistinctly into his shoulder.  "To death."

  "Wow, that's rude."  He sets his chin on top of her head and hums a jaunty tune, some old pre-War ad jingle that never fails to get a rise out of her.  Right on time, she makes an annoyed grunt and digs her chin into his collarbone.  "Ouch! Here I am, trying to make sure you enjoy the fruits of your labor, and you can't even muster some basic civility."  Nothing.  "C'mon, gorgeous, it's a beautiful morning out there.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing…"

  "So shoot 'em."  She makes a spirited attempt to burrow down into his ribcage, tucking her face defensively under his collar.  "They're probably Watchers anyway."

  "You're such a pessimist," he says fondly, and tweaks one of her curls.  "I'm serious, partner, time to rise and shine. Daylight's a-wastin', and you wanted to be across the river by lunchtime."

  She finally deigns to open her eyes, tilting her head back just enough to look at him in muzzy-eyed confusion.  "I did?"

  He smiles down at her, helplessly affectionate.  "You've got to pick up Valentine for his procedure, remember?"

  "You make it sound like he's going to the vet," she says automatically, but then comprehension filters into her eyes.  "Oh.  Shit.  Already?"

  "They say time does fly when you're having fun," he agrees.  "And as much as I'd love to keep the party going, we do have an appointment to keep.  You know how much I care about punctuality."

  "I believe your exact words were 'for suckers.'"

  "Exactly!  So no one will expect us on time.  It's all about keeping 'em off their toes."

  "If you could just dial down the cheer like, at least thirty percent, that would be just great."  She hauls herself into a vaguely vertical position and then just hangs there, elbows on her knees, staring resentfully at the wall.  He nudges her in the back and she grunts. "What? I'm up, leave me alone."

  "You're lying," he says, very kindly.

  "Takes one," she grumbles back, but puts a hand on his thigh and squeezes in wordless acknowledgement.  That's when he knows: she's not going to bring it up, ever again.

  God.  He really doesn't deserve her.

  "Sticks and stones, Livvy-love," he chirps, and grins when she levels him with a death glare.  "What?  I'm just getting into character."

  "I hate that you're a morning person, just so you know," she informs him, and stumbles out of bed.  "If you don't have coffee ready by the time we leave, there are going to be consequences."

[tisfan]

WinterIron Mistletoe

Part One | Part Two

co-written with @27dragons for @ajanamyth

This section contains a little bit of Tony acting like a cat because he’s stuck in a cat’s body, and Bucky having a freakout.

Part Three

Bucky dropped off fairly quickly, which was a good thing, because Tony’s brain was racing. Bucky had a crush on him? A crush. On Tony. And anxiety issues, but hey, who the hell in this place didn’t have a few of those?

The important thing was that Bucky had a crush on Tony, and Tony’s stupid crush was not utterly useless, and also that Bucky was extremely hot when he was naked--

No, stupid brain. Focus on something other that Bucky’s dick. For now. Later, that was going to deserve some serious consideration, but for now, Tony was still stuck in a cat’s body and Bucky had been petting and cooing over him and that had been nice but was not even a little bit like the kind of attention he wanted. But to get that attention, he had to figure out how to not be a cat any more.

Preferably, ideally, while thwarting Loki and Enchantress’ plot. He had to get his hands -- paws, whatever -- on that stupid arrow. That apparently could transform into a sprig of mistletoe. If they couldn’t threaten him anymore, then he might be able to alert the others. Except they were probably all under Loki’s thrall by now.

God, the gossips were going to have a field day with that party. Loki-as-Tony had been slutting it up, hard. Tony wondered if Loki had used magic to nudge everyone into those kisses or if he’d always been just a few hard flirts away from--

Focus. There was no way he could deal with both Loki and the Enchantress, not alone. Bucky had seemed immune to whatever charm Loki was using to get the others under their spell, though, so maybe, if he could convince Bucky... But how? He’d tried demonstrating that he was smarter than the average cat, but Bucky had shaken it off with some rationalization or other.

Maybe it would be less easy to shake off once he’d slept off Thor’s mead. Or maybe Tony needed to be more obvious. About a lot of things, but for right now... He needed something he could shred.

(more below the cut, or read the whole thing on A03)

Thoughts finally focused in the right direction, Tony uncurled and stretched -- this body seemed to like stretching a lot -- and allowed himself one last drag of his face across Bucky’s stubbled jaw (mine!) before he hopped down from the bed and strolled into the bathroom.

Unrolling all the toilet paper was a lot more fun than it had any right to be, and halfway through, Tony’s swishing tail got caught in a loop of the paper and he just had to attack it.

By the time he finished subduing his errant tail, he had already succeeded in making quite a mess of the toilet paper on the floor. He flopped into it and panted.

He seemed to be acting more catlike by the moment. He didn’t think his intellect was changing at all, but his body seemed more and more determined to take over and do... cat things. Was that a thing that was going to happen? Would it eventually have full control, leaving Tony nothing more than a passenger in the cat’s brain.

Christ, he needed to get this fixed.

He shredded some more paper, and found a spot of clear floor that was big enough to use and not likely to be disturbed.

Manipulating the scraps of paper with only his paws was difficult at best. He had to resort to carrying them in his mouth to the right spot and then nudging them into place with his paws and nose.

Arranging bits of shredded paper into a readable message wasn’t easy, either -- he couldn’t see the whole thing at once, and when he jumped up on the sink to get a better view, the sink automatically turned on and got his whole tail wet. That, he discovered, was even more uncomfortable as a cat than as a human.

It took a lot longer than he expected it to, but finally, it was done. He went into the kitchen and ate the rest of the salmon. Then he had to have an argument with himself about the milk -- the body wanted it but Tony had seen the results of feeding a cat milk, and they weren’t pretty. Finally, he managed to drag his body away from the milk by reminding it that Bucky was still sleeping, warm and still and just begging for him to curl back up against.

His own desire to be next to Bucky turned out to be stronger than the body’s need for the milk, thank goodness. He jumped up onto the bed and curled up in the arc of Bucky’s body, an automatic purr rumbling deep in his chest. He deserved some rest.

Bucky woke up with classic hangover times ten; a mouth that felt and tasted like something scaly had died in there, aching muscles, a head that weighed eighty pounds, light-sensitive eyes, and the feeling that something horrible had happened.

It took him a minute to remember what the horrible thing was.

Right.

He was tempted to just pull the covers back over his head and pretend that he was asleep. He had a whole Tony-less life to look forward to, and he didn’t really feel like starting now. There were two problems with that. The first was a rather warm, curled up ball of fur that was sleeping draped over Bucky’s ankle and holding all the blankets down. The second was his bladder, which was screaming. Faintly at first -- quiet enough that Bucky ignored it in favor of not waking the cat for a while -- and then eventually getting to the point that Bucky was willing to risk grouchy cat to get his kidneys to shut up.

“Morning, fuzzball,” Bucky said, shifting his leg just a little. He wasn’t quite sure if Sherlock was one of those cats who became pointy-I’m-not-moving bits when woken suddenly or not. Or chased bed mice. That was always amusing. Bucky pulled his knee up slowly, getting his foot out from under the cat. “You don’t hafta move, I’m jus’ goin’ to the bathroom.”

The cat lifted his head and slitted deep gold-brown eyes. Bucky hadn’t really noticed much about the cat yesterday, aside from soft, and warm, but it really was a handsome animal; a tuxedo with a white face, a distinctive beard and moustache around its muzzle, white paws and a star in the middle of his chest.

