#you gifted me with the most glorious knife so here--i gift you one in return :)

[jaggededges123]

Eighthcest apology kiss PLEASE 🗣️🗣️🗣️ - octakiseronliker

(i put most of this under a cut because it got uhhhhhh really quite long)

You are a cheap sacrifice. You have always known this; it is in your name. Serve and sacrifice and hope that you do not die, this time.

Hot, stabbing pain sears through your soul, as you wait, as your soul being halfway to death fuels your necromancer. There is nothing for you to cling to, here--no faith, no anchor. Every platitude you were given by the clergy as you trained and pumped your body full of things to make it more palatable to a child that hadn't even arrived then--it is all useless here. There is nothing but cold so profound that it wraps back around to boiling as far as your pain receptors are concerned, and the slowly encroaching madness that you must fend off alone, lest you remain adrift from yourself and be rendered permanently insensate.

This is part of the bargain you made in being born; this is the weight of being selected for the blood that pumps through the veins you are not presently attached to. You die, and are resurrected, and die, and are resurrected, all without ever being buried or being mourned.

Just when you fear that you cannot hold on any longer, that voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sonorous and ecclesiastic: Brother Asht, I bid you return.

It is relief, but a paltry one; your trial is nowhere near over yet. Navigating from where you are back to where you should be is like walking through a maze with ever-shifting walls and a blindfold over your eyes. For some reason, here, it also feels as though there are hands clawing at your feet, threatening to trip you up or drag you permanently out of life. Your only beacons are the smell of ritual herbs drifting into your nose, and your necromancer's familiar refrain consistently floating around you.

You are Colum the Eighth, and this is what that means: you find your way back from hell to the one who put you there, every single time he calls you back.

You breach through the base of your spine, as you were taught; your disk is somewhat slipped there, and it is easiest to wiggle in through the flaws in yourself. Once you are back inside yourself, you reconnect to your organs. It is like flipping the generator that powers the entire Octavian cathedral--everything lights up all at once, and it's overwhelming and painful to see everything thrum to life again.

When your lungs reconnect, when your jaw forces open again, you splutter and cough like your soft alveoli are filled with water from the River. Your eyes come online, but the sensory input is agonizing, and your pupils take refuge by rolling back into your skull. You breathe in smoke that reeks horribly, now that you have a nose and not only a soul. The way your breath comes in short and punchy, combined with the conversational hum of the room, beats against your skull like so many hammers, and the coughing itself is cacophonous.

There are two warm, small hands holding one of yours, and your entire arm seems to arc with electricity from it. The pressure from your leathers is unbearable. If you weren't so busy trying to simply breathe, then you would tear it off of yourself.

To your side, you hear: "Fifteen minutes. You're getting tardy."

...You have a headache, and cannot say anything in return to Silas Octakiseron, Master Templar of the White Glass.

Those two warm, small hands leave yours only when you are moderately well situated in your own body, and when the idea of opening your eyes again doesn't make you want to pluck them out. Your necromancer leads you up to your unsteady feet, and the familiar sharp ache-pain in your lower back centers you like nothing else.

"I am glad," Teacher murmurs from your other side, "that you were able to make the journey back, Colum the Eighth."

It sounds ominous coming from his lips, and you don't want to respond. Silas does, in your stead.

"Thank you for your wisdom, Teacher," Silas says, though his voice suggests that he will be disregarding whatever their enigmatic host told him. "We will be leaving now."

Finally, when you cannot put it off anymore--Silas is not holding you and walking sightless is not a skill you have mastered--you open your eyes properly.

The first thing you see is the face of your necromancer. The first thing you notice is the plum-bright mess of bruises around one of his eyes, and you worry. You do not open your mouth because it still feels as though it is filled with bees, but you do worry. Your eyebrows crease together.

The rest of Silas's face is blessedly unchanged; whatever occurred while you were gone appears to have been minor. His face is sharp like a knife, but you can still see what little baby fat he had ever had, as gaunt as necromancers always are. He is made softer by virtue of wearing his hear down, with his headband already in for the night. You can see the innocence in his calf-brown eyes, though you would be a fool to mistake the edges there for something entirely ingenuous and artless.

Silas inclines his head and turns around, and you follow him in silence. You do not know where he will take you next. You're only just now remembering that Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn are dead, the reason why you had been asked to vacate your body in the first place.

When Silas Octakiseron stops walking and you stop half a step behind him, it is to your surprise that you have arrived at your quarters. It seems strange, to your mind which is only just now falling back into place enough to think, that there is not more to do. There are bodies, somewhere. Your numbers have been reduced by two.

It is not the first time you've seen death, and you very much doubt it will be the last, but it is bizarre that everything is so still in the wake of two souls departing permanently for the River.

You follow Silas into your quarters, and--this too is uncommon, only reserved for when you have not come back from the River entirely "correctly"--Silas helps you remove your armor. What a world, in which the necromancer helps the cavalier dress himself for bed instead of the other way around. It's shameful.

"Your eye," you at least manage to mumble, as that purple shining thing returns to your field of vision, the eye small in its nest trained on one of the straps of your leathers. "Silas, your eye."

"You will duel Protesilaus the Seventh for it." Silas's gaze flickers to yours, and he looks somewhat ashamed of himself for a moment. "It would not have been fitting to resolve the manner any other way."

"I understand."

He does not care to talk about it. You understand that much.

Silas helps to dress you for bed, though he does not help you into the sonic cleaner for once. You are glad of it; if you were to be subjected to the vibration right now you think you might shake entirely apart. You, in turn, help him dress for bed as much as you can in your current state. Your fingers do not obey well, and the phantom one on your left hand aches something awful.

He does not scold you for your failings, this time, at least not out loud. You catch him glimpsing at you when you pull his hair a bit taking it out from inside his nightgown, but you do not know what it means.

You sit down on your cot when you are done, your bulk crashing down heedless of the way the ancient springs scream underneath you. Your heartbeat has, finally, begun to steady itself. That process too is tardy this time, just as Silas said you were. You stare blankly at the wall, waiting inertly for Silas to say the evening prayers; he had been interrupted, you think, by the news of the Fifth's untimely demise. He will start over, you are sure.

Silas Octakiseron kneels in front of you, and it shakes you from your stasis. You blink.

"Brother Asht, are you well?" he asks.

You do not lie. You, Colum Asht, never lie--the most you do is avoid inconvenient truths by omission. You have no escape route here.

You sigh, and you feel it all the way from the bottom of your lungs to the numb tip of your tongue. "Not tonight, Silas."

"Do I need to relight the incense?"

"I don't know if it would help," you confess. It feels like a confession, and it makes Silas's face pinch in a way you do not like.

Suddenly, for some reason you cannot fathom, perhaps for a reason that only the most well versed in the Tome and well steeped in the Kindly Prince's goals can understand, Silas Octakiseron crowds you in. He crawls in between your thick, heavy legs--you have not seen him debase himself by crawling in nearly fourteen years--and he reaches up to your face, as though in supplication. His uncallused fingers press over the shorn part of your hair, cradling your still dimly aching skull.

You realize, in a flash of clarity, that he looks like he is seeking penance. You realize that in the moment before he does what he does.

And what he does... is kiss you.

His lips are soft against yours, especially in comparison to yours. Silas, as he is in all things, does not hesitate a moment; he presses his lips against yours, and even you, in your necromantic ineptitude, can feel the way some of his residual thalergy slips into you.

You take a breath, through your nose, while he kisses you. The oxygen does not burn all the way down. That is how you know. The phantom ache in your hand fades somewhat, as Silas tilts his face and presses again, more aggressively.

You are sure that the purpose of this kiss must have something to do with necromancy, and yet, your head tilts in the opposite direction, so that you can kiss him in return. Your heart flutters, though it shouldn't. You almost wish it wouldn't. It would be easier.

But your life has never been easy.

Silas breaks away from you after a few more moments, though he stays so close that when he speaks, his breath still enters your mouth, where you drag it yourself into your lungs, a fading echo of your master.

"I am sorry, Brother Asht. I will call you more fervently, next time."

He is killing you, slowly and agonizingly. You do not know if what he does is right, any longer, or if he drags you both through the mud for his own purposes misaligned with those of the Lord’s. You fear that your own heart is not right, for what you've done with and for him. You fear for nearly everything you have worked to uphold your entire life.

And yet, you love him still. You love him more desperately than you have loved anything else in your life. From the moment he was born and placed into your embarrassingly unprepared arms, until the moment you are released from his service in death, you have loved and will love him.

What a horrific paradox.

[greenerteacups]

Hi there! Just wanted to ask something fun: what’s your favourite moment from each of the books you’ve written so far?

lovely lovely question. so much fun. let me see:

book one: i mean, the train station scene was the image that kicked off the whole series, so i have to pick that one. it resonated with me on so many levels — it introduces the running element of muggle music, which becomes a sort of leitmotif for draco and hermione's relationship, as well as draco's own character growth; it's a fun character moment, in that hermione gets to steal the show from draco's gift of an owl, leaving him speechless, when he'd surely have liked it a bit more the other way 'round, and that's going to be a precedent, too; i also just like the moment itself, as a piece of atmosphere and symbolism. it's his first year of being a gryffindor, and he's survived it, and it's sunny outside, and there's music playing.

there's also a fun nubbin of symbolism in that the song playing is supposed to be "white wedding," which is the epigraph from book 1 (and, in a sense, the whole fic), a song about redemption and starting over and yet also taking your past with you, as well as... well, a song about a wedding. so. take that as you will.

book two: narrowly, it's the moment at Theo's Yule Hunt party where narcissa has just collapsed, and the slytherins have all seen it. there's a beat where draco thinks they're going to turn on him, and use this vulnerability they've discovered to knife him in the back — only they don't. theo sizes him up and makes a call, and they help him get her out. daphne even breaks a school rule to do it. and pansy grouches and gripes about it — she gets in one jab about "hall-pass Slytherins," which still makes me giggle, to be honest — but she helps, too. it's a humanizing moment for them, and (hopefully) one of the first times we begin to see the slytherin kids as possible allies — utter brats, still, but nonetheless people with deeply cherished friendships, loyalties, and the capacity to show empathy and kindness for people they don't yet owe anything. it's maybe the most important moment of book 2, both in terms of theme and plotting.

book three: in terms of writing? i loved doing "The Last Marauder." god, what a fun chapter to write. sirius black's interactions with the golden quartet are some of the most entertaining exchanges in the series for me, bar none, because he's the furthest thing from a parental/supervisory figure that the kids have met (at least, that doesn't want to kill them). he's just unapologetically out of pocket in a way that's glorious for dialogue. (honorable mention here goes to daphne's moment at the League party, because when i finished the scene i sort of felt like daphne herself had burst into my room, held me at wandpoint, and demanded a larger role in the story. it was the moment she transformed in my mind from a tertiary character into a secondary one, and it was as glorious as you'd expect.)

as a moment per se, however, i think it has to be draco's patronus.

book four: "Padfoot Returns," by several orders of magnitude. no question. it's the scene that the whole series has really been building to, and writing it felt every ounce as cathartic as that sentence implies. i also got to do a lot of really fun imagery with smoke and rain and fog, and vamp a little about the ancient undying earth and the ghosts of Hogwarts castle, it was all just an uninterrupted pleasure, start to finish. took me about three weeks to get right, but it was three incredible weeks, let me tell you.

book five: so far, it's a scene in Myrtle's bathroom (which may or may not be cut for pacing reasons). after that, it's a duel in the Room of Requirement, because writing draco in fight scenes gets more and more fun every year.

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2.4k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm.

AO3 Link here 

Masterlist here

Their daughter enters the world squalling, tiny and pink and bloodied and somewhat wrinkled but healthy which is all that really matters), and Atsumu’s eyes widen before immediately filling with tears when the doctor places her in his arms.  

‘You did amazin’, darlin’ he whispers, running his finger against their daughter’s cheek reverently. ‘She’s perfect’. 

‘Make sure you count ten fingers and toes before you say that’, she manages to say before dropping her head back into the pillow, bone weary from her labour, and he laughs through his tears. 

They name her Shino, which means stem of bamboo. She reasons that if their daughter is going to take the Miya family name, she should in fairness have a name that represents her side of the family – and besides, she’d always been drawn to the whimsicalness of the tale of the bamboo cutter, but thought naming her baby ‘Kaguya’ might be a little on the nose. Atsumu’s grandmother isn’t terribly pleased, but her stoic father bursts into tears when they tell him, and immediately sends over a crate full of toys carved out of the bamboo from their family’s ancestral grove. 

The press has a field day when MSBY’s PR team releases news of their marriage and Shino’s birth, but thankfully the full weight of the team’s PR machine manages to twist the coverage to repackage Atsumu’s image as a wholesome family man, so the articles remain relatively positive. Still, they’re forced to sit through a number of photo shoots to keep the press happy, and she shudders at the office gossip she knows she’ll have to face when she returns back to work. 

His teammates crowd to greet Shino when she brings her out for one of their matches for the first time. Atsumu presents Shino proudly to his teammates - ‘look at what I made’,  he demands, dangling her in his hands so they can ooh and ahh over the little girl - ‘ I learnt it from one of  those kiddie cartoons I watched at night when she wouldn’t sleep!’ he tells her later when she scolds him for the precarious hold.

She has to shoo Hinata and Bokuto away when they try to hand Shino a volleyball, the ball looking comically big against the baby girl. Sakusa stands at a respectful distance away, but hands her an adorable onesie in MSBY’s black and gold, wrapped carefully in plastic. The corner of his eyes crinkle behind his mask when he tells her it’s so Shino can support them properly at their next game. 

‘Aww, Omi-omi! I always knew you liked me deep down inside’ Atsumu crows, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands.

‘You’re insane to marry him’, Sakusa tells her, refusing to even acknowledge Atsumu’s tomfoolery.

‘Maybe I am’, she grins, warmth furling and unfurling in her chest. 

Despite her initial fears, Atsumu falls head over heels for Shino, and continues to allow their baby daughter to wrap him around her tiny finger. He wakes up without complaint for night feedings, spends nights pacing their little apartment coaxing Shino to bed, and straps her on his broad chest for what his pronounces ‘daddy-daughter’ adventures during the off-season when she’s away during the day for work. On weekends, they bring Shino to the park to watch the birds and the clouds in the sky, to the aquarium to watch the fish in the sea, and to the museum to marvel at dinosaur bones from a distant past. 

It’s at the museum that Shino says her first word, sitting between Atsumu’s legs in the museum sandbox, digging her chubby hands in the sand in search of fake fossils. 

‘Say that again’, Atsumu laughs wetly, pressing kisses to the top of their little girl’s head. 

‘Oto-san!’, Shino crows, the look on her face so reminiscent of Atsumu’s expression whenever he’s pleased with herself that she’s torn between feeling pride at her precocious little girl - and horror that she’s going to have her hands full with a mini-Atsumu. 

‘You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you, princess?’ Atsumu says proudly, and Shino claps her hands as he cuddles her close to his chest. He later tries his level best to empty out the museum gift store of toys to commemorate the day and she has to slap his hands from tossing in  ‘just one more toy’  into their checkout basket.  

‘Are you happy, ‘Tsumu?’ she asks him later, after they put Shino to bed. 

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he asks with a puzzled frown. ‘I have everything I need.’ 

‘Just checking’, she replies, her doubts forgotten when he tugs her into bed. 

For Shino’s first birthday, both their families squeeze into their apartment to celebrate by strapping a giant piece of mochi that Osamu made to her back, a tradition to rid young children of any impurities. Atsumu nearly trips over himself trying to capture a photo of the auspicious moment Shino falls over on her butt, and showers kisses on her proudly when she does not cry. 

They also carry out the erabitori ceremony, setting in front of Shino several objects symbolising the various paths she might choose in the future. Aside from the common items like an abacus, writing brush or books, her brothers insist on including a knife (sheathed, of course), earning raised eyebrows of Atsumus’s family. Osamu tosses in a kitchen spoon and Atsumu naturally places a volleyball right in the center of the spread. 

‘Cheatin’ pig’, Osamu mutters when Shino ends up picking the volleyball (attracted by its bright colours, he maintains), but Atsumu ignores him, tossing the little girl in the air in delight.

‘Darlin’, come take a look at this! Kageyama-kun’s playing his first game in Rome, and it looks like - I can’t believe this, why does his technique look better than before?! What - is the water he’s drinkin’ overseas magic or something? How’s he getting so good?’ 

‘Tsumu, could you keep it down? I just got Shino to bed, and I really need to finish the work I didn’t have time to do ‘cos I took over her pick-up today’. She replies wearily, typing furiously at her laptop. 