“You really are the cutest thing,” Bucky told Sherlock, seriously. “I almost hope I don’t find your owner. Wanna keep you for my own.”

Sherlock chirruped agreement and stood up, stretching. He stretched up, propping his paws on Bucky’s chest, and meowed very seriously, then jumped down and led the way to the bathroom.

Bucky got his feet under him; ug. Standing. Why? Considered the idea of crawling to the bathroom. Freaking Asgardian mead hangover. Wouldn’t help. He still needed to do his daily calibration and he couldn’t do that if his weight was on his shoulder. He popped his neck and worked his way gingerly to his feet. Twisted his wrist and issued the calibration routine order, stretching his shoulder and flexing the muscles, venting any excess heat that built up during the night -- the machinery had never been made with human integration in mind. It tended to ignore things like sleep cycles when he couldn’t activate the heat dumps. Stupid design. He got all the way down to flexing his fingers by the time he made it into the bathroom.

Not tripping over the cat was an exercise in patience and dexterity; Sherlock weaved in and out between his ankles with every step. “Stop that,” he scolded. “I weigh more than the average. I will totally squish you if I fall on you, furbrain.”

He didn’t quite trust his aim to piss while standing, so he slumped onto the toilet.

And noticed that all the toilet paper was gone, just the cardboard tube sitting, smugly, on the holder. The rest of the paper was piled… everywhere.

“Really?” he asked the cat. “You just had to--”

He trailed off, staring at the floor in front of the tub.

Bits of the shredded toilet paper had been arranged into the word HELP. That couldn’t be any kind of coincidence. And as if to underscore it, Sherlock twined around Bucky’s ankles, then sat next to the P, tail forming an exclamation point. He meowed again, pointedly, watching Bucky intently.

“Th’ utter fuck?” Bucky whispered, too stunned to speak any louder. Did… “did you do that?”

Sherlock meowed and -- very deliberately -- bowed and lifted his head in a cat-equivalent of a human nod.

Bucky took a very deep breath, got up from the toilet. Washed his hands. And his face. And scrubbed mead off his teeth. Ignored the cat. It was still cat sized, even if there seemed to be more at work here than just feline mischief. He did not condone panic. Panic was not allowed. The cat had been in his room the entire night, while he was sleeping. If it intended him some sort of harm, drunk and asleep would have been a better time than awake and mostly functional.

And naked. Bucky squinted down at himself; claws on skin wasn’t fun, even for supersoldiers and their advanced healing. Getting dressed might make this all feel a little less surreal.

He was pretty sure he remembered Thor saying something about the cat last night, which meant -- probably -- that Bucky wasn’t hallucinating a cat that could spell.

Probably.

He stalked out of the bathroom and started yanking his clothes on.

Sat down on the bed and scrubbed his face with his hands. Looked up. There was still a cat in the room that hadn’t vanished into a poof of logical analysis.

“Riiiight. I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind, that’s what’s happening here, right?”

Sherlock let out a pitiful meow, then caught Bucky’s pants leg in his teeth and tugged with what had to be every bit of his -- what? Maybe ten pounds? Trying to pull Bucky back toward the bathroom and that impossible message.

“You know you’re not the one t’ go to for reassurance, Sherlock,” Bucky said, then laughed. Sherlock. What a fucking appropriate name. “So, what… are you like, someone’s experiment or something? Has someone been makin’ smart cats down in the labs?”

Sherlock gave up trying to pull on Bucky’s pants and stropped against his leg, then bolted across the room to Bucky’s infrequently-used computer station. He jumped up onto the desk and began batting at the mouse.

“That is a mouse, not a… ok, great. Super smart cat c’n use a computer,” Bucky said. “Okay. Sure. Typing with itty bitty kitty paws. Is this even happening? Please, jus’ tell me this is some epic hangover thing, because I don’t know that I can deal with this.” Despite the whining, Bucky switched on the device, waited for the computer to do its loading up thing, and clicked over to a word processing application. “Have at, kitten.”

And then he had to fall into the computer’s desk chair, because he was pretty sure he was not going to be standing for much longer.

Sherlock tapped delicately at the keyboard. It was a slow process, but his first message was short: loki and enchantress.

Yeah. Sitting was a good plan. Bucky was happy to be a part of it. Actual. Words. From a cat. “You’re a magic cat?” That made as much sense as anything, which was okay, he could cope with that. Thor had spent a while as a frog some months back, so… yeah. Cat. Bucky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

im tony. loki stole my body.

Sure. Great. The cat was… oh fucking Christ. The cat was Tony. Tony was the cat. The cat. Tony. Bucky’s mouth dropped open in shock and then panic. Tony. Was the. Cat. Tony… who’d been in Bucky’s room for the entire bullshit scenario where Bucky’d been… oh fuck. Fuck him sideways through a rolling doughnut.

Sherlock -- no, wait, Tony -- was still typing. have 2 stop them asap.

Bucky held one finger up. “Excuse me a minute.”

He got up without looking back, went in to the bathroom, shut the door behind him and locked it. “Oh, my god. Ohmigod. Oh. My. God. This cannot be happening.” The toilet paper letters were still there, a little scattered from the movement of air in the room, but perfectly readable.

HELP

The fuck did Tony want Bucky to do about two magicians who turned people they didn’t like into cats?

Scritch scritch scritch. Tony was clawing at the door, trying to push it open. “Mrowwwwwww,” he complained loudly.

Not to mention-- “You heard all that, last night, didn’t you?” Bucky asked.

A pause. “Mow.” Whatever that meant.

Just like a cat, always on the wrong side of a closed door. Bucky sighed, letting his head drop. “Sorry, you can’t come in. I’m going to drown myself in th’ shower. Die of mortification or somethin’.”

“Mrowwww!” That sounded distinctly impatient. More scritching at the door, faster now, like he was trying to claw through it. Then silence. That was even more worrisome.

“What?” Bucky sighed. He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, how was he supposed to face Tony, like ever again? “You cannot expect me t’ handle this. I ain’t even remotely qualified t’ deal with demagicking anyone.” He washed his face again, as if the answer to everything could be found in a sink full of cold water. On the other hand, if… wait, wait, wait. If Loki had stolen Tony’s body, then--

“What the utter fuck was Loki doing kissing everyone?”

There was a rustle from the far side of the toilet and then a panel slid open and Tony came squeezing through. “Meow,” he said, irritably.

“Oh, come on,” Bucky snapped. “You cannot expect me t’ take this calmly. You’ve had… however long it was bein’ a cat t’ get all… adjusted. I’m still dealin’ with hangover an’ mortal embarrassment. Stop fussin’.”

He took a couple of deep breaths, tried to center himself. Okay. Fix Tony first, and then he could worry about finding some deep hole to hide in for the rest of his life. “Okay. I’m gonna make coffee,” Bucky said. “You… go play with th’ computer an’ tell me what I need t’ know.”

Tony huffed, but nosed up against the bathroom door and pushed through the instant Bucky cracked it, beelining for the computer.

Bucky tried to ignore that there was a cat on his computer and went in to his kitchen, setting up a pot of coffee and grabbing himself a couple of eggs to scramble. The plates he’d put down on the floor were still there; the salmon empty and the milk still there with a thin layer of skin over it. Yuck. He picked them up and dumped them in the sink.

He was pretty sure cats shouldn’t drink coffee -- Tony was bad enough when he was hyped up on caffeine, Bucky didn’t want to see what a cat-sized caffeine disaster was like. He split the eggs when he was done, and poured Tony a bowl of water instead.

Freaky.

He had to stop and gasp for air for a few minutes, before going into the other room with assorted breakfasts. “Come on, have somethin’ to eat,” Bucky said, putting the scrambled egg and water down on the table. He was also pretty sure cats shouldn’t be on the table, but it was weird to think of Tony eating at his feet. Yeah, right, okay, not going to think about any of this, beyond what to do next. When Tony didn’t stop pecking at the computer, Bucky sighed, got up, and scooped up the cat.

God, the fur was so soft, Bucky had the strongest urge to bury his face in it. “Eat first, if you want me functional.” He set the cat down at the table, picked up his coffee cup and drank.

Tony sniffed at the eggs and took a delicate bite, then looked at the dish of water. He looked from the water to Bucky’s mug, then back to the water. “Mrrrr,” he grumbled. He turned up his nose at the water and went back to eating eggs.

“You can’t have coffee,” Bucky protested. “I mean, you’re a magical cat, but I refuse to be responsible for poisoning you.” Poor Tony, he mused. If he was stuck that way. Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to contemplate it. “Don’t eat so fast. You’re gonna hork it back up at that rate.” Bucky finished his food -- it wasn’t nearly enough, but it should keep him going for a while, baseline functional, which was all he needed at the moment -- and scooped Tony back up. He probably shouldn’t be carrying the genius around, but the cat was hard to resist. Fluffy. He sat down in the computer chair, cat in his lap, and looked over what Tony had to say, absently stroking the cat’s back.  

Tony curled onto Bucky’s lap, apparently content with being petted. The typing he’d left on the screen was a lot less fluffy. loki and amora plotting vs thor. magic mistletoe, kiss = enthralled. can kill too. need to take away. think it will break spells. if not, find thor. hope he wi

That must have been where he’d been interrupted for breakfast.

“Amora’s that blonde bitch that came in with you-- er, not you, but Loki?” It was still weirdly painful, thinking of Tony, who wasn’t, apparently, Tony at all, necking with everyone in the room. Bucky shoved it off to one corner to stew by itself. He didn’t have time for it. “And everyone else is under Loki’s spell? That’s gonna make this hard. I don’t wanna fight my way through the team to get to you. Him. Whatever.”

Tony uncurled and reached for the keyboard again. work 2gether. u distract, i get arrow. tell him u reconsidered kiss. i grab and run. 

“You better move damn fast,” Bucky said, chest squeezing strangely at the thought of kissing Tony, even if it was Loki, wearing Tony’s face. “I’m tough, but I ain’t gonna be much good against the god of mischief. Run where?” 

bot tunnel. how i got in bathroom. human-size wont fit. will take 2 thor. 

Bucky nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try an’ give you a headstart.” And hope that Loki didn’t kill him, because that was not entirely unlikely. What did he know about the god; that Loki, like Amora, couldn’t cast if he couldn’t speak. Well, that was an idea. Bucky sat Tony down on the floor and dug in his closet. He still used a Winter Soldier face-mask during combat scenarios; his sense of smell went way up when he accessed his training, and the overwhelming sensations sometimes distracted him, so Tony had adapted his face mask. And to keep other people from messing with it, it was DNA imprinted, so only Bucky could take it off. It might work, if Loki wasn’t expecting it.

It was a little bulky, so Bucky pulled out a zippered hoodie and tucked it inside the hood. It wasn’t the most subtle thing in the world, but it was better than nothing.

“If… um,” Bucky said, looking down at his feet. “If this doesn’t work, I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” For that matter, even if it did work, Bucky was sorry he’d said anything. Tony didn’t need to have to deal with Bucky mooning over him.

Tony looked at him, a very cat-like, inscrutable look, and then turned back to the computer. im not.

Continue to Part Four

[gothika666faerie]

Do I Even Need a Reason?

           “Why do you like him?” The first person who asks is Maxwell and she should not have been that surprised when he approached her, open frothing champagne bottle in hand with a pensive expression on his face. He was the younger brother; of course, he would show concern over any intimate developments regarding the elder. Savannah casts her eyes downward, not wanting to meet Maxwell’s questioning blue gaze before averting them towards the him being put on the spot of interrogation.

           There he was, in the middle of all his equally important, probably snottier and definitely insincere (save one or two if she was being kind) comrades who were all nodding (or pretending to nod in mock enjoyment) at his amusing anecdote about letting alpacas roam in the ballroom free for all to pet at his last soiree and how one had gone bounding with their tapestry straight from the Orient in its mouth. The small party all broke into modest laughter before lifting their forever abundant flutes for a toast to their benevolent, ostentatious host. The man in the middle in his well-fitting brown suit and his hair perpetually kept in place, never ruffled and for the occasion, smiling, teeth showing and the lines on his face pulling upwards, not tense, not serious and not stony.

           Savannah finds it difficult to hide her own smile and once more, she keeps her face down as Maxwell looks from his brother to her and back again. This sweet young tart with a head for timelines, dates and gender theory while still having the capacity to down tequila shots and losing herself on the dance floor would want to be a match with his often surly, rather humourless and high maintenance brother. There was a far commoner sight of Drake outside, having a true good time than that notion teetering on the brink of impossibility. Yet, there was a twinkle in Savannah Walker’s brown eyes as she follows Bertrand’s figure as it moves about the expansive ballroom, gesturing as he speaks animatedly of the weaponry mounted on the wall and his opinion of some of scandals that have erupted lately in Cordonia’s colourful society.

           “Maxwell, you know better than to ask a girl that question,” Her answer floats off as her eyes never leave Bertrand, more so now that he is reclining against the stairwell, one hand on the banister and the other in his trousers’ pocket. “Do I even need a reason?”

           “It’s just strange, you know. I mean, I love my brother. I truly do and he is the best brother I could ask for but,” Maxwell tries to keep his tone even but it takes him a good swallow before he can force the next few sentences out. “We both know my brother can be totally unlikable at times. He can be so out of humour, snobby and even downright mean. And that’s just what I say about him. Could you imagine someone who hates him?”

           Savannah lifts her head and meets Maxwell’s gaze full on, her brown eyes daring him to challenge her after the next statement. “I don’t see why I should care, Maxwell. I understand your concern but I’m confident in my decisions.”

           “Just,” He sighs and takes a nervous glug out of the bottle of champagne in his hand before continuing. “Drake will murder the both of us if something bad were to happen and…”

           “You think quite lowly of your brother for someone who claims to love him so.” Maxwell cringes at her words but manages a cordial smile before filling up her flute that was slowly being drained to the bottom. “I see him for who he really is and I still love him all the more. However, you are also a dear friend to House Beaumont and I don’t want you to ever feel…uncomfortable.”

           Savannah beamed up at him. From the day, she met both the Beaumonts, she found a good friend and confidante in the younger and a growing, solidifying infatuation in the older. They were the height of sophistication, driving about in their stretch limousines and sailing the azure Cordonian sea in their magnificent yacht, leaning over the railing and bidding hello to the dolphins when they got far enough. They had been kind to her, lovely nobles who tossed her a bone and let her mingle in their affairs, walk in their gardens and plantations and peruse their extensive, impressive library of treasured tomes and cherished classics.

           Unfortunately, the elder had made her fall in love with him.