‘Sorry. I’ll pop over to chat with ‘Samu then, be back late!’

She nods distractedly as she hears the door click behind her back. 

‘I can’t believe I screwed up so badly at practice today’ Atsumu grouses, chin propped up on the wooden countertop of Onigiri Miya in between mouthfuls of food. ‘I kept missing my serves, and then that asshole Omi-omi dared to laugh when I ran around trying to get my head back into the game –‘ 

‘Tsumu’. Osamu cuts in, setting another onigiri in front of him. ‘As much as I want to listen to you complain about your no-good, very-bad day, could’ya help your poor wife out a little bit?’ 

‘Thanks ‘Samu’, she musters the energy to give him a distracted smile, juggling a bowl of rice porridge she’s trying to persuade Shino to eat and preventing said little girl from smearing rice grains all over the place.

Atsumu plops Shino onto his lap, and continues talking over her head. She takes the opportunity to stuff her face with food –  glorious food, and doesn’t notice when he maintains a sullen silence as they walk home. 

A hush ripples across the stands like a tsunami when Atsumu gets substituted midway during the last set of the match. She isn’t surprised, not when he started playing badly during the set – there was a little kid that screeched just as he was about to serve, and he’d hit the ball way out of bounds. That had been the start of his downward spiral during the game – his dump shots got picked up, his blocks weren’t quite on point, and worst of all – he’d somehow managed to misjudge the timing of a toss to Hinata-kun, the ginger haired spiker looking confused when the ball missed his hand. 

He’d stormed off the court the minute the referee’s whistle sounded, frustration and anger written all over his face and she’d made a beeline for the locker room, tucking a sleeping Shino into her carrier. She can hear him yelling (at himself, most likely) and the distinct sound of flesh hitting metal, and is about to burst in to comfort him when Sakusa steps neatly in front of her to block her way. 

‘Sakusa-kun’, she greets him, eyes darting towards the door. 

‘Miya-san’, he nods at her, face already hidden behind his usual mask. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to disturb him just yet.’ 

She opens her mouth to object, but Meian Shugo, the team’s broad shouldered, good natured captain, plants a hand on her shoulder to gently steer her away. ‘It’s not a pleasant sight when he’s in a funk’, he tells her quietly. ‘Let us deal with it, we’re used to him. Do you need me to call you a cab?’

‘He’s my husband – I should be the one to deal with him’ , she wants to say – but doesn’t, because Shino jolts awake and starts to wail. ‘It’s fine’, she does say, hushing her little girl. ‘I’ll hitch a ride home with ‘Samu instead’.

She meant to stay up to wait for Atsumu, give him his usual kiss and listen to him talk about his day, but she’s out like a light when her head hits the pillow (it’s been a long day, in her defense) , and she has to leave in the morning for work before he wakes.    

‘Everyone has their off days, but you’re an incredible setter, you know?’ she does tell him that night over dinner. Shino squeals and smashes her hand into the bowl of food. 

‘Of course I am’, he frowns at her, almost as if he thinks it’s odd for her to even feel the need to say that, and turns away to ruffle Shino’s hair.

She waits by herself in the lobby of her office building for five minutes before she gives in to her impatience and calls him. 

‘Tsumu? Weren’t we supposed to meet for lunch today?’ 

‘Oh shit – I’m sorry, doll, I promised Hinata-kun that I’ll come in for extra practice today. I’ll make it up to you some other day, ok?’ 

She sighs through her nose. ‘Ok – have fun dear’, she replies reluctantly, and he ends the call before she can say any more. 

She can feel the gaze of her colleagues on her back, and plasters a smile on her face before marching off to her favourite dessert place, comforting herself with a box of mochi. She buys an extra box for Osamu (they had a specialty flavour just for the season, and she knows he’s been dying to try that) , and drops it off on the way back home. 

Atsumu complains about only getting one piece of mochi when Osamu sends him a picture of her gift – she can imagine him gloating even though the picture is unaccompanied by any text. 

‘You don’t even like chestnut!’ she scolds Atsumu, and he sulks. 

‘Tsumu! Could you come help zip me into my dress?’ she calls, checking her watch impatiently. The babysitter should arrive in five minutes to take care of Shino for the night while they’re away at the team’s annual gala party.

‘Yknow’, we’d get there a lot faster if you hadn’t sold your old scooter’, he tells her, as he steps into the room, immaculately dressed in his best suit. 

‘I told you – it’s not practical to keep a scooter around when we have a young child’, she answers, already weary of a conversation they’ve had multiple times before. 

‘I’m just sayin’, he says lightly. ‘Oof – sorry, darlin’, the zip ain’t budgin’. 

‘But it fit perfectly fine the last time I wore it’, she frowns. 

‘You must’ve put on some weight’, he says absently, the heat of his hand burning on her hip even after he walks away. 

‘Tsumu, seriously? I told you yesterday morning that we’re out of milk powder and diapers!’ she growls into her phone, cramming her way onto the subway. ‘Fine – whatever, you go for training, I’ll deal with it myself’, she ends the call, dropping her phone like a hot stone into her pocket. 

She runs to the supermarket during her lunch break, cursing herself for wearing heels instead of more comfortable flats, picking up two packs of diapers, a double can of milk powder, and a pack of wipes on discount - all things Atsumu should have picked up last night, but he claimed he was too busy with training and club events to pay attention to a simple errand like this – 

She’s so lost in her thoughts she doesn’t notice when her foot misses the curb and lands on her knees in the dust, the contents of her bags spilling onto the road. There are scores of people on the street but no one stops to offer their assistance, so she ignores the searing pain to pick her precious supplies up before they’re lost in the crowd. 

The blood from the cuts on her knees drips down her calves, and she limps her way back to the office.  

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Yuna-san asks with a curious smirk on her face when she heads back to her seat, eyes red, knees wrapped with white bandages. 

‘No, nothing like that’, she answers the office gossip, keeping her voice deliberately light. 

Atsumu only grunts when she asks him that night how his day went, kneeling down to greet Shino with a hug. 

‘Won’t be stayin’ for dinner, got a team event at night’, Atsumu calls out to her, one foot out of the door. 

‘What? You should’ve told me earlier, I’m already halfway through preparing dinner’, she shouts back, hacking at the vegetables on the chopping board with a vengeance. 

His only reply is a slam of the door, which startles Shino enough to cry. In her hurry to get to her daughter, her hand on the knife slips, and she cuts open her hand. 

The space beside her remains empty throughout the night, and she falls asleep pretending the only pain she feels is from the bleeding gash on her hand. She’s so exhausted she does not wake until her alarm rings, not even when the surge of rain overnight batters her windows and water floods the streets. 

[lorelylantana]

Savageries of the Heart Chapter 1: Courtship

SFW

Next

Zelda always hesitated outside of the King Daphnes’ door. Bracing herself for the twinge of disappointment that always came when she entered the room to find her father’s chair occupied by her uncle, she straightened her spine and stepped into the room with a schooled expression and a head held high.

“You called for me, your Majesty?” she asked, folding her hands in front of her abdomen as she stood in front of his desk. He didn’t acknowledge her for a moment, signing off one last document before looking up at her with a radiant smile that sent a chill down Zelda’s spine.

“Excellent news, my darling Zelda, I’ve found a husband for you.”

She sucked in a breath, “My husband?”

“Yes, my dear, at long last you're getting married! It was a challenge, mind you, but I’ve arranged for you to marry quite the accomplished Zonai warrior.”

She was speechless. As the first born of the royal family, Zelda harbored no false hopes of marrying for love, but she had at least hoped to stay within Hyrule’s borders, where she could at the very least continue her research. 

“The temple will never allow it,” she insisted with a voice that shook in tandem with her beating heart. The smile on his face spread wider, though his eyes grew colder.

“The temple has always put too much stock on a bloodline bedtime story. Your mother was a gifted mage, but if present company is anything to go by,” he stood to walk around his desk and loom over her, “it was hardly a divine inheritance.”

“Zonai authority is established through combat prowess,” Zelda pointed out, “I fail to see why they would be interested in marrying me for my blood.”

“It doesn’t matter why they want you!” he snapped, the pleasant veneer of politeness cracking. He took a breath before placing heavy hands on Zelda’s shoulders, forcing them down into a slouch.

“What you don’t understand, Zelda dearest,” the King pushed through his teeth, “Is that we are vulnerable. Our military has been in shambles for an age, and ever since that wretched coup we have been surrounded by factions that refuse to fall in line. With the Zonai on our side, those other races will think twice before moving against us.”

In the ten thousand years since the continent was fractured there was never one incident that pointed to ambitions of conquest from any of the other five nations, but that didn’t matter to Zelda’s uncle, who had moved to a map of the continent. He stood in front of the east portion of the map, where the Akkala, Faron, and Necluda regions were painted Zonai green. 

“My fool of a brother didn’t see the threats, but I do,” he whispered, frowning. He spun around to face her once again, “All you need to know, sweet Zelda, is that in a month’s time you will cross the Bridge of Hylia and make your home in the quaint woodlands that were once a part of our great nation.”

Zelda opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

“Everyone wins!” he proclaimed, “We get the support of the largest nation on the continent, and at long last you can finally do something to help your country. As princess.”

Zelda sighed at her defeat, “I don’t know their language.”

“A month should give you a decent enough head start,” he insisted, sweeping a hand towards the door, “I suggest you get started.”

Zelda rushed out the door, desperate for a moment to process. Her plan was momentarily foiled by the arrival of Nohansen. The young prince was an unfortunate reflection of his father made all the clearer by his sinister smile.

“Ah! Have you heard the news, dear cousin? You must be ecstatic! The biggest day in any young woman’s life is her wedding day, and yours is a mere thirty days away!” 

“I fail to see how we’re to organize a royal wedding in one month,” Zelda muttered. Nohansen’s smile sank into a smirk. He ruffled her hair, knocking her tiara off in the process. 

“Oh, the wedding won’t be held here” he laughed, twirling the gold in his hands, “Of course not, we can’t have those barbarians running around our castle now, can we?”

Zelda took a breath to speak-

“No,” he said, holding up a finger to stifle whatever she was about to say, “We will be taking you to them. Your glorious wedding shall take place deep in the savage Zonai wilds. They even have a little spring said to be protected by a goddess. Does that not please you, O Daughter of Hylia?” he ended with a sneer.

Zelda snatched her crown back, the gold biting against her grip as she pushed passed him to rush through hallways stained burgundy with banners bearing her uncle’s crest to climb her tower, rushing up stairs and crossing the bridge to her study, the most remote room in the entirety of Hyrule Castle. She slammed the door and locked it before kicking off her shoes and climbing her desk to open the window high above it. She lifted her face to the breeze that rushed in. It was here, away from prying eyes, that she could truly relish in fresh air. She stood there a moment to relish the stillness before lowering herself to the floor and taking a seat in front of her carefully cultivated collection of samples of Hyrule’s most elusive flower, the Silent Princess. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t get one to sprout within the confines of her study. 

Her study was cluttered with several clay pots hosting their own samples. Stalks of Saffline and flowering Blue Nightshade gently glowing against the shadows. She also had several vials full of elixirs her uncle refused to consider implementing into the kingdom’s resources, citing a lack of reports backing her claims. Of course, any reports written by Zelda herself were disqualified because of a conflict of interest.

That didn’t mean her work went unnoticed. Zelda had built quite a rapport with servants and soldiers alike when she managed to concoct a working contraceptive elixir with ingredients common enough to distribute. From that point on Zelda became an unofficial medic to the people of Castle Town. Those employed at the castle had full access to the infirmary, but the same could not be said for their families. Since her activity outside the castle was heavily restricted most of her specimens were given to her by grateful family members who consulted her.

She was reviewing her notes on the Silent Princess when a knock at the door brought tension to her shoulders.

“What is it?” she asked, wary of her cousin coming in to gloat once again.

“You’ve been invited to dinner by his Majesty King Daphnes, he requests you come down immediately.”

“I’ll be right there,” she huffed, fixing the golden band on her head and straightened her hair before making her way down to the dining hall. To her aggravation, everyone had already been seated and turned to look at her as she walked in. Another one of her uncle’s tricks.

She sat at the last open seat at the head of the table. Her uncle intended to make a spectacle of her in some way, but she didn’t find out exactly how until dessert was served and the King knocked a spoon against his glass to call for the attention of the other nobles in attendance.

“It is my tremendous pleasure to inform you all as of today that our lovely Crown Princess,” he waved to a servant, who brought over a package “is officially engaged to be married!”

There was a round of polite applause before King Daphnes cleared his throat, continuing after they quieted down. The attendant placed a solid wooden box in front of Zelda after a maid cleared her unfinished cake away.

“In honor of this momentous agreement the groom in question was so kind as to send a gift to his beautiful bride to be and I thought it only right to share this celebration with you all by letting you bear witness to the first gift between our dear Zelda and her fiance!” the King turned to her then, laying another heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be shy now. Open it.”

At first glance Zelda thought the box itself was the gift. It was finely crafted, polished wood with a reddish tinge that she hadn’t seen before, and the various symbols and runes carved into it had her itching to go to the library. Zelda lifted the lid and reached in, pulling out a knife crafted by some creature’s polished jaw bone.

The room burst out in raucous laughter.

“My word!” a woman’s voice yelled, “I knew they were backwards, but to think they would present a young lady with the remains of some animal!”

“Well of course,” cried another, “If they couldn’t fashion a proper metal blade, what hope could they have of crafting jewelry?”

Zelda fingered the spiral carved into the lid’s center as she considered pointing out that the handle was made from silver wrapped in silk, but she doubted it would make a difference.

“Well she can always wear it about her neck if she wants to show off her engagement!” Prince Nohansen laughed.

Zelda did not wear the knife around her neck, but she did take to wearing it on a sash tied at her waist. The morning after the engagement was announced Zelda descended to the lower floors of the castle to reach the laboratory. Diplomatic relations between Hyrule and Zonai were nonexistent, but there was one researcher that spent a fair amount of time in Faron to study some of the plants there, and Zelda had gotten quite acquainted with him upon his return to the castle.

“Owlan!” she called, a smile growing on her face as the old man came into view, working diligently on documenting the fruits of his research.

“Come to glean Zonai secrets, your Highness?” he asked with a raised brow and his ever present gentle smile.

“You’ve heard the news then?” she asked. 

“There’s not a soul in this castle who hasn’t. It’s the talk of the town,” he closed the book he was writing in and turned to face her, “Would you like a tutor in their language?”

“I would, but that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Zelda set the box she’d received the night before on his workspace, “What do you make of this?”

He took the box in his hand, giving the intricately carved lid, “If nothing else, you know that he’s a gifted carpenter.”

“You think he made the box himself?”

“Rather than a ring, Zonai engagements are marked with a dagger. Typically the suitor in question will present said blade with a personal touch. A seamstress would wrap it in a sash for her beloved, a gardener might send flowers along with the blade itself, and your betrothed,” he tapped the box lid, “sent a carved box. Would you mind terribly if I took a look at the knife in question?”

“Go ahead,” she said, taking an empty seat beside him. She turned back to him holding the knife in question with a frown.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s common for particularly capable warriors in the Zonai nation to slay a beast and have a bone fashioned into the blade. It’s a way of showing off, you see,” Owlan said with a mischievous smile, “but I can’t tell what creature it’s from.”

Zelda took the dagger in her own hands, running a ringer across the large fang at the point. Now that she had a closer look, she could see etchings on the bone as well, depicting a long horned serpent curling under the teeth.

“What should I send back?”

“I’m sure a reciprocal blade would be appreciated,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Zelda left shortly after to visit the blacksmith to have a dagger commissioned before heading to the library. After consulting a librarian she had several books on the Zonai language sent to her room while she perused the shelves until she came across the tome she was looking for.

The Hylian Bestiary was one of the oldest books in the castle’s collection, the original copy was written back when the kingdom encompassed the entire continent. She hefted the book onto one of the empty tables and flipped through the illustrations of beasts both alive and of their remains. She rested her head on her fist, nearing the end of the section and still at a loss. She turned a page, a little discouraged until she scanned it’s contents.

There wasn’t much information on this beast, apart from reports of different colors and different regions it had been spotted in. There wasn’t a live illustration either, but there was a careful sketch of a skull. Zelda opened her box and took out the dagger just to be sure. She held it up to the page.

Her fiance had sent her a Lynel’s jaw.