           As much as she hated to confront it, Maxwell’s question sent her head reeling with wonderment as to exactly why she did. The man truly could be an absolute irritation. He had a temper that rivalled an ornery crocodile, the need to prove that he was superior to everyone and so darn arrogant and bossy, it was trying to attempt to please his extreme standards. She would be reading at a window seat and hear him berating a servant for missing a spot on the silverware or not arranging the chairs at precisely the right position. At that moment, she liked him a little less. The poor servant left with his tail between his legs and he would pace for a bit in the gardens afterwards to let off steam. His lips would be moving rapidly, his mutterings a mystery. That was when he would notice her. He stops his stride. Considers the fountain, the one with the mermaid statue, roses carved into her hair and cradling a vase that provided for the water before he lifts his head up and considers the young woman who looks down at him. Their eyes made contact for a blissful moment before she slams her book, gathers them and deserts her place on the balcony.

           There was something in those eyes.

           Savannah took a long sip and purred as the bubbly, sweet wine with its fruity undertones soothed her drying throat like a necessary balm. Bertrand was still preoccupied with his circle and Maxwell, noticing this, shoots her a sympathetic look.

           “I don’t know how or why this happened, Savvy but,” He reaches out a hand to touch her arm. “Just be careful.” He had to leave then. His own friends were anticipating him to bust his signature moves now that he was sufficiently liquored up. Savannah had to deal with her own devices and matters of her foolish, naïve heart alone. Ungluing herself from her vantage point, she journeyed through the moshing, snogging and passed out partygoers to find herself enough space to lose herself to the sensuous beats pounding out of the subwoofers Bertrand had erected for the occasion. The booze was getting to her and she needed to let loose.

           For those blissful moments, there was nothing but the music and her wild gyrations. Maxwell was executing smooth, skilful head spins and the crowd was cheering him on with bellows and vociferous applause. The noblewomen were cackling and chattering in alcoves, over sugary drinks, about their potential bed mates they would sequester away by the end of this hedonistic night. Savannah, her wild brown hair tossed about her tanned, bare shoulders, supple, full and round breasts straining against her lilac off shoulder bandage dress was in her element. She could hit the books tomorrow after sleeping off the massive hangover as she always did. Concealer and a meticulous skincare routine will stave off the dark circles and fatigue. That and strong, black coffee.

           Before her heart beat could pound any more violently from all the raucous movements, there was a literal change in the air. Pulse quickening, groin grinding dance music was replaced with the ethereal winking beginnings of a familiar song, a song for the ages and a song that would cement the true blue feeling of love and amour in a couple’s hearts. Savannah slowed down and came to a full stop, looking about her and seeing the few conscious and not nauseous inhabitants pairing off with people they would never dare to dance so intimately with. She could go find Maxwell who had miraculously disappear and demand he relinquish that champagne bottle. Yes, that was the perfect plan.

           She was unprepared for the warm, strong palm that enveloped her hand and was now pulling her out onto the marble floor where the other couples swayed in time to the melodious tinkling. Stopping in the centre, she was spun till she was face to face with him.

           “Your Grace? What…what is the meaning of…?” She has no chance to finish her question for her has taken her left hand in his and slid his right hand upon her waist, tugging her against him. His face is unreadable, stoic and his grey eyes are boring into hers. They are frozen for the first initial contact, eye contact unbroken. The lyrics come on and that is when they start to spin.

There's such a sad love

Deep in your eyes

A kind of pale jewel

Open and closed

Within your eyes

I'll place the sky

Within your eyes

           She bites at her lip, her tongue darting out to moisten them as her left hand grips his and her right slides up his arm, shuddering at the strength she discovers. Bertrand’s eyes seem to roam all over her face, from the sloping expanse of her forehead to her cherry blossom lips, the hollow of her throat that pulses and ending at the sensuous bounty of her bosom. They return to her eyes and Savannah feels drowned, overwhelmed in those pools of grey. Icy on the surface but if she could just break the surface.

There's such a fooled heart

Beating so fast

In search of new dreams

A love that will last

Within your heart

I'll place the moon

Within your heart

           “How are you enjoying the party, Miss. Walker?” His polite enquiry came out in a cool whisper as he takes her through the motions. His right hand neither rises nor drops. His face not once looks away from hers. Savannah clears her throat before stammering out a non-committal answer. His fingers twine with hers and his grip intensifies in purpose. Yet, there is not a flicker of emotion upon his face.

           “It is as wonderful a party as all the one’s you threw before, your Grace.”

           “Good.”

As the pain sweeps through,

Makes no sense for you

Every thrill is gone

Wasn't too much fun at all,

But I'll be there for you

As the world falls down

Falling

Falling down

Falling in love

           She gasps as he pulls her close against him, his face so close to hers she can smell the redolence of sweet wine on his breath mingled with his musky cologne. The hand on her waist is now splayed out on the small of her back and she attempts not to show any modest, feminine signs that she knew full well she was pressing up a little too intimately against the Duke of Ramsford. His face however never betrayed a hint of emotion. His lips were still set in that straight line, his eyes stony as their colour and the gaze in them purposefully unreadable.

           His hand on her back however, recited sonnets of what he was feeling for her as they continued to spin slowly, everyone around them diminishing into unnecessary and insignificant blurs.

I'll paint you mornings of gold

I'll spin you Valentine evenings

Though we're strangers 'til now,

We're choosing the path

Between the stars

I'll leave my love

Between the stars

           “You look…” He starts to comment on her appearance and Savannah can only stare at his stern façade as he suddenly tears his eyes away, thinking of the right word. Lovely? Beautiful? Sublime? Elegant? So perfect that it adds to how undeserving he was of her? Her brown eyes were absorbing him, prying upon the many layers he had swaddled himself in. He needed to avert his gaze lest he fall helpless and Duke Bertrand Beaumont is anything but. Her hand on his arm however and the other, so soft, so delicate, so deserving of penitent kisses before being washed in a rose bath and towelled dry. Did the commoner not know of how deeply she could affect him?

           “Nice.”

           “Oh. Thank you, your Grace. That means a lot coming from you.” Disappointment is tucked away, blankets of avoidance drowning it out along with the soothing croon of David Bowie.

As the pain sweeps through,

Makes no sense for you

Every thrill is gone

Wasn't too much fun at all,

But I'll be there for you-ou-ou

As the world falls down

           Oh, but what’s this? The hand that cradles hers raises it until it was resting, languidly, rather anxious too upon his shoulder and he gently shrugs off her other hand from his arm. This was a silent command; put it where its companion is waiting. Savannah soon had her hands twined behind Bertrand’s neck and his hands had found its home on the tops of her shapely hips. He wanted to seize them and pull her closely, tight against him but the moment was too pure, too pristine and too precious to be ruined. The only thing that parted them was their commingled breaths and how badly did he want to be her air supply. Too soon. Too fucking soon.

           He settles for leaning in close enough so that his forehead rests against hers and she inhales, the sound so dulcet and innocent at the contact. What was happening was unexplained and perhaps it should remain so. Putting it under a lens would ruin its simplicity.

           “I lied. You look amazing.” His voice is barely a whisper.

           “I know. I still thank you all the same.” She smiles up to him, shuddering at how their noses could very nearly brush against one another. Watching the corners of his lips quirk up just slightly cements the moment as totally unforgettable.

Falling

As the world falls down

Falling

As the world falls down

Falling

Falling

Falling

Falling in love

As the world falls down, falling

Falling

Falling

Falling in love

           “Why me?” He asks the question this time. She lifts her head up from the pillow, a lazy, giddy with contentment smile on her face when she notices his arm still wrapped tightly, protectively, fearfully around her waist before she manoeuvres herself to face him. The index finger of her right hand gently caressing underneath his eye before he leans in to press a worshipping kiss to her forehead, the bridge of her nose and stopping just before her lips for she had started to speak and who was he to silence his angel?

           “You’re a prize and yet, you’re not. You have flaws, glaring ones to by the way but,” She sighs and reclines as he shifts upon her to gaze into her beautiful, pensive face. Her hand slides up his bare chest to rest against where his love lays contained, restrained and yet beating effortfully. “Maybe there does not need to be a reason. Maybe, it is just right. Just perfect. Just that you know this is the person you want, you want to love and want to be with.”

           It is so dark that she cannot tell that his eyes are glistening before he takes her hand and presses his lips to it, letting the warmth linger, wanting it to flow up her arm and take residence in her heart.

           “You are too amazing a woman. There is nothing common about you, my love,” His lips journey to kiss the diamond ring that she wears with pride every moment, every second. “My duchess.” He starts a line, a journey of hot, butterfly kisses from where her heart lies, secure forever for him, beating for him, for them. Onwards and upwards, bypassing her collarbone, snaking up her neck and catching her jawline before her puckered lips received their blessed offering.

           “My wife. My reason to try, as hard as I can, to be deserving of you.” His words tickle her mouth and she surrenders into his passionate embrace once more but as she opens her mouth to accept his love, he pulls back and leaves her wanting for just one blissful moment.

           He scrounges on the bedside table for his handphone and, befuddled, she watches him with her head tilted until she hears that familiar crooning. Her heart beats just that little bit faster as her husband engulfs her once more with his heat, his comfort, his desire and his unwavering ardour.

           “I love you.”

           “I love you too.”

As the world falls down, falling

Falling

Falling

Makes no sense at all

Makes no sense to fall

Falling

As the world falls down

Falling

Falling

Falling in love

As the world falls down

Falling

Falling

Falling in love

Falling in love

Falling in love

Falling in love

Falling in love

(( @smartlillian @mrskaidanalenko @pixelbirb-choices @chelseareferenced @dopecatcollins @mochimicho))

[never-shuts-up]

Murder or a Heart Attack

AO3 Link

Summary: After a tag team victory at Summerslam, Dean still isn't sure how he's supposed to feel, or what new disaster he's just left himself open to. Seth still has a knack for making everything more complicated, but the best things don't come easily.

Notes: Set immediately after Summerslam 2017. Apologies to all my anti-Ambrollins friends, I still feel you but I also needed this, really badly. And there’s offscreen Ambreigns, for all the reasons.

Content note: includes an adverse reaction based on past trauma. I hesitate to classify it 100% as PTSD, but could be interpreted that way.

As soon as he stepped through the curtain, everything faded to a blur. Spots from the bright light still stung his eyes as cameras - probably mostly phones, but whatever the hell - began flashing around him to replace them. Immediately they were pushed through to the media area, and the cameras just kept going. Dean kept wanting to pinch himself, and see if he would wake up. The title over his shoulder, and a mere arm’s-length away, with the same title over his, the one man who had caused him no end of hurt for so many years. Seth was smiling, laughing, joking easily with commentators and on-lookers alike, and the expression on his face was one Dean hadn’t seen in - well, he didn’t even know how long anymore.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that smile. Not a plotting-smirk, not a rehearsed camera-grin, but a real, genuine smile, that lit up and transformed Seth’s entire face. It felt like he was looking at somebody else, someone he thought was long gone.

Was this really him? Who, even, was the real Seth Rollins anymore?

As the crowd began to disperse, Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. Seth leaned in, so close that a wet strand of hair brushed against Dean’s cheek. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.” Dean nodded a response back, and they turned and headed toward the locker room.

As he fumbled around in his locker, Dean still couldn’t shake the feeling of having wandered into someone else’s dream. They had done it - actually done it - and while he knew they could, believed they could, he hadn’t predicted it would feel like this. So strange, yet familiar; so good, yet uneasy. Memories of the past three years rattled around in his head, and this new experience refused to fit in with them, like a piece had suddenly been tossed in from the wrong puzzle.

Seth emerged from a cloud of steam, smelling like expensive conditioner, shimmied his way into those damn impractical tight jeans, and began rummaging through his own things for a shirt. Dean busied himself with cleaning the protein bar wrappers out of his pockets and the bottom of his bag - with the past week of media and travel, it was long overdue.

Seth was the one to break the relative silence.

“Did you make any plans for tonight?”

“Nah, not really. Was going to just grab something to eat and collapse. You know, the usual.” Dean shoved the rest of his clothes back into the duffel bag and headed to the garbage can with a couple handfuls of various wrappers - including, for some reason, an inordinate amount of straw papers and a very mangled Popeye’s cup. “Why, did you?”

“Not really. But, uh, if you’re just going back to the hotel, maybe I should give you this now.” When Seth turned back around, he had a brown paper bag in his hand. “I had to go up to Greenpoint to get it, but I’ve heard it’s the best in town.”

Dean opened the paper bag, slightly mystified to find a white bakery box, tied artfully with black and white twine. As he raised the lid, the faint aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg greeted him, and he nearly did a double take at what was inside.

It was a perfect apple pie.

If you put a picture next to “apple pie” in a dictionary - no, that wouldn’t be in a dictionary but maybe just a cookbook or a guide to things you could buy that are close enough to buying happiness - this would have been that picture. The crust was an even golden brown, punctuated with decoratively placed slashes that showed a hint of filling flecked with spices.

Dean looked at the pie for a long moment, then back up at Seth, catching him in half a second of fidgeting before he realized his tag partner was watching. An amused half-smile crept onto Dean’s face. “So, you heard that whole thing about the pie, huh?”

Seth grinned, apparently relieved at Dean’s reaction. “Obviously. You really still think Roman ate it?”

“Dunno. It’s been fun giving him hell about it though. Gets a rise out of him, and he keeps saying Ron did it.” The friendly teasing between Roman and Truth amused Dean to no end and was, to be honest, one of the highlights of having him travel with them. Once one of them found something to dig the other about, it would keep them going for days. Dean tried not to think about how, despite treasuring his rare time alone with Roman, everything seemed so much more natural and enjoyable with a third person in the car. “I kinda don’t care anymore, but having something to tease him about kept him from worrying so much about tonight.”

Seth went back to rummaging in his bag. “So you two are still…”

“Yeah.”

“I figured. Wondered if anyone would catch your little slip-up back there.” Dean felt heat rush to his face as Seth gave him an exaggerated wink-nudge, and he fought off the urge to shove the pie directly into Seth’s face. Sometimes even Seth’s friendly teasing skirted awfully close to the line, and Dean wasn’t sure what to expect from him anymore. The weight of the pie in his hands - a visible, tangible, spice-and-sugar-scented sign of what, exactly? - had just made everything more complicated.

Dean set the bag aside, next to his duffel, and shrugged. “Ehh, I’ve got a reputation for sayin’ weird shit to uphold. Wouldn’t want to let the people down.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. Or the other thing. After tonight, they’ll have plenty to talk about.” Seth’s cavalier attitude toward the relationship that Dean was so clearly trying to keep secret still annoyed Dean a bit, but he was a little occupied wondering what his tag partner was getting at. “Also, I figured we would either want to toast victory or drown defeat, so I brought this too.” He handed Dean another paper bag, this one smaller and heavier. Dean was pretty sure he could tell what was in it, but was still surprised to open the bag and find a compact, rather expensive-looking bottle of some whiskey he’d never heard of, with a heavy wax seal on top.