If his intent was to impress, he’d certainly succeeded. She had never seen one herself, but there had been occasions where her uncle had dispatched knights to slay one that had wandered a bit too close to hylian villages. It was one of the few times the King would approve of Zelda’s assistance of the medical staff, because they always needed extra hands afterwards. Zelda returned the book to its shelf and entered her study. The books she’d asked for were stacked on her desk, but she bypassed them for her cabinet of finished elixirs. She opened the doors and considered, wondering which one she should send to her betrothed. She considered a poison she’d extracted to coat the dagger in, but decided against it. With the language barrier as high as it was, she didn’t want to risk him drinking it. She ended up making a defensive concoction that would give him an extra layer of protection, which he might need if he made a habit of facing Lynels. 

She was called down to the blacksmith’s a few hours later to approve of their handiwork. The blade was serrated, as she’s requested, and a fair bit longer than the knife around her waist, but she gave her approval and had it shipped off with her elixir to her fiance before returning to her study and reading through the basics of the Zonai language.  

A week after she sent her own engagement dagger she had received another gift from her fiance. Unlike the first, this gift was contained within a basket. Zelda had the good fortune to intercept the servant on the way to deliver her gift to her uncle. The maid in question was a regular consumer of one of her contraceptives, so it didn’t take much convincing before she was walking back to her room with the basket tucked under one arm. She sat on her bed, and somewhat excitedly opened the lid of the basket-

And slammed it back down again. She stared at the basket as though it might combust for a moment, heart slamming against her ribcage. Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, Zelda gingerly picked up the basket and placed it on her desk, ond once she put a few paper weights over the lid, paid Owlan a visit.

“Good afternoon your Highness! Are your studies going well?” he asked, looking up from the medication he was crafting.

“How do the Zonai feel about snakes?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Well I would say they’re quite fond of the little creatures,” Owlan explained, “Snakes in general are held in high regard due to their resemblance to one of their guardian deities. The Faron Python in particular is a common pet.”

“A snake is a common pet?”

“Contrary to popular belief, they can be quite friendly. The Faron Python is known for being affectionate and gentle, that coupled with their penchant to hunt pests earned them a spot in many a Zonai household.”

Zelda found herself in the library once again looking for answers regarding the nature of an engagement, and returned to her room with an illustrated guide to Faron Pythons and their care. Once she was once again seated on her bed with the basket placed in front of her. She made sure to turn to the page to a diagram of the snake’s physical characteristics to make sure she could verify her suspicion. Not wanting to spook the creature, she took the lid off slowly, giving the snake a moment to adjust to the light of her room before taking a closer look.

The serpent itself was shockingly beautiful, bright white scales with splashes of blue along its body that looked almost translucent reflecting the light filtering through her windows. After a few tense moments, Zelda carefully reached in the basket. The serpent didn’t shy away, so she felt secure enough to tuck her hand underneath a section of its body to gently lift it. First it was only a few inches, giving the sweet creature a chance to escape, but it only curled around her hand in an embrace that felt softer then it looked. The snake slowly turned to look at her. A tongue flicked out of an upturned mouth, and Zelda was lost.

From that day forward, it was common to see the Crown Princess of Hyrule walking through the castle with a serpent coiled around her neck. She liked the reaction her new friend had on those around her, even her uncle and cousin seemed to give her a wide berth whenever they caught sight of the python leisurely draped around her shoulders. She never mentioned the snake’s name because she liked the watchful respect she acquired and refused to undermine it by advertising that the intimidating serpent’s name was Noodle. 

With this new edge to her authority Zelda made doubly sure that any gifts from her mysterious groom came directly to her hands. The benefits to this policy were two fold, the first being insurance that her uncle wouldn’t make a further mockery of her engagement or perhaps keep the gift if he took a liking to it. The second was the prevention of any diplomatic incidents. As much as she loved Noodle, Zelda was well aware that a snake in a basket could be interpreted as an assassination attempt. 

As thanks for her new friend, Zelda sent one of her old journals she thought had a thorough description of how she made some of her earlier, more basic elixirs. She knew there was a chance he might not understand Hylian, but she thought it would be a good way to get to know her. She had tried translating the recipes, but gave up after the first few and sent the incomplete list rather than spend her remaining month translating a single journal. Her Zonai vocabulary was primarily conversational and sadly didn’t include scientific vernacular.

She must have gotten her point across, however, as just a week later she was delighted to find a few vials full of her fiance’s attempts to recreate her recipes. 

Zelda was also surprised, quite a feat after Noodle’s auspicious arrival, to find a Silent Princess pressed into glass. At first she was perplexed, wondering if her fiance had simply ventured a lucky guess, but then she recalled the day she began researching the flower and attempting to foster it on her own was also the day she filled that journal, suggesting her fiance had read to the last page of her journal before preparing his third gift.

Her elation at this discovery was fueled by a torrent of relief. She had heard the stories of arranged marriages gone wrong. She had considered countless times in the past weeks that the gifts sent could be a ploy to gain her affections only to have such generosity evaporate as soon as the final wedding vow was spoken. Yet the Silent Princess in her hands whispered tales of a considerate husband, who took the time to read through all she had written and took the time to learn her interests. Deep in Zelda’s chest, she felt hope flicker, foolish as it might have been.

[trevardes]

sail anywhere

Spoilers for Critical Role C2 EP141!

Fic: Sail anywhere Words: 1807 Summary: It hurts a little when they say Kingsley’s name. Rating: T Warnings: none Also on AO3 here.

It hurts to be born.

He thinks this must be true for all living things, but most of them don’t remember the moment. He does; he remembers it all. The smell of flesh and decay around him, and the astonished, painfully hopeful faces of eight strangers gathered in a circle around him.

Later, he’ll hurt for not remembering the lives they tell him he used to have, but in the moment he’s consumed by physical agony from his wounds and the heart-wrenching feeling of emptiness, of lacking something crucial. He’s nearly broken, only partially fixed both inside and out, and he wants to scream but only manages a whimper.

“Mollymauk?” the big one with the white hair and the tears slipping down her face asks, and it hurts to say no.

-

The grove heals him slowly like it heals the others, and he learns to walk and talk and not fear them. They have it in them to fight and injure, he knows, though he wasn’t present for the fight with the other wizards. Some of these people are clearly disappointed that he’s different from what they expected, but none of them seem inclined to take it out on him. Instead, they bring him food and blankets and awkward smiles, doing their best to support him as he takes his first steps in the world, sees his first sunset, his first sunrise, his first rainstorm.

It hurt to be born, new and wrecked and fumbling, shoved into a broken body, and it hurts to heal. It hurts to sit still as his muscles and skin slowly come back together, adding new scars to the old, distorting some of the tattoos on his skin. Empty spots amid them seem to stare at him, though the others tell him the eyes that used to be there are now gone forever.

-

Nicodranas bustles with energy and life, and it’s there that he finalizes the decision to call himself Kingsley. It’s not quite right, but more so than Mollymauk or Lucien would be. It’s something he thinks he could grow to be, with time, with some care and some time to find out who he’ll end up becoming.

“Kingsley”, Yasha says softly as he’s preparing to make the trip to Fjord’s ship. She turns the name around in her mouth with care, and the sadness of her smile hurts him - it hurts, it hurts - but it also feels good. Like perhaps he can have this, perhaps he can try something on his own. He wants to be Kingsley - not because he cannot be Mollymauk, but because he doesn’t yet know who he can be, and burns with the need to find out.

“Love”, he says back, just to see her lips quirk into a sweet smile, even as her heart breaks a little in her eyes. “Yasha”, he continues, matching her soft tone. He isn’t the man who was important to her, who experienced so much with her, but she’s already important to him, somehow. “This isn’t a goodbye.”

“I know”, Yasha says and reaches out carefully, taking his slender hand in her own, the size of it dwarfing him and the warmth making his heart hurt.

“I’m going to go with Beau, to find Zuala’s grave. My wife’s grave.” There’s a deep sadness in her, but it gives way to a fierce joy every time she sees Beauregard or mentions her. That whole situation is a big can of worms Kingsley doesn’t know he wants to dip into just yet, so he doesn’t ask.

“And after?” he asks instead, as if that’s any easier a question. She has an answer prepared, however, and she tells him in hushed tones.

“Beau will continue as an expositor, and I’m so proud. She’s perfect for it. The thing is… I don’t know what I’m perfect for yet, except that I want to be for her”, Yasha says. “So at least for a while, I’ll just go where she goes, see how I like a quieter life. Maybe we’ll settle down somewhere.”

She wants to rest and to find herself through finding peace. Kingsley gets that, but he knows that’ll never work for him.

“Send word once you know where you’ll be. I’ll come visit”, he promises. “At some point - not yet though, and not for a while, I think - I’d like to hear about Molly from you.”

Yasha squeezes his hand and gifts him a smile that makes him see how she can so easily turn a difficult person like Beau into sappy mush.

“I would love that”, Yasha whispers, and though it hurts, Kingsley thinks he understands Beau, thinks he understands why Mollymauk would decide Yasha’s card had to be Love.

-

Kingsley loves the sea, and he thinks it might love him back. Most things in the world are large and new and painful, and the sea is that as well, but it still feels like home. Every place it takes him offers something new to experience, something new to be.

Fjord and Jester and the rest of the crew at his back, Kingsley stands at the prow of the ship, squinting in the sunlight reflecting off of perfect turquoise water. Seagulls fly overhead, calling to each other, and the wind pushes the ship hard as it splits the roiling surface like a knife. The water goes on forever, disappearing behind the horizon, and Kingsley smiles. His hands grip the railing and he leans forward, tail flipping behind him in excitement, his black coat billowing in the wind. There are other ports to see where he’s going, people to meet, treasure to find and to take, and this right here is something he thinks he can learn to be. This him who feels sea spray and sun gentle on his skin, this him whose newly short hair whips in the strong wind and whose chest is filled with - yes, hurt, still, but also wonder and joy and sweet longing for the unknown.

-

“Do you think you’ll ever remember any of�� any of Molly’s memories?” Fjord asks one night after a long card game and half a bottle of rum they’ve split between them. It’s just the two of them in the captain’s cabin, Jester having left earlier to spend some time listening to Orly’s stories from his youth.

Kingsley tilts his head, considering. He takes his time, secretly enjoying the way Fjord shifts uncomfortably as he waits for the answer. Kingsley suspects the man wouldn’t have taken this up if it wasn’t for the alcohol; it’s a difficult subject and Kingsley may have been a bit harsh in the way he’s tried to make them believe he isn’t Mollymauk and never will be.

“I’m not sure”, he finally says. “I haven’t so far, so I think it’s unlikely, but who knows?”

Fjord nods gravely. “Caduceus told me he asked the Wildmother to put Molly’s soul back, and that she did, but I suppose it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Kingsley toasts to that with the last dregs of the rum. “Maybe our soul is the same, but I’m still… well. I don’t know, but I’m not him.”

“That’s alright”, Fjord says, and from anyone else it might sound like an empty platitude, but not from Fjord. His tusks are digging into his lip nervously and his eyes flicking up to meet Kingsley’s and back down again. “You’re good, whether you remember or not. We have all that history with Molly, but those memories aren’t going anywhere, even if you find your own path. We have a future with you in it now, and that’s worth it.”

“Oh, Captain, I do so love it when you talk to me so sweetly”, Kingsley grins, and only laughs harder as Fjord sputters and covers his face with a hand, flushing.

The rum is gone, but there’s always sweet, sparkling rosé to be had thanks to Veth. Kingsley takes out the flask and takes a swig, offering it to Fjord. He takes it, looking thankful to be able to give his mouth something other to do than talking. Kingsley teases him further just for the hell of it, winking and blowing him an exaggerated kiss. Fjord groans and shoves his shoulder, smiling.

-

Years pass and the memories never return.

Kingsley is still empty, in a way; he can feel the absence of Mollymauk, of Lucien, but gradually he grows to fill some of that space. He has a hundred adventures with Fjord and Jester, many visits with Yasha and Beau, with Caleb and that elusive drow of his, with Veth’s family and at Caduceus’s beautifully melancholy little temple home.

He visits every major port in Exandria, tastes every drink and learns dirty words in more languages than he can count. He works and steals and charms and <em>lives.</em> He knows many women in many ports, and many men and many others, and is first surprised and then delighted to find that his empty chest can light up with love for any of them, for all of them.

He doesn’t have a home port like Fjord and Jester do, not even after he eventually has his own ship and crew who call him Captain, or when they start operating out of Darktow Isle, and that’s just fine with him.

He does often sail to Nicodranas, not in small part because of an elusive wizard of his own. Caleb would be proud if he knew, Kingsley thinks with a private smirk as he makes his way towards a tall tower to meet a certain handsome elf, already thinking of smooth brown skin on golden yellow sheets, of their quiet, snarking conversations afterwards.

The memories never return, and eventually Kingsley stops wishing that they did, stops dreading the day they might.

-

He does hurt for the Mighty Nein for losing their friend. He hurts for Mollymauk even as he names his ship after this person he’s taken to referring to as his brother, and he carries a measure of guilt; if Kingsley had never been born, perhaps Mollymauk would have lived. He would’ve reigned glorious over whatever piece of the world he would’ve chosen, and people would have loved him, that much Kingsley knows. He feels like a murderer some days, but on others it’s easier to just vow to make good use of this life he has been given.

Mollymauk would have lived this life to its fullest, and Kingsley has every plan to do the same.

He has his crew at his side and people he calls friends and joys and loves scattered on every shore in Exandria; he has the wind in his hair, the sun bright and sweetly painful in his eyes; he has everything he needs and more.

Kingsley Tealeaf smiles through the small, lingering hurt and sets a course for the horizon.

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 9: A Witness and Witless

Chapter summary: A realisation for Alexis, kindly dished by Captain Price. Meanwhile, danger is the gift that keeps on giving. (3284 words).

Warnings: N/A. 

29 October 2019, 0500 "Alexis" and "Alex" | Codename Aces CIA with SAS and Urzik militia Sakhra, Urzikstan

   Having her forehead split open had its benefit. Okay, maybe that was arguable, but Alexis was mildly grateful that the unbearable stings stirred her awake. It saved from her reliving a gauche situation: sleeping limbs entangled with her best friend, who she almost kissed, again.

They were practically squashed together, her head pillowed against his firm chest. Seeing how paranoid and sharp to his surroundings Alex was, his iron grips were challenging to snake out of it, good thing she had practice.

Here, at 5 am, while others were desperately chasing some sleep, Alexis was too engrossed in her own thoughts. The past 24 hours happened like a flash, and the Wolf was her highlight, making her fidget uncomfortably just at the thought.

You should have fought harder, been stronger, not falter at his baseless threats. Alexis had no one but herself to blame for allowing the Wolf to escape. The guilt her mistake carried fuelled the fire inside her, with revenge as additional gasoline to the mix.

The Chinese had a saying: "for what you do upon me, I'd unleash it ten times worse." Omar Sulaman would regret ever threatening her.

Seeking refuge under a dying tree at the residence's courtyard, she brooded in reflection. At least she figured out an end goal for the Wolf, but the friendship between Alex and her was shaky, at best. Alexis released an exhale of pent-up frustration, fingers weaving her chocolate locks into a braid. So immersed with overthinking, she almost failed to catch Price's approaching footsteps.

"No rest for the wicked, eh?" He arched a concerned brow at her stitches.

Alexis cracked a smile, "'Course." Patting beside her, she gestured for Price to take a seat with her on the patch of dried grass. "Please, don't be a nanny. Just sit down."

"Fantastic. I'm in no mood for that either," Price replied. His face briefly caught silvers of golden rays, accentuating the eye bags and fine lines that revealed just how much Price had aged since their last encounter. Even without the combat vest, his broad shoulders remained permanently slouched.

Alexis smelled smoke before the wisps floated past her. Witnessing how it relaxed Price, she shuts her mouth. "Something wrong?" she guessed, feeling the passing smoke layer her tongue with a woody fragrance, suddenly feeling the need to spit.

"The Butcher... Bastard didn't even spare a kid." Price took another deep inhale.

Alexis sighed, "We'll make him pay."

"Damn right." The price of war was a hefty one. And Alexis idolised John Price for his unwavering tenacity. By far, he was the most unbreakable person she'd ever met.

"So..." Alexis steered the topic, "What cover story did you tell Maddox and Forbes this time?"

Price scoffed lightly, a light-hearted undertone in his words, "Ah, I didn't bother. Bloody bitch about it, is all they do." Though Price, Maddox and Forbes all knew each other, Alexis always questioned what kind of Doomsday loomed over the world for a SAS Captain, Task Force Black's commander and a CIA handler to cross paths. Candidly, it made her excited to know why.

"Something going on between you and Alex?" Price questioned abruptly.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She confidently lied, ignoring the tingling sensation on her lips.

"For your sake, I hope you lie better when you're on the job," he mocked. Did she develop a tell? How did Price always know?

"Ah, it's just a bunch of gossips, don't feed into it."

"It's a reliable source," that piqued her curiosity.

"Kyle," she deadpanned, twisting her body towards Price. "Call MacTavish, I'm gonna skin Kyle alive."

Price hummed, giving her an amused look, "That'd be a waste of talent. So it's true, you two dating?"

She didn't even know the answer herself, so she replied with something safe, "We're friends, always have been." Her gaze averted to the small wildflowers blossoming under the base of the tree she leaned on. Chrysanthemums, its deep red petals swaying gently against the wind currents, almost like a greeting wave. Alexis scratched her head at the timely symbolism.

"Don't get stupid, you know better than most that nothing lasts forever," Price chided with a distant look in his eyes. "That boy looks at you like there isn't a war waging on."

Alexis sighed, twirling the stalks of red chrysanthemum hesitantly, "That's the problem. Wars are happening, it's selfish."

The Captain huffed almost disappointedly, "There's always a war. You see something you want, you best hold onto it before something blows it up."

"Shouldn't you advise me against fraternisation, Captain?" She smiled.

Staggered smokes escaped when Price let out a short laugh, "Whoever tries to boss you around is an idiot. Do I look like one?"

"No, no you're not," she chuckled, always finding wisdom in Price's words. So when he told her the way Alex looked at her wasn't platonic, she believed him. Not like it was unbelievable or anything. The way he tirelessly searched for her in a crowd every few moments—then smile when their gaze meets. With ample practices over the years, she'd successfully ignored how much he burned her insides with a simple look.

Now, maybe she didn't need to.

Alexis was always more of a spy than a soldier—at least, that was what Maddox always said about her. A natural God instinct to read the room, practically able to smell the changes like a bloodhound. Yet she was slow to pick up on the change in their friendship.

Slow, and a little reluctant. Now that she opened the floodgates that she guarded for so long, every possible feeling punched their way to her heart.

She was still in love with Alex. A chilling sensation ran over her spine when she inwardly admitted that. It puzzled her if it was relief or nerves? Either way, it jolted a new kind of excitement in her. Every exhale felt lighter.

"And what about you and Laswell?" Alexis retorted smugly, enjoying the rare stunned expression that slipped onto her mentor's face. "C'mon, give me some credit. The most impressive agent you've ever come across, right? I read your debrief about me from the Caucasus mission."

At his threatening frown, she held up surrendering hands, "Alright, alright! I'm done here."

Price ignored her teases, stubbing out his cigar at the base of the tree. "The Caucasus... That's what, 7 years ago? You just made JSOC back then."

Alexis cackled at the memory, "Back then you didn't have this glorious moustache. Remember when I pulled a knife on Mactavish?"

"Scared the lad shitless. Didn't show it, but sure as well saw it," Price continued, a smirk present on his face.

"I sure as hell felt it. Mactavish's pulse was jumping." Then she paused, realising Price purposely dodged her questions. So she tried again, "Don't avoid my questions, I'm a great matchmaker!"

He shot her a look, "Says the oblivious fool."

"Touche. But still-"

Luckily, Hadir spotted them, sliding open the residence's glass door and jogged up to them. "Oh, Hadir! Thank goodness you're here, Price was about to murder me."

Hadir squinted in confusion. "Ignore her," Price got to his feet and dusted the grass off his camo pants, sending the gleeful agent a hard glare. "Lass hit her head too hard, she's spewing rubbish. Careful, Hadir." He patted Hadir's back and started to head back to the house.

"C'mon mate!" Alexis yelled after him with a butchered English accent. "I said I'm sorry!" She laughed at Price's slightly gapped mouth.

"Did I mention?" His hands steadied against the sliding door, "You're benched!"

With that, Price slid the glass door closed, wearing an amused expression as she yelled pleads after him with no avail. "Petty old fellow."

Hadir sat on Price's previous spot, gracing her with a chocolate bar. Unlike commercial ones, military chocolate hardly tasted edible—for somebody who hated chocolates, it was a torture to sink her teeth into the hard cocoa blocks. "Hadir, you couldn't find anything else?"

"It's chocolate!"

"You think."

His enthusiasm didn't die down as he chowed down his own energy bar, but after a few chews, Hadir promptly stuck out his tongue in disgust, earning a burst of hearty laughter from Alexis, "People eat this?"

"Dumb soldiers do. But the smart ones..." Alexis pulled out a packet of biscuits from the side pocket of her pants, wiggling in front of Hadir. She snatched the cup of hot water from him and dunked the biscuits in, much to his protests. Seconds later, the biscuit softened to a texture that resembled a sponge cake. Alexis urged the wide-eyed Hadir to take a bite.

Hadir was sceptical until he tried it, pleasantly surprised. He praised, "Finally, some food fit for humans!"

"Genius, right?" He nodded in agreement, passing her the cup to share. "And I can see that look in your eyes that you want to ask if I'm okay, so answer your question: I'm fine, although I'm sick of people asking me that. Thinking about tattooing the answer across my forehead, wanna help?"

"Horrible idea... Count me in. But no, not your injuries, here," he pointed at his heart. "You feel bad for letting the Wolf go, I know. It's not your fault, Alena– Alexis," he corrected. "Your names are confusing."

The smirk on her face faltered slightly. Though it quickly returned, Hadir already saw the cracks in her smile. Then she decided not to bother with the facade. "I should have fought harder. I imagine there are people who should be alive right now if not for me."

"Like I said, not your fault. In all my years, you got my sister and me closer than we've ever been to end this war... We've lost many brothers and sisters to get to this point. Between Barkov and the Wolf, I'm not sure which of these dogs are worse." His words had a certain edge in them, reminding her how much this war changed Hadir. "But they are not careless men. Why did the Wolf keep you alive?"

"Said he wanted to watch me suffer," Alexis answered honestly, hesitantly taking another bite of her dessert. "Jokes on him. I'm gonna crush him. We're gonna fucking crush them."

Hadir pulled his legs closer to his chest, returning a small smile when she rested a comforting hand on his knees, "With a big enough stone, right?"

"Damn right."

━━━━━━

Even with the miraculous arrival of a second chance, it doesn't mean Alexis made it easy. Now was the perfect example for his argument.

"Maybe you did hit your head too hard—look in the mirror and tell me if you see a large cut across your forehead, because I might be seeing things." He pinched his nose bridge in distress. Price had tasked the very injured Alexis to sweep houses with Bravo Team, take it easy and all.

Alexis wore a polite smile and calmly said, "Fuck you."

"How eager," he retorted, knowing just the way to irk her.

She threw up her trusty middle finger, "Hard pass."

Really? She thought, playing hard to get is so 2002, Alexis.

"Really?" He moved closer, and except for a hardened face, Alexis did nothing to stop him. Trapped between Alex and a table, she breathily observed the blue flecks in his irises, avoiding his alluring pink lips that was definitely calling to her. "Trouble breathing?"

Alexis swallowed her nerves, "The only trouble I'm having is my lack of personal space."

"Ouch..." His head fell defeatedly on her shoulder, chuckling. "Lexi, honey..." he gilded, eyes boring into her own. She kept still and bit her tongue at the pet name, watching his gaze travel down her face, maybe her lips.

Alex pressed more of his weight against her, "Be a good girl for me. Consider I said please."

Her heart quickened, sparing a quick glance at the wide-open door full of Marines who stood oblivious to their actions, but if they continued standing in this position, it was just a matter of time. "You're adding to the rumours..."

"So everybody thinks we're dating, big deal." He slammed the door shut to prove a point.

Are we? What is this between us?

She tasted the words on the tip of her tongue. Alex's flirting had become painfully obvious that she wasn't the sole player of this game anymore. And instead of addressing it, her wickedness took over—lightly chewing down her lips just to confirm her suspicions again.

A knowing smile slowly builds when he took the bait.

Alex blinked rapidly, retreating instantly. His attempt to clear his throat was pathetic, voice throaty as he said, "You're going with Bravo, no arguments."

"Like hell. The medic cleared me!"

Alex paused thoughtfully, rolling up his sleeves up his forearm. If this was his sly attempt to distract her, it worked. Reasons beyond her, his tattooed arms were incredibly attractive. "Was that before or after you threaten him?"

He didn't... Alexis recalled the easily convinced medic. Sue her for having a way with words. She smiled sweetly, refocusing on packing her combat bag, "You have no proof."

"Tell that to your face," he rolled his eyes. "Babe, come on, there's not enough time for me to tie you to a bed."

She'd admit to almost choking at his unexpected comment. Like a good spy, she hung a scowl at his charming smirk—refusing to play into his trap. Then, she internalised his appearance, styled hair, in the middle of a war. Still so vain. Probably trying to impress her, cute.

"Number one, you're god damn shameless–"

"I call it honesty," he shrugged.

"Outrageous, not to mention scandalous-" she corrected.

Alex huffed, throwing his head back briefly.

"Number two, I'm pretty sure Wade outside there, who was shot in the thigh is still on the mission. Talk about a double standard."

Usually, this danger zone was when Alex would back off. But today, she was convinced he had an intensified case of a stick up his ass. Still, he brazenly took the loaded magazines off her hands. "I'm trying to not treat you any differently from the boys, if that's what you're implying. I just don't want anything else to happen to you, Alexis."

"But I am different, Alex! I'm not the boys," the menace in her voice was hard to miss, a stark juxtaposition to the playfulness, "I don't want to be one of the boys. Read my damn resume, you really think this injury will be the one to do me in?" Her neck craned upwards to meet him, "I'm still standing. I can do this."

Alex finally uncrossed his arms and nodded, "Okay."

She cast a suspicious sideways glance, "That's it?"

Alex hummed– actually hummed this time. Her eyebrows shot heavenward, which amused him. "You expected a few more rounds, didn't you?" At her nod, "I trust you, that's all."

"Huh... Usually, you'd try harder. Say something melodramatic like: No, Alexis! You'll quite possibly die, bleed out to death–"

"Defamatory, I do not sound like that," he insisted upon her dramatic pause and casual dismissal of hands.

Alexis poked accusingly into his chest, "Something's wrong with you." He smirked like he knew something she didn't, and ironically, she did. You're not that slick, Romeo. Two can play this game.

"Funny. Here I thought a master profiler like yourself had better skills."

Part of her questioned if it was a double meaning, but shook it off. Grabbing her stolen magazines from his grasp, "Come on, we have a war to fight."

She wondered if Alex's blood had always run so hot when she reached over to grab his arm, surely she wasn't the only one who felt that. But Alex remained silent and allowed her to push him towards the door. They were about to step out until her satellite phone sounded. The two shared looks of caution at the odd notion, her phone hardly rang. Alex was the designated communication channel, and with Price's arrival, he carried that responsibility.

Unless it was an emergency... She quickly accepted the call. "This is a secured line, identify yourself and how you got this number."

"I have my ways. Good to hear you're still breathing."

Her shoulders relaxed, "Ruddiger. Why wouldn't I– Did something happen?"

"Saint, listen carefully, I don't have much time."  She mumbled a quick apology before kicking him out the room.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"After you left, we got a tip about Valhalla's safe house. It was a scam to draw our attention away from Boucher." Her stomach clenched at the ominous feeling. "He's dead. Someone got to him."

"In the Hostel? That's not possible." The whole point of a Blacksite was that it didn't exist.

"It's true, Saint. I saw his body with my own eyes. We found a tracker—plastic polymer, explains why it didn't show up when we wanded him." He continued when Alexis didn't reply, "This shit gets worse. They got a list... Of everybody who's on the op."

Her heart stopped right then, "No fucking way. Where are you now? And wait, this is high-level intel, how do you-"

"I'm officially CIA, thanks to your glowing recommendation. So technically, I'm also here to say I owe you one. The welcoming committee sucks, they're putting us in safe houses. All except you."

Then Alex burst through the doors, signalling it was time to move, but paused at her ghastly face. She held up a shaky hand, "Well, fuck, mon sauveur, huh? Thanks for the intel, but you do know you just broke protocol?"

From the anxious rubs on her face, Alex knew something was really wrong.

Ruddiger laughed on the other line, "Consider it my gratitude for your olive branch. I gotta go. Stay safe, Saint. You'll never know how far Valhalla can reach."

"I'm in the middle of a war. He'll never find me here," she braved through the unsteadiness in her voice. When the call ended, she remained on the chair, still profoundly dumbstruck. She didn't know which was worse: that someone managed to infiltrate a Level 10 CIA blacksite, spooking Valhalla, or that her name was sitting somewhere on a hit list.

Another question bagged her, was it her real name? A thousand worries crashed down onto her. Why haven't Forbes or Maddox called?

"Hey," Alexis jumped at the touch, instilling more fret in Alex, who kneeled before her chair. "You're shaking. You okay?"

Alexis knew Alex wouldn't stop until he got an answer. Yet she couldn't give it to him, she'd put him in danger.

"Always," she mustered the biggest smile she could. And because of that, Alex saw right through her. But there wasn't time to dig further, they had a war to fight. Besides, for all she knew, she was safe, for now.

If Forbes or Maddox haven't called, it meant she was still safe. She'd focus on that.

When she wordlessly slung her rifle and holstered her guns, there was a heavier feeling bubbling inside her. Alexis didn't have a good omen, but she couldn't pinpoint if her gut was referring to today's war, or the brewing one.

Ah fuck, is there a difference? War is war.

War is war, was her final thought as she got ready to start a day full of tragedies.

Alexis should have listened to her gut.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓

a/n: taking a minute to say thank you to all of you!! i never thought Killer Instinct would receive so much love, but here we are, thank you lovers!!

taglist: @flyboidameron @wanderlustgiant @captain-pikas-world​ (wanna be tagged? lmk!)

[ladyalice101]

week 7. 

Jonsa week S L A Y E D me. seriously, thank you so much to all the amazing fic writers out there, I had such a shitty week last week, but it was amazing to come home in the afternoon and know that I had a variety of fics waiting to be read! 

considering there was so much content this week, this list is ~long~ (well, for a weekly fic rec it is anyway) 

this week I loved . . . 

something a bit different this week. I'm not reccing one fic, but an author. 

@missfaber wrote my favourite fics this week. her ao3 is here, where you can read all of her glorious fics. but here is the list of my faves from this week (which is like all of them).

anchor up to me, love

an amazing au, set in the 50s, in which sansa is a marine biologist, jon is her colleague, and they go on a deep sea expedition to find a giant squid. sounds niche, but like ... if you love “and there was only one bed” and “and they were roommates” tropes, then this fic is for you (and don’t fucking lie to me, everyone loves those tropes, so I'm expecting ya’ll to read this) 

it was a stained glass variation of the truth

this is a fake dating au, but like . . . filled with pain. jon and sansa are broken up (currently for unexplained reasons), but it’s thanksgiving and sansa doesn’t want to tell her family yet that they’re not together. so jon agrees to come and pretend. it is . . . oof. like. wow the emotional beating my heart has taken. but ALSO it’s amazing and I already know that once it’s done I'll be rereading. 

oh moon be still, she is aching

jon and sansa run an inn together. this is a wip, and I think going to be quite a few chapters, so it’s only in the setup stages atm but it’s already featuring protective jon 👀

Wolf's Teeth

a super repressed sansa undergoes a sexual awakening at a sex dungeon. need I say more? 

honourable mentions . . . 

I’ll Be Coming for Your Love, Okay? by @carbonitekisses (I'm so glad you found this list and that I could tag you!)

Willas walks ahead and Sansa hesitates before following suit. Normally Sansa would stop by and chat for a bit with Jeyne at the reception desk but she doesn't want to interrupt. She's ready to walk by and head straight to her office when Jeyne calls out her name in obvious relief.

Frowning for the first time today, Sansa redirects her route. The man Jeyne had been speaking to turns around to face her so quickly it's almost comical.

She would laugh to herself but then she see his face. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Full lips. For a second (or two or three...) Sansa's reality shatters before piecing itself back together into a kaleidoscope of bright colors and pure light.

a reincarnation/time travel au, in which Melisandre and the lord of light do some devious things and bring sansa back to life after she dies in canon-era. except it isn’t canon-sansa that’s brought back, it’s modern sansa. 

this features SO MUCH ANGST from jon. seriously that boy is just one big pile of melancholy in this fic, because he longs for sansa. but never fear, there is a happy ending, and while it certainly soothes your heart after this fic stomped on it, honestly the angst is the best part. Jon’s love for sansa really jumps out of the screen, and there were so many times that my heart ached for him. 

Swarovski Crystals by jeynestheon 

Jon has a type.

The other girls.