“Special occasion, huh? You went all out.” Dean regarded the bottle with approval. The name was unfamiliar - some kind of artisan small batch bullshit, most likely, but knowing Seth, at least it was probably good. “So, should we just open these here, or -”

“Actually, I had an idea about that. I figured you’d want to wait around for Roman, but if you text me when you get back to the hotel, I think I know just the place.”

—–

Dean climbed the last few steps and let the door swing closed behind him. “I thought the roof deck was supposed to be-”

“Closed after ten? Yeah, I know. Pulled a couple strings at the front desk, and they gave me the card to swipe in.”

Clever. Turning on the charm to get what he wanted was just such a typical Seth move, and Dean had to admit the roof deck was pretty impressive. The three-foot wall surrounding the perimeter was made of fake-rustic-looking wood and topped with raised flowerbeds. Motion-sensing lights flickered to life as they stepped out onto the walkway. There were a few tables with umbrellas, now folded up for the night, arranged around the middle, and a bunch of chaises and Adirondack chairs off to one side, mostly stacked up out of the way but with a few pointing to the main attraction: the view. Dean let out a low whistle as he took in the Manhattan skyline rising up right front of them - how had it seemed so far when it was right across a river? - all lit up and glittering like a drag queen’s jewelry box.

“Hot damn. This place really is something else.” Dean could feel Seth’s eyes on him, searching his face for signs of approval. And he had to give him credit - it felt like the right place to go for some quiet in a city full of noise, for some fresh air on a hot summer night.

“Worth all the hype, right?”

“Couldn’t say. Since we don’t get to see any of it or nothing.”

“Everything looks great from here though.” Seth dragged one of the metal chaises to a space with a clear view, sat, and motioned to the middle, where Dean put the box and bottle down. “And I have to hand it to them, Brooklyn knows a thing or two about food. That pie shop had about nine other things that all looked amazing. Different stuff like salted honey, but I didn’t think that would be your thing. Good coffee, too. I should have just brought you there, but I wanted it to be a surprise.” Seth was rambling now, as he rummaged through the bag and pulled out two plastic forks. Dean could tell it was nerves, and even though he wasn’t sure why, it still warmed him someplace inside to hear it. “How’s Roman holding up?”

Dean shrugged, and sat down on the other end of the chaise, taking out and opening the bottle. “Not great. He’s down at the room taking a long shower. You know, the usual.”

“Think he’d want to come up?”

“Don’t know, I didn’t ask. Figured he’d understand me being gone for a few minutes.” This level of interest was uncharacteristic. Seth was still giving Roman a wide berth, rarely asking about him, and usually finding reasons to leave a room whenever he showed up. Skirting the boundary between respectful distance and all-out avoidance, ever since Extreme Rules. Dean couldn’t really put a finger on what had changed, but it seemed they had both just moved on. No longer contending for the same title, they weren’t even in the same orbit anymore. Dean wasn’t sure if that was worse or better - but it was easier. Even if easier didn’t always mean better.

“So it’s not weird for him, you and me doing…what we’re doing?” Seth had seemingly forgotten the two plastic forks in his hand, and was studying Dean’s face intently, with an expression that walked the razor-thin line between apprehension and hope.

“Wasn’t wild about it. He tried to tell me what a bad idea it was, that first time. Made me promise I was gonna take care of myself, not take some stupid risk for you. Dunno what he was thinking, he knows I don’t follow instructions. When you first apologized, he said it was bullshit and I shouldn’t fall for it.”

Watching Seth’s face fall, Dean realized too late that he probably shouldn’t have said that. Except no, he definitely should have said that and more because Seth deserved to know the truth, even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.

He watched Seth let out a ragged sigh, and take a hand through his hair like he always did to try and compose himself. “Not surprised. He’s looking out for you, and I can’t really blame him for not trusting me.”

Dean nodded. Seth was taking this better than he had expected, but he still looked tense, as if holding onto something much more uncomfortable than a couple of forks. Something about the set of his shoulders and jaw seemed imminent, as if he could jump off the edge of the roof deck. Instead, he turned to face Dean straight-on, gripping the seat of the chaise as if to steady himself, and looked him directly in the eye.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Having the full force of Seth’s gaze directly on him made something in the pit of Dean’s stomach twist. His partner’s face was all intensity, always, but he saw something unfamiliar written in the crease of his forehead and the corners of his mouth. In the half-light of the streetlights and garden lighting, Dean couldn’t quite read what this new something was. Twisting at the lid of the bottle in his hand, he could do nothing but let Seth continue.

“Being here with you over the past week - I realized, I’ve been going about this all wrong. I know I apologized - sort of - but it wasn’t right.” Seth paused long enough to inhale deeply, eyes closed, as if about to dive into unfamiliar waters. ”I’m sorry I pushed you around. It was mean, and shitty, and uncalled for. And you deserve better than that, so I hope I can make it up to you.”

The knot in Dean’s stomach began to unclench, and unravel, but it didn’t exactly feel good. Surprisingly, these soft words, these unfamiliar words coming from Seth just replaced it with a hot wave of resentment. Dean bit back a whole string of words that ran through his mind on a loop - are you fucking kidding me - what new bullshit - what the fuck is this fucking game - and took a deep breath to try and compose himself, but could feel his entire body tense, ready to attack. He clutched at the knees of his jeans so hard that his knuckles must have been nearly white, and tried - unsuccessfully - to keep the edge out of his voice.

“So you’re really sorry, and you really mean it?” Seth nodded. “So, why now? Why do you pick now to apologize and not, I don’t know, a month ago when you were playing your bullshit games?” Once the words started pouring out, Dean realized he couldn’t stop. “Where was this fucking sorry face of yours when you were turning the whole crowd against me? Were you just stringing me along until you had that title? What the fuck took you so long to figure that out?”

Seth flinched at every word, and the deepening look of hurt in his eyes both gave Dean pause, and made him feel strangely satisfied, vindicated. But he stopped to allow Seth to respond.

“I know it hurt. I know it made you angry. But I couldn’t take the risk that you would say ‘no.’ I had something all prepared, but as soon as I got out there, the second I looked at you, it hit me that I didn’t have any idea what I would do if you turned me down. So I pushed it, and I know I pushed too hard. And it wasn’t until I looked back at the video package that I realized just how shitty it was. I sounded like such an asshole, and you looked so hurt. And I can’t say I didn’t mean it, because at the time, I did. I just didn’t mean for it to come out like that, and I’m sorry it hurt you.”

Dean let the tide of words wash over him, and it started to sink in that this was real: Seth would never have put so much of this out in the open if he didn’t really mean it, and looking him directly in the eye, Dean realized he could identify a few of the unknowns that flickered across Seth’s face: guilt, which was no less than he deserved, but also regret and a tinge of fear. That was bullshit - what did someone like Seth have to be afraid of? - but nonetheless, there it was. But Dean’s own reservations refused to slip away so easily - after all, that face had lured him with false promises before. No. My terms. I’m not letting you push me around. Roman was right that you would try. And I’m not gonna let you get away with it that easily.  “You still made me look like the bad guy, and you didn’t exactly make me want to trust you again.”

“You’re right. I did. And I shouldn’t have. You did exactly what you said you were going to do. I should know you better than that - me, of all people. And it’s one of the things I like about you. I mean, I know the way your head works isn’t always straightforward, but the way you put it out there is. Figured you were trying to make a point. And I give you a lot of credit for that, you know? Being honest.”