Short, lean, and brash, with mouths bigger than his father’s ego. Tomboys. He dates girls that make their own shorts by tearing apart their winter jeans and always wear the same battered pair chuck taylor’s. They like when he takes them hiking for the first date, and they don’t act shy when he fucks them in the car afterwards. They prefer cheap 24 hour diners to the best italian restaurants in town. Their nail polish is always chipped when they grasp his hair as he moves down between their legs. They have random stick and poke tattoos. They snort when they laugh. They have families that they will inevitably hide him from. Rich boyfriends don’t gel well with their real world. He is a fantasy. He’s a way to pass time. And that’s fine. He likes it uncomplicated. That’s his type, all in all—un fucking complicated.

And the girl sitting at the end of the bar—she isn’t Jon’s type in the slightest.

jon meets sansa in Paris, has a dirty one night stand with her, and then can’t stop thinking about her.

THIS FIC CAME AND TOOK NO PRISONERS. hOnEsTlY, I can’t rec this enough. it just fucking . . . took me by the throat and didn’t let go. jon is a rich playboy (kinda) who is utterly in over his head when it comes to sansa, and like . . . who doesn’t love jon being confused and shook by sansa, no matter how rich he is? 

A Dress of a Different Kind by @jade-masquerade

Jon isn’t so sure about a gift Sansa receives courtesy of one of their visitors from Qarth until she convinces him otherwise.

this fic is exactly what you think it is AND IT’S GLORIOUS. CUE AMAZING SMUT. 

With Joy by @alltheprettylittlewolves

By mutual, unspoken agreement, Jon spends years avoiding Sansa. Yes, she’s his soulmate, but to say it’s complicated is putting it mildly. They are finally brought together by a gift from Sam.

Written for Jonsa Week 2019, Day 2: Tropes

modern au, in which jon and sansa are soulmates but think they’re half-siblings. except they aren’t. 

speaking of fics that S L A Y E D me. now, I love a good canon-set sibling kink (holy shit that’s weird to write) as much as the next jonsa, but I don’t like reading fics in modern settings where they’re related in any way, even just cousins. idk, call me old fashioned. 

but THIS. YOU GET ALL THE ANGST BUT NONE OF THE ICK. WHO DOESN’T WANT THAT?! (no seriously, tell me, I just want a few words ...) 

Roses by @jonsastan

“Stark could be right.” One said, biting into something that had been cooking in the fire. “We never see him south of the Wall, and he never fights those fuckin’ crows like his father used to.”

Jon stood, burying his knife into the elk flesh before moving to the fireside.

“What does that southern kneeler say about me?” He asked, meeting the eye of every man and woman there. The freefolk had no monarch, no royal family, and yet Jon had become King-beyond-the-Wall after his father.

King of Stone and Ice and Snow.

- - - - - - - Jonsa Week - Day Four: Songs - {Myths} - Lies

jon sneaks into winterfell under the guise of being a bard. sansa knows he’s lying. 

honestly, I hadn’t intended to read this. Idk why I'm not a fan of wilding!jon fics, but I just don’t read them. I clicked on this bc I saw a snippet of it on Tumblr, and I don't regret it! not only that, but I obvi liked it enough to rec it! 

A Revelation by Janina 

Based on a prompt on Tumblr: cruyffsbeckenbauer asked: Could you write something angsty where Jon realizes he loves Sansa differently once Arya returns?

an oldie, but I rediscovered it this week and immediately fell in love again. most of ya’ll have probs read this, but if you haven’t, get on it. it features jon awkwardly trying to do with Arya the things he does with sansa, and realising that it is . . . NOT the same 

ok, that brings the list to a close! congrats if you got all the way through it, and I'd love to know which of them you read. 

thanks again to all the amazing jonsa fic writers out there, ya’ll kept us alive after the series ended. 

[deadagainmaevepetre]

— yet (moment by painful moment, breath by painful breath) one got through things.

SUMMARY: on behalf of titania, maeve begins pushing il sangue di faerie to the wealthy, young elite of verona. she kills two boys in the process. in addition, she secures test subjects for faerie’s ring, a new capulet drug in development.

dates: april 14 — 23 trigger warnings: drugs, murder, rape mention featuring: @la-bella-falco / @dukemassetti​ / @oliviorivera​ / @theodoramoreaus​

APRIL 14. 

For the most part, Maeve doesn’t love being a Capulet. But there are, admittedly, some perks — namely, access to some of the most famous teenagers of Verona. They have no idea that their opulent house party is her target, and that she is gunning for their wallets as surely as she is aiming for their souls. With her makeup and outfit masterfully orchestrated by Bunny, Maeve slips in with a group of influencers as if she’s one of them.

She takes a selfie in front of the elaborate entrance to enhance the illusion. Instead of uploading it to Instagram, Maeve sends it to Orion: dad, i’m an influencer! she texts. Her lips tick as she walks toward the crowd. It makes her feel like Orion is there with her; she can almost hear him insisting that it will all be okay.

Maeve nearly stumbles when someone steps in front of her. “Hey, I’m Luca.” He nods down at her phone, brows raised inquisitively. “Texting your boyfriend?”

Is this the part where she flirts with him? She summons her inner Lucrezia, hoping that she will make her superior proud with the subtle shift in her body language. Imagining her jaws cracking as it opens for a taste of him, Maeve leans in. “I’m just texting my friend, she’s supposed to meet me here.”

Her phone dings, and Maeve pulls it out and scans a text from Orion. She smothers the smile that threatens to paint her mouth and instead, for Luca’s pleasure, she pouts. “She’s not coming. Damn.”

“Let me introduce you to some people, then.” He begins to move towards her, and Maeve angles her phone away from Luca before he can see the screen. As his hand rests on the small of her back, she slides the phone back into her pocket and follows his lead. She meets his friends, the small circle of Verona’s youthful elite. Laughing at their jokes, rolling her eyes as she speaks of her made-up, flakey friend, Maeve pretends to be one of them.

And isn’t she close enough to be one of them, truly? She is Maeve Petre, the only daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Verona: privileged and pampered, beautiful as if she is one of Aphrodite’s chosen. But she lacks their ignorance, that naivety that sparkles like gold under the light and becomes a bullseye in the dark.

“This party is so boring,” Camilla whines, leaning against Mia’s arm. “Let’s leave.”

Luca laughs. “This is your party, Camilla.”

“Shouldn’t that tell you how bad it is?” she snaps. Mia tenderly pats her girlfriend’s arm until Camilla curls back into her, piercing glare melting to a merely unhappy frown.

It’s her opening, and Maeve doesn’t hesitate to seize it. Like she’s presenting a secret, she meets Camilla’s eyes and confesses, “I might have something to make things more fun.”

“Yeah?” Luca puts an arm around her shoulders, and Maeve fights the urge to shrug it off. She is working, though he doesn’t know it. It makes her feel unprofessional, or like this whole mission is a joke. But it’s not a joke; it’s her chance to prove herself, and Maeve isn’t going to waste it.

Her teeth are clenched behind a close-lipped smile that Maeve hopes passes off for flirty. “Yeah.” When she’s sure that they’re all watching her, she casually brushes her finger below her nose, flicking her finger up at the end for emphasis. It takes only one try for Camilla and Mia to get the hint, and they look impressed; it makes her heart pitter-patter with pride.

Luca is a little denser. “What is it?” He looks from Camilla, to Mia, to Maeve.

Mia rolls her eyes. “Come on, principessa delle fate. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

This time, she doesn’t hide her pure elation. Mia doesn’t know how fitting of a nickname that is.

—————

APRIL 20.

In almost a week, Maeve has expanded her circle of three clients to twelve. Word about il sangue di Faerie has spread quickly among Verona’s teen gods, gilded and gifted and glorious. Her reputation is beginning to precede her; Mia’s nickname has caught on, and they call her principessa delle fate. With a wild grin, Maeve accepts the crown they offer her and wears it with glee. She’s gotten used to their gratitude and how they lick the palm of her hand in hopes that they’ll find a delicate, powdery residue that will fill their minds with madness.

They are only the troubled and poisonous youth, with tongues made of polished gold, fingers and necklines laced with diamonds. They sit on their man-made thrones and consider Maeve beneath them. Just a deliverer of pleasure, a messenger of fantasy.

They never look past her bright eyes and splattered freckles for the gleam of something wicked and silver.

Each day, Camilla sends another friend her way. Then they send their friends, and their friends — and the circle expands. It’s as if she’s breathed life into clay, and they cannot stop coming back to her. Maeve grants them small doses at a time, until she says, with a petulant frown as if it hurts her to say it more than to hear it, that she’ll have to increase the price for how quickly they want it.

It almost makes her giggle, how quickly they agree.

She texts Olivio frequently, asking for his advice on how to create demand and desire without removing the illusion of access. Every word from his mouth is taken to heart, and Maeve executes it as if it’s law. Maeve promises to bake him cookies and a cake as a thank you; already that number is piling high, as Olivio helps her navigate tricky situations and complex requests.

She doesn’t think to ask Olivio for his advice when Luca asks to meet with her in private — she regrets it, later on.

"We used to go to this other guy, you know?” Luca says, a joint casually hanging from his lips. He shakes off the ashes, not caring if it marks the carpet. Maeve internally screams.

He offers her a hit, and Maeve shakes her head politely. Not at work, and not even with her friends, which Luca is certainly not. He seems to think her success is his own, as if he discovered her. How many times has Maeve bitten her tongue until she drew blood to stop lashing out at him? You only discovered me because I let you. You found me because I wanted to be found.

Instead, Maeve feigns interest. “What do you mean?” She shifts her position on his couch to face him, one arm propped up, chin on her palm and knees tucked beneath her.

“He used to deal us this other thing every once in awhile. Nothing fancy, just standard shit. I told him about you though, and he’s interested.” Luca inhales, deep into his lungs, as Maeve steels herself for the worst.

Luca exhales. “He’s interested in helping out. You know, help deal your shit and give you a cut of the profit.” He looks at her blankly, as if he doesn’t care for her answer at all. “You in?”

It can’t hurt to meet him, Maeve thinks. It might even show some initiative. She did well enough to get the general public interested in il sangue di Faerie. A quiet thrill hums through her veins, the thrill of exceeding expectations a different kind of drug entirely.

She smiles sweetly at Luca, liking him for the first time since she’s met him. “Sure. Sounds interesting.”

“Meet us tonight, then. I’ll text you some directions.” Luca grins, stupidly high. 

Maeve almost laughs at how dumb he looks and is. “Okay. See you tonight.”

———

APRIL 20, BUT NIGHT.

She doesn’t expect the night to end like this.

One bloodied body at her feet, the life slowly seeping out of him as the crisp night air fills her lungs.

Another bruised but breathing one facing her, crouched and tense with a mere pocketknife extended towards her.

Maeve might have smiled at how cute it was that he thought a pocket knife was good enough, if not for the fact that she’s drenched in Luca’s blood. As awful as he is — was — he was still just a boy. He made her laugh. He reached out to her when she was a new face, and let her into his inner circle without a second thought.

“He didn’t have to die,” Maeve warns the other boy, with the gentleness and concern of a mother telling her child not to eat a scorpion.

“You’re the one who killed him, baldracca.” His voice shakes, and Maeve feels a pang of pity for him.

She’s sorry. He may not believe her, but regret and grief both overwhelm her now. She’s just become better at withstanding it, is all. She knows how to carry it now: the way the shadow plays with the light, how pain intermingles with pleasure, how love and loss are long friends who always stop to chat and hold hands. She knows how to suffer it quietly. 

“You came to attack me. To steal from me. And,” now it’s her turn to tremble as she considers the worst, “who knows what else.”

“You were charging way too much—”

“Luca was a rich little boy, mommy’s favorite,” Maeve interrupts harshly. “This has nothing to do with money, and everything to do with power. You wanted to teach the little girl a lesson. You wanted to see if you could make her cry and scream.” Her grip on Little O turns white. “You wanted to make her weak.”

He doesn’t say a word — for a moment.

When he finally speaks, he seals his death.

“You’re not a drug dealer,” he says slowly, as if coming to the realization himself. “You’re a Cap—”

Maeve’s knife sinks into his chest before he can finish the word. She holds it there for a moment, meeting his eyes and hoping he sees the tears in her own. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers one second before she pulls the knife out.

———

APRIL 23.

It’s a testament to how far buried the old Maeve Petre is — how quickly she returns to normalcy.

She attends another party, keeping an ear to the ground as Verona mourns the death of Luca and Angelo (that was his real name, Angelo). They’re not sure who murdered them, or if it was a murder at all.

Maeve doesn’t have to pretend to be too choked up to speak. The others go as far as to comfort her, patting her back and saying awful, horrible things like, “We all know Luca was your favorite, Maeve. We know he loved you.”

Loved me? She swallows back a scoff, and it burns her throat on the way down. He wanted to rape me.

When they ask her for something to ease the pain, she summons everything Olivio taught her to revive her spirit. With the same, affectionate grin that Maeve has become known for, Maeve pulls out a small packet of powder and drops it into their hand. “This one,” she says gently, “is on the house.” It will come out of her own pocket, if it has to.

“Thank you, Maeve.” Mia tucks it into her pocket and is about to walk away when Camilla interrupts.

“Do you have something... different?”

Maeve blinks bewilderedly. “Like... weed?”

“No, no. Like shrooms or acid, you know?” Camilla looks around with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she’s not seeing any of them at all. “Just something different.”

She remembers a project Theodora has mentioned, a rumor she’s heard on the wind... “I may have something, but it’s super underground. I’m not even sure if they know how powerful it is yet.”

There it is: a familiar spark in Camilla’s eyes whenever a reckless and novel adventure appears. She’s learned to capitalize on it; she’s learned to use it to propel her own name among Verona’s young and careless. “Can you get us some?”

Maeve hesitates. She knows nothing of Theodora’s project, and she knows nothing about how much she’ll be able to get her hands on. But she also knows Camilla loves to be a part of something exclusive, something urgent, something inaccessible and otherworldly.

She also knows Theodora is the best in Verona at delivering exactly that.

"You know that it’d be kind of risky, right? It hasn’t been tested that much, and I don’t want to be responsible for anything bad happening to you, Camilla...”

Like Luca.

Mia puts a hand on Camilla’s arm as if to stop her, but Camilla shrugs it off. “I’m in.”

Maeve smiles and winks, though her heart hurts and her throat aches with a need to scream her lungs out. “I'll see what I can do.”

[oddsocksandstuff]

Mercy

For @badthingshappenbingo

Square filled: Not used to freedom

Fandom: Supernatural

Genfic.

Tags: reference to torture, aftermath of torture, canon compliant, rescue, first meeting, trueform!Cas, brief mentions of being buried alive and coming back from death.

A story of an Angel of the Lord plucking the righteous man out of the black. (Set briefly before Season 4 episode 1) 

Reprieve in hell was a fickle thing, it came at the expense of another’s pain. It came perched on the tip of a blade or inside the flickers of flame directed at another. You held out until you didn't, and everybody cracked in the end; a small splinter that grew until you caved in on yourself and became hollow.

An endless feedback loop, a snake eating itself, a spiralling path that turned ever inwards; down and down into depths darker at every turn.

Dean had been black for years, if one could count time in hell in the rotations of the earth and passage across the stars. It seemed an eternity, and the reason for his own reprieve was long lost to the recesses of memory. He turned the screw tighter, and cut deeper, and burned hotter and faster and crueller so as not to look back. His own pain like a phantom in the night that never gave up the chase, his own fear a choking fog that drove him ever onward to pulling apart those around him; so that he might be saved the punishment himself.

Not a willing pupil, but an attentive one, an eager learner; how to carve, how to make them sing. They all sang eventually, they all fell to his knife and his whims. 

Reprieve in hell was never a sure thing, and always the terror of being inadequate made him righteous in his anger. How dare anyone, or anything, put him back on the whipping post when he’d worked so long, and so hard, and endured so much to be free of it?

But resolve in hell was a thin thread stretched taut, and he never did his surety waver more than in those last moments. The crash came loud and long, a booming cacophony that echoed from above as though all the walls were falling inward. It grew louder, and nearer, and he gripped his blood stained weapon with all the strength he had. He was certain, for moments that spanned an eternity, that his luck had run out. Alistair must be displeased to come for him with such ferocity, such wrath. Screaming and clashing of blades that seared through his skull and rendered him motionless in fear.

Surely he was done for, the pain about to swallow him whole, the darkness come to consume him.

Light erupted ahead of the noise, the very sight of it overwhelming to his much-dimmed vision. He turned, and struck, and met his match. A flaming, winged thing so very far from Alistair’s blackness. Resplendent and terrifying, it battered his attack away with a blow that set his bones to rattling.

He snarled, and threw himself forward with fists and nails and teeth, and was caught up, wrapped in tendrils of power and strength that smothered and burned. He thrashed and kicked, and threw back his head with a wail. This was worse, whatever punishment he’d earned now, than anything he’d felt before. It seared him from the inside out and he looked down to see blackened, charred flesh fall from his body. Flakes and ash peeling away everywhere the light touched him.

Fighting raged above and behind him, roars of anger and shouts of victory reached his ears. Something looked down at him, peered close and tilted him this way and that. He cowered under its gaze, a gaze that seemed like a mirror reflecting all his brokenness back at him. He saw the ruined, scarred mess of his soul in many giant lidless eyes and clenched his jaw to keep back tears. He knew what he must look like, and he didn’t want to see it.

“Dean Winchester has been saved.”

No!

Fire red and coal dark walls sped past him as he was thrust upward with a lurch, the thing that gripped him held tight and kept him close. 

Stop, no!

“Yes, you have been saved.”

You can’t.

“It has already been done.”

Saved for what?

“For earth, for your purpose.”

I have no purpose, I’m just a tool, I wield and am wielded.

“You are many things, a soldier yes, a brother, a man, perhaps a saviour… it remains to be seen.”

Brother? No? It couldn’t be. That way lay danger.

“Would you like to see the sun again? To be free again?”

There is no sun here, it has all been taken. There is no freedom, not from what we’ve done.

“I can return all you have lost. Give all of it back to you.”

Look at me, I’m not worth saving. Where could I go, that would have me?

“Sam, I think, will be glad to see you.”

You can’t! I’m not… I would hurt him!

“Why?”

It’s what I do, that’s my purpose, don’t you see?

“I see a man, broken, but not ruined.”

I don’t think I count as a man, anymore.

Time slowed, the fire grew colder and the speed of their ascent got slower. Heaviness weighed down on his head, pressure that spiked pain through his being, an ache behind his teeth that ate its way upward.

“It’s all falling away now, all of it left behind. Look back, you can see it.”

He screwed his eyes closed and refused until gentle light suffused him and he gasped.

“Look Dean, it is all alright.”

One enormous eye, on the face of a great lion, held his attention. “You are not withered anymore.”

He glanced back, and down, and saw his own form glowing. Star bright and effervescent, and a trail of dying flesh that floated away from him, burned off by the intensity of the flames around his body.

What did you do?

“Returned you to the way you should be, unmarred.”

It’s all…. gone?

“Memories remain, the taint of them is lifted.”

Why? I don’t deserve it.

“That is not for you to decide. What I see beneath, of who you really are, that is what matters.”

The pressure increased until he convulsed with it, walls closed in and pressed upon him. The being that held him didn’t seem fazed, or falter.

Please don’t take me back to Sam, it won’t be the same. He’ll see what I really am.

“Forgiveness is a glorious thing Dean Winchester, and I believe your brother is better at it than most.”

And you, do you forgive me?

He needed to know, to feel it. The stink of the pit was still in his nose, still lingered on his breath and he wanted nothing more than to be free of it.

Blue irises, emanating light, shone brighter as they looked at him. “I saved you, I think that speaks for itself."

What am I supposed to do? 

“Live, survive, be the light in the world you were always meant to be.”

Saving people, hunting things, the family business… he hadn’t recalled these things in a lifetime. They felt so alien now. Whatever escape he had found came at the expense of his humanity— he had thrown it away like an unwanted gift. He couldn’t save anyone now, not when he was the shadow himself, when he was the monster under the bed that all fathers warned their sons about. He had drowned himself in evil to spare himself a little pain, he was well on the way to having eyes as black as his soul. How could he go back to cutting away the evil in others, as though he didn’t know where it came from?

Who will tell me what to do?

“No-one, you will be free.”

Freedom is just a length of rope, an illusion. Freedom isn’t for me. I’m not made for it.

“You will be, again, in time.”

He felt the press and roughness of earth and stone crowd around him. A physical weight on his being. The Angel— he knew now that was what it was— that carried him thrust harder, forcing them forward. Through. To the surface.

To life. Life that was so far beyond his scope of understanding, life that he had left behind, turned away from. His hope for it had been abandoned to survive the cut of the knife. 

You can’t do this, I’m not ready!

Roots struck out and barred their path and his saviour slowed, carefully pushed them aside like a tender gardener.

“There is no time to waste, Dean Winchester. Life is waiting for you, the world needs you.”

I’m not strong enough, I don’t want it, I don’t want to be needed. 

“No-one ever does, fate has her plans.”

The pressure was suffocating, and he remembered suddenly that life came with breath and breath needed space for air, and there was no air here in this underground place.

It’ll hurt, won’t it. The worst things always did.

“I know little of pain, but I fear it will not come easily. Your body awaits you, go with grace, Dean Winchester. I have faith in you.”

What’s your name?

The Angel paused. “Castiel. You will not remember me, I think, not like this anyway. It has been good to know you, and I will know you again.”

With one final thrust, one parry through the jaws of the earth that split apart atoms with a single push of energy, he felt crushed through dirt, and wood, and bone. Light flashed behind his eyes, energy fractured him apart and knit him back together. He became whole. Spirit and flesh reunited.

He gasped.

And opened his eyes in the dark.

Life in the ground is such a fragile thing. Survival against better judgement is an instinct one cannot fight.

So he clawed, and scraped, and dug, and thrashed until the coffin was empty. Until he was free. Until the hollowness in his chest was filled deeply, until sunlight burned his eyes and he knew reprieve had found him; and it had come at the hands of light, the mercy of blue eyes, and the revival of his soul.

He rubbed the place in his chest where the dark had taken root and resolved to fill it with something else.

Coming home, Sammy. Coming back to life. Whatever that means.

He stood on shaky legs, and started walking.

[also on ao3 here]

[marzipan-moon]

Dress Rehersal

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Ship: Lorenz / Dorothea, Dorothea / Ferdinand Summary:  Lorenz watches Dorothea on stage, captivated.

Did she ever really come down from it?

The music swells, the war ends.

And somewhere, it's raining. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723957

OVERTURE

Her voice carried up through the rafters as a bird finally released from its cage, wingbeats reverberating through these shattered, destitute halls. War had come to claim everything; the beauties of old ravaged with as much savagery as had the people of Fódlan. And yet, to see her still standing here - with lungs that channelled air into art, singing the story of a defiant girl rising from nothing… she made this opera house feel fuller than it ever had been.

After all, he thought, even in its glory it could not have let the moonlight shine through to catch on her delicate skin, to roll in waves through her thick hair, to reflect itself so eagerly in her tear-stained, gemstone eyes. And even in their days of peace, she could not have sung with such verbosity, could not have acted on that stage with such sincerity, could not have wept the true tears she was spilling now.

War had taught him many things. More things that it had stolen from him.

So why was it that, as her voice reached its very climax, the jade in her eyes turned liquid and spilling as her spurned lover let go of the knife he had struck between her ribs… why was it that, as she collapsed to the floor, the last echoes of her voice dimming out, why was it that he rose to his feet, panic in his face, a scream of ‘stop’ drowned out by the audience’s thickening applause?

He’d seen her nearly die on that battlefield countless times.

Hundreds of others joined him to stand, his breath so tight and uncontrolled, so unlike hers that even when she died she had kept so loose and free.

He covered his face in shame and remembered that this was all just an act.

ACT I - RECITATIVE I That night, he asked her to marry him.

“You have become a symbol of hope for all the people of Fódlan, and I can think of none so fitting that could be my bride. Just as you have restored music to this ruined opera house, so too will you restore honour to my house.”

She tilted her head, the moon still trapped in her eyes, her smile curling.   “So, you made up your mind.”  

“Am I too late? I see no ring to bind your finger.” “I’m still in costume, Lorenz,” she laughed. “And you’ve seen what happens to a woman who remains unmarried.”

“Then all the more reason for you to accept my proposal. If she had had the protection of marriage, no man would have harmed her.”

Dorothea laughed again, turned his back to him, her eyes hidden from view. “Is that right? I’m not sure you understood the story at all.” Her words caught in his throat, his face souring. “You are straying from the topic. I have not come to swap narrative interpretations, Dorothea.” She lifted her head higher, the waves of her lovely hair brushing her back. “The tragedy is not that she dies, Lorenz.” He scoffed, the sweat pitying his brow. This was not how he imagined this proposal going at all. This was supposed to be his moment - the time he had dreamed of, over and over again, where his goals would finally be fulfilled! And here she was, blathering on about something else entirely. “I have always admired your intelligence, your wit. You outclass even I in charm, that much was apparent tonight. Even now, you return a proposal with a gift of philosophical moralising,” he hummed, attempting to look satisfied. “If I answer you correctly… if I satisfy you with my interpretation of this opera, will you marry me then?”

“I’m not so sure… Maybe I’ll consider it.” He latched onto any shred of hope still nestled here, his eyes widening. Of all the women he could have chosen, why had he been attracted to the most difficult?

“Very well. I think that it was an allegorical examination - an exploration of proletarian life, immorality and lawlessness. We are meant to expect it from the commoners, but be shocked when that same spark of madness afflicts the nobleman who kills her in a jealous rage. The tragedy is that he will likely go unpunished, our society so unfairly favouring his prestige over an orphan’s life.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing expertly. “It’s that she died pursuing freedom, the one thing a woman cannot have in this world. Wartime, peacetime, it does not matter. Every man will try to snuff it out.”

He paused, red returning to his cheeks like she had slapped him. His mouth meandered for a while, twisting itself in shapes until he finally found the question he was looking for. “Then, are you saying you will choose freedom over me?” She turned to look at him now, her gaze somehow haunting, her wings now at rest. “No, silly.” His heart trembled, the colour in his face deepening. “You always look so cute when you’re embarrassed. Red is a colour that really flatters you. You wore such a brilliant shade of it when you rudely yelled at me from the audience. That wasn’t very noble of you, was it?”

He floundered, ‘well I’s’ mumbled in his mouth.

Her laughter filled it instead.

“Yes. I will marry you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.”

--

 ACT II - DUET I

He had never… copulated before, it was true. Though such things were always on offer for one his stature, it was also his role to reject such pleasures in pursuit of something far more noble. In fact, some would suggest that this performance must always be… purposeful, focused on siring an heir, and to stray from that was indeed ignoble.

Yet, with Dorothea, he could not imagine this act being one born only of purpose. Besides, building a family was not yet in either of their interests. She had glorious heights still to rise to, and he refused to be the one who placed such a yoke upon her shoulders. Somehow, seeing her fulfilled was… well, satisfying in a way that, for now, burned far brighter than his desire for children.

So when she kissed him, delicately and then with opened mouths, when she gasped and giggled at his every reaction, guided his hands across her body in ways that demanded so little work from himself… he felt embarrassed. Ashamed of how little he knew, despite his long evenings fantasising. Yet he could not help but be in awe of her, how, when she moved his hands to her waist and then up and - yes, he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing - over her breasts, he forgot who he even was. She was like liquid pleasure, paralysing him in all ways but his breath. “I had no idea that the great head of House Gloucester had such a problem with his lungs,” she’d lilted in his ear, her perfect nails scratching gently at his chest.

“And I had no idea that you would dare use magic outside of battle,” he’d scowled, sparks of fire glowing in his belly, intensifying as she placed his hand over his and gently coaxed it to roll in circles.

“If this is all it takes to overwhelm you,” she whispered, pressing his awkwardly raised fingers against her nipple, “then I don’t think you’re quite ready for that.”

He groaned, forgetting his duties to be the one to please her, to follow the rules of all the men in all those operas she starred in. “How do you…” he gasped as another ripple of pleasure blossomed in him, her body pressing up against him. “Ahh, how, is it you maintain, such… such focus?” She was more experienced than he, he knew, but did not want to know. Such things he could barely condone in his fellow noblemen, but for a woman of any standing? He wanted to believe that this was as much her first experience as his, he wanted it so very much, and yet….

She slid her fingers down his chest, rushing over the outline of his arousal pushing against his white trousers. He almost went mad, then, a feeling as ecstatic as watching her voice climb to impossible heights, the swell of it pulling every soul to the edges of the body.

“It’s easy,” she said, her other hand losing itself in his long hair. She pulled herself into the nook of his neck, drowning herself in it. He didn’t much mind, the feel of her body perfectly aligned with his own, harmonising. “It’s all in the breath.”

He watched her through narrowed eyes, hardly aware of whatever earthly thing his lungs were doing. “What?” Oh. He should have been embarrassed at how inarticulate that was, but… “Just like in singing, you have to breathe from your diaphragm.”

She moved, fingers spreading, his breathing turning ragged. “Your chest shouldn’t be moving and,” she mumbled. “You want to tighten,” her fingers curled and gripped him through the fabric, “your stomach muscles.” From her instruction, he failed miserably. Whining helplessly into her hair, he forgot how to breathe at all.

When he felt himself returning into his body, he realised that she was laughing, warmth flooding into himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed to stop?” She squeezed her lips together, brows raised in faux-judgement. “Well, I, was… focussing on my breathing. Next time, it should be I who leads. This… this is exactly why a woman should not.”

His embarrassment sizzled, but not as brightly as the sudden look of anger that flashed hotly in her eyes, those green pools hardening.  

“And what should a woman do, Lorenz? Lie flat on her back for you, wait while you do nothing? Can’t you enjoy a little bit of teasing? You certainly seemed to only moments ago.”

“No, Dorothea, that’s -“ She decoupled himself from him, disappointment ghosting over his body as she left the room. — In Opera, all stories were ones of grand themes. War, love, death. And in every one she stared in, nearly always was she bathed in her own blood. Mezzo-Soprano, that was the colour of her voice, and the one that destined her to the role of villainess, of the rival, of tragedy.

Was that what they had seen in her when they plucked her from the streets? Heard the way she so perfectly embodied sorrow, as though her story and her style of singing were destinies perfectly entwined. If she had been born a noble girl, would her role be something entirely different? Would she had ever even been noticed? He thought such things as he watched her die countless deaths in the arms of countless lovers, torn between them and then torn apart. It was only an act, after all.

— Some nights, she would brush his hair. He was not entirely sure why, but she insisted on it. He rather enjoyed the attention, to be under her gaze in a way that was rather less dramatic than usual. “Do you remember that awful bowlcut you used to have?” She giggled, boar bristles sweeping gently through his hair. “What made you decide to grow it out?” “Awful?”

He narrowed his eyes, bending his head so he might catch a glimpse of her smirk. “Didn’t you think it cute?” “… As hard as I tried to see through your foul attitude to find something endearing in your personality, Lorenz, I really could not say the same about your hair.”

He guffawed to himself, frowning ever so slightly. “Well, I suppose I appreciate your honesty, but it is only a matter of taste. It makes sense that you prefer a more showy haircut, so normalised that has become to you with all your days spent in the opera. It is hardly a house for those with more… subtle tastes.” She gently and repeatedly went over the ends of his hair, pushing herself momentarily against his back. “That haircut,” she laughed, placing her head on his shoulder, “was anything but subtle.”

Before he could find some way to retort, she pulled her head away and began humming lightly to herself.

“It was such a shock, seeing how much you two had changed.”

He paused, turning to her. “Two?”

“You and Ferdie.”

Just as he saw the ghosts of all of her past lovers when she touched him, now he saw another figment rise up in her, clouding her eyes. “… Yes. Ferdinand and I were always similar in our tastes, from tea to mannerisms to… presentation. Long, supple hair is an apt symbol of nobility, is it not? To keep it so well maintained takes dedication and time.” She lowered her head, clamping her hands round that brush. “That wasn’t why he grew his out.”

The atmosphere in the room felt as though it darkened, somehow, her body crumpling like a snow edged leaf.  

“Did he tell yo-“ “He asked me to brush it, once. Well, no. That’s not true. His hair looked like a bird’s nest, and I insisted on fixing it. Then Ferdie kept coming back, asking me for style tips.”

She covered her face, eyes turned away from him, “He did everything with his all, didn’t he? I don’t think I ever fully understood why he was like that.”

He had to admit, he had never given much thought as to whether he ‘understood’ Ferdinand or not. He was simply not that sort of character. He had been a man who eschewed mystery, his heart as plainly visible as his sleeve. Right now, he was contemplating how well he understood his wife, never mind the machinations of a dead man. “Dorothea,” he said her name and enjoyed the way it played across his tongue, how it first wavered then arched, like a bird on the wind. “Please, what is the meaning of all this?”

The snow round her edges hardened. He reached to touch her face, fingers soft along her cheek in the hopes of thawing her. “Nothing, it’s… nothing,” her eyes crinkled, and he feared that he had accidentally crushed some piece of her into dust. Yet as her fingers played along his own, he realised that she was the one thawing him, the one crushing herself.