“That’s pretty new to you, right?” Dean tried to play the compliment off with a joke, but realized it had hit much closer to the mark when the smile Seth cracked looked more embarrassed than amused, and his gaze shifted to somewhere on the ground.

“Yeah. I guess I forgot what that was like. You know? You spend enough time around liars, you just start to assume everyone’s lying. You start to assume everyone’s out to push you around. And you start finding ways to defend yourself before they attack. And I gotta stop doing that now. Especially with you. If there’s one person in the world I can stop doing that with, it’s you. This whole week proved it. What we did tonight proved it. I didn’t realize what I was missing, and I’m going to do whatever I can to keep it.” He turned himself fully to face Dean, folding one leg under him on the chaise, and stuck out a hand. “Can you let me?”

Seth’s open, expectant face turned Dean’s stomach into knots all over again. How was this supposed to feel? Anger and hurt and longing tumbled together until none of them were even recognizable anymore. And before Dean knew what he was doing, he had closed the few feet of distance between them, and taken Seth’s hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he found himself saying. “I want this as much as you do, but you dealt me a whole lot of hurt. And don’t even think I don’t feel it all over again whenever I see your stupid face. But you’re still my brother.” Dean paused and tried to gather himself. Roman had told him, time and time again, that he needed to keep firm boundaries with Seth, and it was Roman’s mix of concern and rage that swam to the front of his mind now. “And I know we’re better together, but if you pull that shit with me again, I can’t make any promises.” The words “and I don’t think Roman can either” sat right on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back. Involving him wasn’t fair, and it probably wouldn’t do any good.

Seth put his other hand over Dean’s and gripped it firmly, for a very long moment. “Okay. That’s fair - it’s no more than I deserve, but yeah, fair. Because I’ll have to do better if this is going to work. And I get that it’s been hard for you. So, thank you. For letting me back in.”

“Back in?” The turn of phrase sent a twinge through Dean’s chest as its meaning sank in. “Little brother, half the reason this is so fucking hard is that - for all these years - you were still there. You got in my head, got in my heart, and even when you fucked around with it, and even when I wanted to break your dumb coward face, I still couldn’t shake that. When you get down to it, you were never really gone.”

Dean’s words were cut off as Seth leaned in and wrapped him in a tight hug. He felt rather than heard the response, murmured half-into his ear, half-into his shoulder, and vibrating through his entire chest: “Neither were you.”

Despite the warmth of Seth’s touch, Dean felt his shoulders tense and shudder, and suddenly it was very hard to breathe. His vision blurred the lights of the skyline together, into a rough haze. Every nerve seemed to be fighting the urge to flinch, to push away, and even his fingertips itched to take control. The places where those maddeningly familiar hands pressed tightly against his back were the same ones that had been black and blue for days, crossed by marks from that steel chair and then by everything from boots to the edge of the apron - does he really think this could ever undo all that hurt, and what the hell have I just left myself open to?

Seth released his grip and pulled away, moving his hands to Dean’s shoulders. Forehead creased and eyes soft in the half-light, he seemed to shrink a little, as he studied his friend’s face and the realization of what he was seeing there hit home. Dean wasn’t sure exactly how he must have looked in that moment, but judging by Seth’s expression, it must have been as messed up as he felt.

“Shit,” Seth muttered, in a tone that was half sharp frustration, half sigh. “I did that, didn’t I?”

Dean nodded.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s going to take a lot for you to believe me, after how much I hurt you. And I’ve gotta let you make your own decisions.” Guilt - real, true, sincere guilt - etched itself across Seth’s face in deep lines, and he seemed to be torn between looking Dean directly in the eye and staring at the ground. “Just… if it’s too much, please tell me, okay?”

Dean nodded again. The city lights shifted out of the haze and back into clarity as he placed his own hand on Seth’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Okay.” And for the time it took for both men to breathe in deeply and let it out, nothing else mattered.

As everything settled slowly back to here, back to now, Dean dimly realized his phone hadn’t buzzed since he’d come up to the roof. A few floors below, Roman was probably asleep, and the space next to him was made up just for Dean, with the pillow exactly where he liked it, and it sure wouldn’t have been there all those years ago. Roman’s arm was probably flung instinctively over that space, protectively, waiting for Dean to come back and crawl under it, waiting to hold him until he fell asleep. It was different, but better, and he never wanted to go back to a world where that space didn’t exist.

This was never going to be the same either. But maybe it could be better too. The kind of better that came from being older, smarter, and knowing what kind of bad could come with the good - knowing all of each other’s ugly parts and scars and sharp edges.

Maybe things didn’t need to be the same to be right. Or at least, start fumbling their way toward right.

Seth shifted his position first, composing himself and slipping an arm around Dean’s shoulders as he took in the lights of the skyline that seemed to rise so close to them. “So - and I’m not trying to change the subject -”  he paused dramatically with a bit of a self-satisfied smile, “that’s a really good whiskey that you haven’t even opened yet.”

Dean smiled back, tentatively, but with warmth spreading back through his chest. “Right. And a pie that I’m gonna need one of those forks for.” Seth looked at him quizzically, apparently having forgotten the forks entirely. “The ones behind you, doofus.”

“Oh. Right.” Seth laughed nervously and fumbled for the two forks and the box.

“Should make sure we save some for Roman.”  Dean watched Seth’s face intently, unsure how he would react. “Since he had a rough night, and all that,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound as tentative as he felt.

That small, slow smile crept back onto Seth’s lips, as he untied the string on the box, and Dean was already thinking that maybe he could get used to seeing it more often. “Deal.”

Notes:

During the lead-up to Summerslam, I had a really hard time watching Seth’s “apologies” and watching him string Dean along - it read as extremely manipulative and hurtful, and set off alarms for a number of abuse survivors I have talked to. When someone tells you a character reminds them of their abusive ex, it’s hard not to listen - much less when THREE do. I went through several weeks of wondering if I could continue to write and identify with someone who could avoid making a real apology and still get applauded and cast as a “good” guy for his manipulative behavior. This was my attempt to make it right, and make the shift in their in-ring relationship more believable. After watching clips from the WWE2k18 event, it was very clear that there was more going on between these two than what we saw in the promos. And the apple pie incident seemed like a perfect opportunity.

The title is from an Old 97s song, which sounds like a love song but is actually about the songwriter’s roommate’s cat who escaped (but came back). I tried to change it, but “Murder (or a Heart Attack)” is a vicious earworm that just would not let go. And it just seemed to fit.

[bungou-stray-dogs-indulgences]

May I have a few headcanons for highschool Atsushi, Dazai and Naomi?? A few with a s/o and a few just in general please

Nakajima Atsushi

If you’re out sick for a few days and need review materials, Atsushi’s your go-to guy. His notes are absolutely impeccable. Once you decipher his slightly messy handwriting (he rarely dots his ‘i’s and sometimes his ‘m’s look like they’ve got one too many humps), his notes are practically a student’s holy grail. Not only are the sheets color coded, they’re practically word-for-word copies of the teachers’ lectures. Atsushi even triple-underlines what’s going to be included on future tests.

How he got roped into Dazai’s squad, Atsushi can’t quite figure out. He’s not totally dull, but he’s nowhere near Dazai’s caliber. All Atsushi knows is that one day, Dazai unexpectedly defended him from the school’s resident assholes and now he’s squashed between Ranpo and Kenji at the lunch table, nervously trying to mediate the Dazai and Kunikida’s daily spats.