Her body uncurled and their gazes met, but she was looking without really looking, the remnants of a smile touching just the tips.

“Just memories, Lorenz, that’s all.”

— He found her singing, one day, by the lake… if memory served. It had been a foggy day, with beads of rain caught in the air. The water almost lapped up her voice, clouding it - but muffled though it was, he remembered it quite vividly. It had been nearing summer’s end, the weather unsettled and quite unusual. There are some memories that the body somehow knows to keep. Imprinted in finer inks, it felt like, as sharp and as ever-present as the crest that flowed through his family. Could they cut to his blood and find fragments of it, oozing there? Some days, he wished that they could, if only so he might experience that moment once more.

Her voice had flowed more smoothly than wine, its quality just as potent and intoxicating. At first, he had assumed it to be the haunting calls of a Loon - and, well, it was embarrassing to admit, but he had acquired a proclivity for studying nature. All the great artists… and poets, had. Those where the days where he yearned to emulate such things, as though one could simply mould oneself into a poet by adopting his personality and mannerisms.

So he had followed that calling, entranced. Yet it was only when he had begun to make out the outlines of words that pinpricked and then sizzled in his ears that he felt like he was going truly mad. This was not a voice that could belong to a human being. It had a way of… sinking into the body, of clutching the organs, of soaring; as though he too was flying with that conjured music that seemed to go only impossibly high and then higher still.

He could not stop himself following that voice, even if every part of him screamed out in fear. He supposed this was something akin to awe, though he could only have supposed such things in the retrospective - in the moment, there was no room left for words.

So when he finally saw her, her black school uniform the only thing that looked solid against the cold misted backdrop… he had gasped, giving up the last of his breath so that she might take it.

And just like that, the singing ended, and she’d whipped round to face him. Embarrassment was what first crossed her face, as though she had been caught disrobed and her magic discovered. Yet as soon as she registered who it was that caught her, that expression morphed into disgust.

He supposed, if he could have extracted that memory from his blood, he would prefer that it be snipped off here.

Yet, then he would have lost the passionate fire that still burned coal-hot in those verdant eyes. Those eyes that had not yet become haunted, eyes that could look at him with emotion in full bloom. Still, at the time, such a gaze had only evoked simple fear in him. She had not even said a word, and already he had been running. Ashamed of himself, afraid of what she might do, confused as to what exactly it had been that he was now feeling.

He had ran and ran and ran all the way back to his quarters, never telling another soul and recording only the silvers of it in the most abstract of writing.

He supposed it had to be found, one way or another. Magic like that can never be contained, no matter how desperately he tried to in the strained confines of words. Though, he had to admit, hearing Manuela sing her interpretation of a poem written about his youthful yearning for his now wife… It was a strange twist for the Goddess to ordain.  She had almost brought Dorothea’s innocence back into being, as though pulled straight from his memory. And to hear Dorothea herself remark upon it even though she herself would no longer be suitable to sing it, her fingers clutched within his hand, that disgust no longer present in her eyes… … It made him want to run, run and run all the way back to those old quarters.

-- ACT III - DUET II They tried that game with many euphemisms again, and by his insistence, he did indeed take the lead.

Needless to say, it was… not the most impressive of his accomplishments. In his defence, they had spent the last half-hour discussing the benefits of pomegranates and such-and-such herbs and their commitment to this decision… whatever the outcome. Why must all pleasure be tempered by duty? It was a question that Dorothea invoked in him more than any other woman, and he could not imagine taking such precautions if it were not for her.

Soon, someday, she would have to bear their heir. That, too, could be a pleasurable advent… but one that would bring an end to her life on the stage and usher in a new era for both of them. It was not one he wanted to charge into so recklessly, even if… even if he was aware of the rumours that would soon start to rise from forked tongues, and, worse still, the chastening within his own mind that would no doubt be roused to life. As delectable as she looked even as her soft lips sucked on the flesh of a pomegranate, he also knew such acts were deemed sinful and demanding of penance.

So, with those thoughts swirling in the back of his mind - he asked her to lie down.

“I trust you will tell me if I act improperly.” “You have behaved just as properly as I would have expected, Lorenz,” she said with a tinge of unkindness, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, well. Just as this is an experience of firsts for both of us, I do not wish to cause you any undue harm,” he stated, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Psychologically or otherwise. I refuse to handle a rose as rare and stunning as yourself without the utmost delicacy.” “And if I were not a rose? You seem intimidated by my thorns. Is the truth that you are afraid of handling me in case it will cause your hands to bleed?” “No, no - that is not what I… Even if you were a common daffodil, I would still -”

She rolled at her eyes at his expression, her laughter cutting his mumbling thankfully short. “What I meant to say is… come here. You look petrified.”

Her fingers found their way to his cheek, her soft chest pressing against his arm, her wonderful mouth whispering something about him being ‘adorable’ as he finally willed his hands to her waist and requested, once again, that she lie down. In all honesty, just kissing her mouth felt overwhelming. She was demanding, and eager, and she had a way of hanging onto his lip for just a moment after the kiss had ended, drawing him back in again and again. He did not know how she knew to do such things, and did not dare to ask, even as her hands smoothed out and over the back of his nightrobe, loosening it without even touching the belt. Her fingers made gentle scratches down his back, across his scalp, losing themselves in his hair all while he was too focussed to do anything but kiss her.

Even as her bosom rose up against his chest (that she had, with some expertise and trick of the hand, already exposed) and that pleasant warmth began to sink through his skin and across his entire body… he could not help but notice how fixated she was on his hair. Tugging at it, letting it play over her fingers, and when she finally broke kiss, nestling her face within it, her teeth scraping the edges of his ear.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t that it was unpleasant - in fact, he welcomed the distraction. Having Dorothea, having all of her at once, this charming, incredible woman who had shaped her entire body into an instrument capable of producing music most holy (and, those soft sighing sounds that she now breathed into his ear - holy, holy too)… just the thought of caused an ache to erupt through him.

And he ached, and ached again, as he traced his hands down her skin, over the mole under her breast, the scars by her ribs that magic had not been able to heal. That this was her, that this was really, truly her, the woman whom he had denied himself for all those years and whom could so easily have denied him. “Dorothea,” he whispered, marvelling at how even saying her name left a man open-mouthed. “May I…?” His hand came to rest on her leg, toying with the edge of her robe. “I fear I may not be able to, ah. Concentrate much longer.” She laughed at that, the rumble causing her breasts to brush against him yet again, his face hot. Yet she did not pull her face away from the crook in his neck, her eyes hidden.

“Is that right? My. I thought the show might go on all night. It is a man who is leading, after all,” she dug her fingers into his scalp, pinching him. Even his yelp could not dim the sparks of euphoria that followed as her voice cooled, her laughter dying as her voice thickened dangerously, “But yes, you may.”

He’d dared not look at her. Did not think that he could look, as he pulled away that thin barrier between them. In his restless pursuits of a wife… of course he had considered what this might feel like, this ultimate act of consummation, of pleasure and love and union. But now that it was here, he ran at it like he was a young boy handling a spear for the first time, excitement coursing through him.

Finally undoing the knot in his robe, his soft cursing fading away, he held himself a chastely as he could. Her chest still pressed against him, their trim waists perfectly pressed together, her legs lifting and enfolding him like vines, her fingers twirling and pulling while she gently encouraged him…

“Ah, Dorothea, we truly are a natural fit, aren’t we?”

He was glad she had not answered.

For when he slid his hips forwards, imagining with his eyes half-shut and his breathing erratic what it might feel like to finally have an answer to all that aching, to quench this undying thirst that bled so many memories, to finally feel what it was to be one with her…

He found that he did not slip inside her at all, no smooth passageway, no yawning hole as eager and compliant as her mouth had been. No, he had to admit, when he brought himself forwards and felt only soft skin, he felt totally and utterly lost.

A coldness overcame him, and he tried to thrust in her direction once again, finding embarrassment as his only answer.

She uncoiled from his neck, finally deigning to fix him with a look, her expression making it clear that this had, well. This had been expected. That, he had to admit, embarrassed him far worse than the event itself. Not only was he a disappointment, but it had not even been surprising.

“Well, Lorenz. Would you like me to take the lead?”  

He was the one to decouple from her this time, cold washing over him as though a bucket had been spilled atop his head.

“This is not your first time, is it?”

He could hardly believe the venom that entered his voice, the heat on his face quite suddenly flaring on his tongue. “I do not believe you would have the capacity to mock me so, so… so ruthlessly if it was!”

He had never hated himself quite so much as he did in those handful of seconds, for just as he thought his fist tightening round a fistful of thorns, she crumbled.Her expression seemed to die.   No fire, no anger. Just… an emptiness wider than the whites of her eyes. Somehow, her lovely nakedness pushing through her disheveled nighty made her look more ghastly, as though somehow close to death, her exposure quite suddenly invoking nothing in him. “Dorothea, please, forgive me - I spoke out of tur-” “How do you think I got into the academy?” His mouth slackened, and he pulled his robe back up his back, too aware of his own nakedness as she seemed to care nothing for her own. “You heard the rumours, did you not? Of course you did. They were on every tongue, everywhere I turned. Like no one would let me forget. I suppose it was the penance I was due for cheating my way through life.” “You are wrong, Dorothea. You must be incorrect. You are a sublime talent, a beauty beyond the reach of any other…” “Oh, save it.” She drew her legs up to her chest, her head resting there. “After all this time, you don’t understand it at all, do you? The things we common girls had to do to have our talents recognised, to even be seen as something worthy of time, of care. Even then. I’m just a fleeting fancy, Lorenz. A pretty object to be remarked about, to entertain noble minds, to put the guilty at ease. To be used up and disposed of. It happened countless times.” “I spoke… I spoke thoughtlessly, yet, I… I had no idea you had experienced such pain…” “I did not enjoy it, if that makes you feel better,” she hissed, cutting him off. “I did not enjoy a single second of it. With any of them. Old and young, cruel and kind. The best I could hope for was… well, commiserating with the girls, afterwards. You begin to realise how common your experiences are, and that makes it a different pain, doesn’t it? Realising how much suffering there is. Realising that you aren’t anything special, no matter how much you have achieved.” “No, it does not make me 'feel better'… Was this really… Forgive me, please, forgive me for speaking of myself,” his face cracked, his eyes glittering as he began to take in the full weight of what she had been through, the burden of her secrecy, that bitterness that must have ate at every second of her day.

“But did you… When you agreed to marry me, had you thought me just another who would… use you, for the price of security?”

“Do you really wish to know the truth, Lorenz?” She peered at him through her own cracking eyes, the rest of her expression solemn. “It is not too late, you know. We have not consummated this marriage, after all. You could still find the virgin noble girl of your dreams.”

He looked away from her, watching his hands. “That is unfair, Dorothea. I did not marry you for mere fornication, nor to sire countless children, nor to fulfil some puritanical fancy. I am… I am helplessly smitten with you, that is all. With you, all of you, even when you humiliate me with your outstanding wit.” He dared not look to see if her expression changed, instead lowering his head and hiding behind a mess of hair. “But, yes, Please. Speak the truth, if you are ready.”

“I think…” he heard her voice crack, then come closer. Until she was right by his ear again, her breath controlled and slow. “I think you are a gentle man.”

He finally looked at her, at her sad expression, her soft little mouth lilting like it had so often during the war. “Gentle?” “And I am lucky for it,” she said, the edges of her eyes brightening. He could not say how happy hearing such a thing made him feel, for though the tension seemed to have evaporated and her pain pushed away… she had hardly given him the answer he was desperate to hear. That he was exceptional, that he had worked hard and overcome all those terrible beliefs that once mired his countenance, that he was one she was equally smitten by and that, with time, all sins would be forgiven.

Yet, as she took his hand in her own, and squeezed it ever so delicately… squeezed it as though it were both a chick fallen from the nest and a lifeline on which everything depended… He met her smile, and sat in easy silence with her, melting into her presence.

--

ACT IV - RECITATIVE II On stage, she could transform into anything asked of her. A witch, a nurse, a seductress - even a man, on command, for Opera so loved to play with themes that inspired shock in the masses. Yet she topped controversies with aplomb. How could she not? She was a heroine in her own right, and though he tried not to think often of that time, she had once worn the cowl of war as effortlessly as any of them.

Yet it seemed… when not on stage, it seemed that cowl was still wrapped tightly round her. In the years betwixt their school-days and their return to the monastery… he could have hardly believed the transformation in her. It was not that she had simply matured. It was that she had been worn down. She had never meant to be a solider.

Yet a solider she had been. Wild and brave, cutting through enemies with magic more effervescent and powerful than even he could hope to conjure. He should have been frustrated by this, infuriated, even. Yet he did not recall ever feeling that way when she summoned red earth from the sky that fell like a phoenix in its death spiral, slaughtering whatever helpless knave stood in their way. He distinctly remembered riding through flames she had conjured from miles away, wondering what part of the soul had to be pulled on to conjure something so raw. He supposed it must be the same part that she still pulled on now, wandering the halls of their manor late at night. She thought that he did not know - he was a lark, after all, to compliment her owl. He’d caught sight of her more than once, slipping from his embrace and into the black.  And he had let her go, each time assuming this was just some part of her artistic heritage, that those long nights at the opera still rung their clangour in her mind.

Yet after their second… attempt at love making, her words were what rang true in him all through the night. He was haunted by the thought of what she had endured, and by what she was casting herself into when she took those midnight strolls. Was she simmering in her misery? Alone, once again?

So he slipped from his bedchamber too, and followed after her.

Eventually, he caught sight of her in the gardens - down by the river. A score of red lit by the moon, back to the balcony from which he watched her. It was like his first memory of her singing, on that foggy day. Or perhaps it was more the memory of her in that destitute opera house, the moon curling in silky waves through her tresses. He took to the stairs, eventually finding himself by her side. She must have heard his footsteps, yet she did not turn to greet him with disgust. She did not turn to greet him at all, in fact. “… There’s no need for you to patrol the grounds, Dorothea. There is hardly going to be a raid anytime soon,” he laughed softly, but felt no levity. She sighed.

“I just can’t help but feel like… it isn’t over.”

“The war?”

“Yes. That war. I don’t know. It’s like… all I wanted was for it to be over, desperately believing that it would end this year or the next, that all this fighting would just. Stop someday. And now that it has?” She tilted her head up towards the sky, the river burbling and filling the silence. “I just… can’t believe it. Like the feeling hasn’t left me. Like there’s still so much to do.” “Ah, but, of course. That’s true. There is very much to be rebuilt, wounds that need salving, broken bonds that must be tied together again. You and I are in a key position to do just that,” he watched her, the night air somehow losing its chill.

“Doesn’t that all just feel… fake, somehow?” Moths fluttered by, a frog croaked somewhere in the distance. It was a peaceful scene, he thought.

“Whatever do you mean? Dorothea, is fighting injustice not the exact path you have always been following? Was it not you who challenged my every belief, changed me at my core? Think of the thousands you can inspire…!”

“It reminds me of when I first entered the opera troupe,” she said, finally lowering her head, playing with her hair. “When men began to shower me in compliments, gifts and advances. When all the bile they once spat at me turned to promises, and even then, false ones at that. It’s… Like I see through it all.” She turned to face him, then, and he could see that she had been crying. “How many people did we kill, Lorenz?”He took a step back, surprised as her voice lifted in such sudden rage, silencing the frogs. “I … I would not know the exact numbers, but Dor-” “Don’t tell me that it was fair just because we were at war! Don’t tell me that!” She pulled at her hair, eyes whirling. “How can we be such different people, wear such different skins?! We’re the same as those men, except… even worse. No doubt they were too busy cowering behind their knights, free from the blood that drips from our hands.”

She covered her face, her chest heaving.

“Come now, had we not fought, we would not be able to enjoy the freedoms we do now. The war was a tragedy, yes, but -” “How many, how many did we kill who were just like Ferdie?” In just one sentence, she opened up that man’s grave yet again, his red red hair spilling out. The smell of it, those rotting fields, the flashes of lightning and miasma and air turned to wailing. “And we took pleasure in it, I know we did. All that… drinking, and laughing, and dining. The thrill of still being alive… I saw that in you, and Claude, and all the rest.

Worst of all, Lorenz, I saw it in myself.” Touching her shoulder, he swallowed, guilt sizzling his gut as she effortless conjured those memories. How even Seteth would join them in toasts to one victory or another, that knot of hard-fought joy binding them all tightly together, their chanting and hymns and limericks brighter than the candles they lit around themselves. How she would dance with Hilda, barefoot and bellies full, their laughter lifting them all out of their shells. He still had a painting that Ignatz had somehow conjured of that scene, all of them just blurs of colours in the dining hall.