Atsushi’s universally known as the school’s nice guy, a fact that eternally befuddles him. So what if he carries your books if you’ve got full arms, or always cleans up his groups’ lab station after Biology, or brings in donuts sometimes on Fridays? It’s not like he’s going that far out of his way! Atsushi’s convinced that he doesn’t deserve the title.

Despite the fact that he gets quite a few sideways glances, Atsushi always brings in adorable bento boxes for his lunch. Rice balls end up decorated with kitten faces, sporting seaweed whiskers and cubed ham eyeballs. Fruit’s always arranged in a bright rainbow, sprinkled with sugar and perfectly arranged. Any dish from bits of grilled pork to noodles looks straight from the pages of a cooking magazine.

Romantic

The mere thought of giving you affection in front of classmates sends Atsushi in panic mode, cold sweat breaking out and stomach churning. He wants to show everyone you’re together (especially since none of the girls that ask him out—there’s a surprisingly long list—actually believe he’s in a relationship when he denies them), but even summoning the courage to grab your hand is beyond him. Getting Atsushi to show love in front of classmates is probably an impossible task; you’ll simply have to initiate and enjoy it while you can before he passes out from embarrassment.

Atsushi often plans study dates, but they rarely turn out as anticipated. When he’s around you, his mind just starts shooting in all different directions like a rabbit on steroids. Textbooks can’t catch his attention like the shape of your lips, or your eyelashes, or the smoothness of your skin. Eventually he just ends up suffering as he stares at you, trying to force his eyes back on his notes and dramatically failing. Only when you snap your book shut, suggesting that the two of you take a break, does he get any relief.

When your back is turned, Atsushi stashes tiny messages inside your textbooks. Nothing elaborate’s written on these notes— just a few sweet words, like ‘You can make it through the day!’  or ‘Atsushi adores you more than anything!’. Hiding these sticky notes for you is his way of holding your hand, guiding you through your toughest classes even when he’s ten rooms farther down the hall.

Dazai Osamu

All of the teachers are downright shocked Dazai hasn’t dropped out yet. He swings average grades, sure, but the boy just seems horrendously unmotivated. After his best friends left—Odasaku dropped out to care for his younger siblings, and Ango transferred—the staff thought for sure Dazai would only be sticking around for another week, at most. Why he still shows up to class puzzles them completely, though they’ve all agreed it’s probably got something to do with you and that oddball crew he’s been hanging around.

Showing up on time for class is not Dazai’s strong point. First hour usually sees him casually sauntering through the door, coffee thermos in hand and clad in sweatpants, half an hour late. The teachers have tried cracking down on his less-than-punctual habits, but detention never seems to shake him. At this point, they’re tired of dealing with him, so they leave the classroom door unlocked and settle for giving Dazai the evil-eye as he settles in his desk.

Nobody’s neutral on Dazai; either you love him, or you hate him. Judging by the flood of love letters that spill out of his locker every morning, most students—the hormonal females, at least—adore him. Really, the only people in the ‘we hate Dazai’ camp are the brothers of Dazai’s ex-playthings, pissed off that he fooled around with their sisters.

More often than not, Dazai’s high in class. While he doesn’t pop pills like he used too, the boy’s still fond of a blunt or two when he rolls out of bed in the morning, and his first-to-third hour bloodshot eyes clearly show it. He’s built up his tolerance enough so that he’s barely affected by starting the day with drugs, but when he shows up to school floating on the edge of a high it’s still relatively noticeable (especially when he gets the giggles in Logic II. We all know binary’s not that funny, Dazai, cool it before you get expelled.)

Romantic

Getting away with getting frisky in class is child’s play for Dazai. He rarely even warns you before his fingers subtly slide into your pants in the middle of Biology. ‘Can I make ________ moan in class without getting in trouble’ quickly morphs into Dazai’s favorite game, and soon he’s springing his nimble hands on you almost twice a day.

Unfortunately for the custodian, Dazai often tugs you into the janitor’s closet for a bit of break-time fun. It’s cramped, sure; being crowded by brooms and shelves of bleach doesn’t do much to set the mood. It’s private and it locks from the inside, though, and that’s all Dazai is really after. As long as he can slide your pants off for a bit of dessert after lunch break is over, he’s satisfied.

Although in the past he’s fooled around quite a bit, Dazai makes it perfectly clear that he intends to take his relationship with you seriously. Every flirtatious look or lingering touch is immediately shut down with a cold glare and an eerily cheerful ‘You seem to have forgotten about _______; that’s alright, though, because I certainly haven’t.’ Dazai’s a reformed flirt now, and his mind’s only on you, no matter how short the cheerleaders’ skirts get.

Tanizaki Naomi

While Naomi’s not a big fan of classes in general, Culinary Arts manages to get her excited for one time slot, at least. Cooking’s a piece of cake—especially when convincing her brother to do it all for her is simple as batting her eyelashes and handing him a whisk. Mainly, Naomi samples the dishes and that’s about it; if she’s feeling ambitious, she might frost a cake or chop some vegetables, but that’s where her efforts stop.

Naomi never shows up to first hour without her trusty Starbucks in hand. It’s the same drink swirling around in that cup every morning, too; a chocolate chip frappe with extra whip and chocolate drizzle.

Naomi’s caused a bit of a civil war in the staff; half of the teachers hail her as an angel, and half regard her as a goddamn problem. Naturally, Naomi’s a sweetheart; until she’s angry, that is. Too many teachers have learned the hard way that giving Naomi a lunch hour for whispering to Haruno during a lecture is not worth it. Once she’s holding a grudge against a teacher her personal mission becomes giving them hell. Every word out of a teacher’s mouth is met with some sassy comment, and if Naomi despises them enough, she’ll resort to just plain, malicious insults. Naomi made a substitute cry once all on her own, and since then the teachers generally try to stay far away from the girl’s bad side.

All of Naomi’s school supplies are absolutely adorable. Animal motifs remain her favorite; most of her notebooks and binders are emblazoned with cute foxes, kittens, or some other equally-huggable mammal. If illustrations don’t cross the cover when she buys a book, she’ll sketch them in herself (after all, what else is she going to do during Geometry?).

Romantic

Enrolling in all of the classes that you’re in is Naomi’s number-one priority. Even one hour away from you is enough to send her into a pouty mood. ‘Clingy’ is practically Naomi’s middle name, and while she can handle time apart from you, she just doesn’t want to.

Hopefully you’re not flustered by PDA, because Naomi sure isn’t. Rarely do you make it two steps down the hallway before Naomi’s twining her fingers through yours, pecking a tiny kiss on your cheek in greeting. If her desk ends up behind yours, Naomi’s constantly burying her fingers in your hair, massaging your scalp and working her way down until she’s chasing the knots and aches from your shoulders (as long as you return the favor when you’re sitting behind her!). The lunchroom, however, is her favorite spot to shower affection. Naomi spends the entire break perched on your lap, demanding you feed her yourself. Every successful bite is rewarded with a sweet kiss.

Naomi’s locker is practically a scrapbook of your relationship. Pictures smother every surface, all of your favorite memories lined in washi tape and propped on the metal. If anyone criticizes her mini-shrine, Naomi’s instantly pouting; what’s wrong with having pictures of the two of you, she wonders. Not often does she hold grudges, but if someone insults her collage, Naomi’s complaining to you about them for the next three weeks.