Was that before or after Ferdinand died?

“This is what has made this war so particularly tragic. People like myself, like Ferdinand… we were trained for this, Dorothea. We were trained to know the weight of what we were doing, sparring against men who shared in this equal philosophy. This was not a burden that should ever have been placed upon your shoulders.”

“How can you say something so horrible so easily?” She asked, both hands clasping the one upon her shoulder. “Is that all it takes? What I lack? Training?”

“He would have told you the same if it were he standing here and I lost in his stead,” he said, attempting to navigate his words carefully. “And he would have not wanted you to be standing outside in the dark, trying to catch pneumonia in his honour.” He began to walk her back to their home, hoping the darkness would not follow them inside. She seemed to be mulling over what he said, her steps uncertain.

“And… you know, I will not ask you to suppress your feelings. In fact, I think it an asset in ensuring that this war never occurs again.”

She looked at him then, in surprise.

“An asset? That is how you try to make light of this?” “Yes, please, hear me out,” he said as they reached the stairs. With one, wavering step after another, they made their way back up.

“The way you … you move, dance, sing, on stage… you bring the war to life. More so than any writing could ever hope to capture. In you, the raw despair of it all is captured so brightly. None can help but be moved, no matter the strength of their learned barriers. To see you die up there, a hundred times, a thousand… each time I picture it so vividly, and each time it shatters my heart.”

“Great, so that’s what I have to give to the world. Shattered hearts and endless grief,” she rolled her eyes, but he could sense that some part of her had been fished back out of the black.

“Yet I would never ask you to stop.” She glanced up at him as they reached the top of the stairs, the hallway beckoning them back inside. She stood there a while, as if unsure of something. “You could shatter the world’s heart, Dorothea. You teach us to remember our humanity. The true cost of these games we play as nobles in our selfish pursuits. There is value untold in that, a value only you possess. When you die, when you grieve, when you take character - none of it is false, to me. That is you at your most real.

So, that being the case, how can any of this be fake? I know none more sincere than you.”

As he watched her, she slowly found her smile, the mask that she’d been wearing so expertly weaving itself back into her skin.

It wasn’t a falsehood when she nodded, lifting herself onto her tip toes and brushing her lips to his own. Nor was it when she began to whisper how sweet he was, how kind, how gentle, how right. Not even when she said that she loved him, that she was glad that it was not him who had went in Ferdinand’s stead.

She was simply living, as all of them did, laughing barefooted on that stage.

--

 ACT V - ARIA I

It was… strange, standing here in this beautiful garden in the middle of the countryside. She was used to being surrounded by people, either to hide from or from those who celebrated the joy of her existence, given glares or gifts, but… Now she was alone. Truly alone.

At the monastery, she had occasionally found some quiet space to haunt - by the pier, the bridge, the rooftops. It was something she had noticed in Lorenz, in her… husband, too. She’d slip by him, discarding her yearning to gaze through stained glass or at what remained of the cathedral.

She supposed he craved these silent spaces for the same reasons that she did, for a chance to think. Still, she doubted their thoughts had ever crossed paths as much as their bodies had. That was alright. She was used to her own flow of narration having been shaped into something quite unique. Lorenz, on the other hand…. As a noble, as a man, as a nobleman, the trench had already been dug. All he had to do was allow himself to flow into it.

So why had he changed course so dramatically? Even now, when their thoughts flowed aloud together, it was clear their courses still clashed, no clear direction to this sea.

Maybe she enjoyed that, the drama of it.

Or maybe she simply enjoyed this estate, of its stillness, of its silence. When the hum and throb of the servants had ebbed away as they retired he basement kitchens, when their master had taken leave to go riding or entertaining or politicking in some other beautiful still green place, when she was the only one out on the grounds and all things settled into a chipping, wind whispered harmony…

It seemed… magic, somehow.

Today, in her wandering, she had ventured towards the stables. It hurt, in its own way, to stand here. Like ghosts could chase you from another time, another place, settle in the edges of your memory just because of a vague reminder of their imprint. Yes. Lorenz and she used to spend much time in the quiet, undisturbed spaces in the academy. Beautiful spaces. But Ferdie, this was where… he used to go, so very often. She never really understood it. It never suited his status. Knee deep in muck, our future prime minister? Wasting hours away in the hay, with the horses, smelling of… well, sweat and dirty work and a long, difficult day. It was one of things that had charmed her, back before she could accept being charmed by him. He treated those animals well. Weller than most treated people.

So being around the horses always brought out those memories, like taking a bath in them. It made her feel… sad, yes, but good, too. She supposed she would rather remember him like this than…

Well.

She reached a hand onto the stable door, clucking her tongue towards a dark shape that turned and, ever so slowly, made its way towards her. When finally he arrived, his snout touching air and the light catching on the edges of his glossy fur and great round glass eyes, she smiled at him. Patting his long, firm snout, she pulled a sugar cube from her pocket.

This had been Lorenz’s horse, during the war. Somehow, he had survived when so many of them had not. A huge beast for a tall master, she had been terrified of him on the battlefield, decorated in black plate and huffing steam, white teeth flashing whenever it had galloped past her. Despite the burden of all that armour, Lorenz had commanded it to move like black lightning, arching and curving impossibly as he slit the enemy straight through, thunderous hooves clacking down. How much blood had soiled this creature’s legs, deep black on deeper black? “Here you go, Holst. I have a little something for you.”

Bringing the sugar cube to his lips, he seemed confused awhile, searching her arm before finally finding it. The poor thing was nearing the end of its days, just as tired as she from all that fighting. War carried on in its bones that now rubbed angrily together, carried on in its dimming eyes that had once seen flames lick forth from its masters hands. Never could it have understood the horrors of what had gone on around it, and yet, it had obeyed. No matter how afraid, it had obeyed.

Embodied its masters calmness - Lorenz, a whirring flash of purple black and red, magnificent and awful, a slash of death blotting out the canvas.

Lorenz, whose only concern he spoke of regarding death centred around how well he would be remembered, honoured, exalted by it. Smiling down at her, saving her from some warring lance, tossing his hair as he leapt - wild and controlled all at once - over the corpse that moments ago and a twist in fate would have been herself.  

Lorenz, who had told her that his father was a coward for not laying down his life in some barren field and spilling his guts out in agony for something more noble, more aspirational than a quiet, easy death in his bedchamber.

And now, its reward, for all that energy spent, for saving her life, for saving his?

A quiet life in the countryside, feeding from her hand.

--

 ACT VI - DUET III

There were no pomegranates involved in their third attempt, nor herbs, nor discussions prior. It was an act of raw passion, in part (but only part) lubricated by the joys of wine. He professed his enjoyment of Sagrantino and waxed lyrical about the fullness of its body, dark and dry and robust in its alcoholic strength. She hadn’t said much about it at all. Perhaps all wines tasted similar to her. Never mind, a palate could soon be developed, and he was more than happy to assist. Such was what he had been rambling about until she took both sides of his face and drew him into a deep kiss. It was full bodied. Dark. Dry. Utterly intoxicating. So much so that he’d gasped in surprise and almost spilled his drink onto her dress.

“Perhaps it is my palate that will need expanding,” he’d muttered, and she’d laughed (in a way that he knew was mocking, but he took pride in it anyway). “Then, you’ll let me lead?” She’d tilted her head, the room spinning with her.

“Lead me anywhere,” he’d said, following her mouth. She’d obliged with the softest little bites along his bottom lip, each time evoking a gasp deeper than before.

“You’ll do whatever I ask?” She’d asked, songstress, seductress. “Anything, anything,” he’d mumbled as he let his hands wander across her waist, the fabric of her dress smooth and obedient to his touch.

Sherry, that which he had labelled so unfavourably as a ‘beginners wine’, filmed the edges of her tongue - it drove him insane, that was the only word he could use to describe it, this madness that only Dorothea had the power bring out. In that moment, he loved that tongue, worshiped it, could hardly believe that it was her mouth, her taste, so sweet, and he chased after it again and then again.

He felt like he might wish to kiss that mouth forever, every time she indicated that she might break from it bringing forth a mewling out of him that surprised himself most of all. It was embarrassing, it should have been, but every time she rewarded him with an answer of that sweet, warm mouth he lost all sense of himself within it.

All his life, he had been taught to exercise restraint. To take the only the smallest bites, to appreciate each moment in turn as though each second were like the beats in a play worthwhile of literary analysis. Yet with her, with Dorothea… Daring to slide his eyes open, he caught sight of her mid-kiss, the finery of her lashes of the waves in her gorgeous hair of her cheeks set alight with passion… he felt as though there could be no such a word, no such a thing as restraint, of enjoying her in just the smallest of ways.

When finally she insisted on their parting, kissing the edge of his nose in an attempt to sate his soft groaning, she laughed at him as his breathing slowed, ruffling his hair.

“Are my charms really so deadly, Lorenz?” She smoothed a thumb over his cheek, squeezing along the red. “Look at you. Red as a rose,” she giggled again, touching her face to his, lashes smiling against his cheek.

“Yes,” he hissed.“Yes, yes. It’s you, all you,” he mumbled into her mouth, stealing one kiss from her before she clamped her fingers over his jaw, still laughing. “There’s no one-” he failed to squeeze out any more words, her nails digging into his lip and she brought her mouth against her hand, eyes locking with his as she imitated kissing him through it.

“Then… why don’t we try something a little different,” she whispered, before kissing the back of her hand again, brows raised. He could not answer, so he arched his brows in response, nodding. “Something I’ve done with… no other man.”

His eyes flared open at that, though, still unable to speak, he squeezed the side of her impeccable waist as answer.

Her chest rose up against his, the shape of her body searing through him as he tried to memorise the feel of those curves, pushing his hips forwards, chasing that pleasure. Her mouth came to brush against his shoulder, turned to whisper in his ear as she described in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him.

It was a sinful thing to ask, a truly embarrassing thing to be told, an act he had not ever even contemplated - even as she spoke it, he sputtered against her hand, eyes widening.

Yet. She moved his hand from her waist to her hips to her thigh, her breathing shuddering just ever so slightly in his ear.

“It’s just a kiss, Lorenz.”  

A kiss where no one else had ventured, that, that singular thought blossomed in his mind over and over. An experience as new as all those she had given to him - this thought that, even if it were a lie, made him tremble.  

Letting her hand pull free from his mouth, she looked up at him through those long lashes, those eyes endless rings of green. “The brave Lorenz Hellman Gloucester isn’t afraid of something like that, is he?” She said, her hands tickling down his rib cage, each movement of her delicate fingers like tongues of fire. “Of course not,” he croaked out before clearing his throat. Holding his head high, he slipped himself above the well of pleasure, trying his damnedest to ignore the fact that she was making the slowest, subtlest, most maddening rolls of her hips against his clear arousal.

“Well, shall we retire to the bedroom?”

She hummed at that, shook her head. “Ah, but! Dorothea, the servants -“ “They’re all in bed,” she mused, almost certainly a lie but, “Besides, can you really wait that long? All those stairs… Why, they might just tire me out.”

The room felt like it spiralled, the walls beating in his ears as he realised exactly what she was saying. The thought of being embarrassed sizzled away into the realisation that what she said was clad in white hot wanting, wanting for him. She parted from him and lay back on the méridienne, her hands gripping the edge of its curved back as she leaned into it, legs still clasped together. Standing there quite uselessly, he gazed at the way she was spread across the chaise lounge, eyes sliding thin. She was… unbelievable, truly. Unconsciously, he brought his hand to his mouth, breath growing hot as he lapped up the mere sight of her. She’d adjusted before his gaze, growing lovelier by the second, slipping off her tights with ease. “Kneel, Sir Lorenz.”

He did so without thought, his head swimming with the motion. Not even for Lord Holst would he have lowered himself so quickly for, so lowly. Yet, Dorothea’s legs spread out before him, her lithe body waved like the curls in her hair, like a bird’s wingbeats. She gazed down at him from above, her lips slightly parted, her eyes slipping shut. He crawled towards her, her leg coupling with his back, drawing him to the edge of the lounge.

The flare of her red, red dress framing the scene so nearly, but with one fluid motion, she pulled her underskirt above her hips, folding it into a neat line. And, just like that, she was exposed to him.

It was an overwhelming sight. Curved and curled, that unbroken line slowly opening itself up to him, (to him and to only him, him, him.) The leg dropped across his back had been making circular motions, but now, she pulled on it, daring him to go forwards.

Finally, he jolted from his paralysis. Slipping his head towards her, he did as she asked. He kissed her. Soft, close lipped kisses across that line, pausing only as she felt her entire body shudder, then relax. Tentatively, he continued, each kiss wholly its own drawn out motion. Her leg continued to guide him, its motions bringing his long, thin back into consciousness, as though nothing existed unless she was touching it.

He could not help but lose himself in this, relaxing as he threw his hair over his shoulder, tilting his head into her bare thigh. He sighed to himself, reminded himself that it would be best if it took this slowly, if he tried to better appreciate this, like any act of training required. Yet as his kisses began to blur together, each more rapid than the last, he felt her body jerk and the most wonderful noise escape her mouth.

That noise alone was enough to make him feel as though he were on the edge, his eyes flickering open and darting towards her expression. She had her head tilted back, her eyes totally shut, her mouth frozen in the hungriest of circles.

That look, combined with those soft little noises he had never heard her make, drove him onwards. He tilted his mouth, opening it and nestling his tongue into that line. He could not stop watching her, the theatre of her face as he explored what he could, each slip of his tongue making her body sing. Yes, she was singing now, that’s all he could see in this, in her melodic little sighs, in the way her body shuddered like the strings on a violin. And he was the one playing, now, playing her, playing with her - oh, that thought forced his eyes to shut, his mouth frozen over her as he gasped.

She muttered something, but he could not hear it, his world slowly spinning back into view. Sliding his eyes back open, he gazed at what he had done, at her obvious arousal, her want for him. Her thighs, shaped so lovingly and so unlike his own, her entire body soft circles upon soft circles where he was only sharp, cutting lines… his gaze returned to meet her face, her eyes still shut, her mouth now curled into a cheeky smile.

“You haven’t… already, have you?” She laughed as he spat out an urgent ‘no’, swiftly resuming his work.

“It’s alright if you do, I can only imagine how hard it is to stay composed around me.” Her teasing, her arrogance, only made him want to perform that much better for her. The fact that she could speak without stuttering, where as if he tried to now he felt as though he would only break into a cold sweat. Still. He appreciated what she was saying, appreciated the sound of her voice as it vibrated through her body… he followed after it, those deep vibrations, each sweep of his tongue inching in deeper and deeper… ah.

He could not stop thinking about the fact that this was the place where he was supposed to have taken her, far wetter and far warmer than he could ever had imagined, her sweet noises resuming. In a sense, he was inside of her now, truly one with her —

Suddenly, he felt her rising up against him, bumping against his teeth as he realised her tiny moans were now rippling together into a laugh. Sensing some inadequacy, he pulled his mouth away, brows knitting together in worry. “Did I … tickle you?”

She shook her head, catching her breath a moment.

“No, I could just feel your nose.” Frowning, he dipped his head back between her legs, gently nipping at one of her folds. Her sharp gasp brought him only the tiniest bit of vindication. “Now is not the time for such frivolity, Dorothea.”

Her laughter began to subside, her mouth tightening as her fingers came to sweep across his scalp, scratching it lightly.

“You’re right, Lorenz. I shouldn’t tease when you are in the middle of such… delicate work.”

He hummed an agreement, enjoying the little ripples her fingers induced through his scalp and down his back. As she began to play with his hair, mindlessly pulling it this way and that, he returned to her sex, biting along its ridges as enjoying every single desperate gasp she made.

It soon became unbearable. As much as he wanted to slide himself forward and take her like this, he… truthfully, he did not want to starve her of those noises. He was afraid of a repeat performance of last time that would sag into disappointment and anger, and, well. Tasting her like this, Goddess be damned, was rather more an enjoyable experience than he could ever have hoped for.

Sliding his hand down his chest, he wriggled in place - desperately trying to concentrate on keeping her satisfied while also moving himself out of his trousers. The angle failed him, so he made do through the fabric, his hand eventually finding a rhythm with his mouth, her own hand keeping time with each stroke through his hair.

Then, rather suddenly, he felt her fingers on his chin. Widening his eyes, he wondered if he’d hurt her in some way until she drew it forcibly upwards, her throat sounding like it might crack as she hissed, “there, right there.”

He embarrassed himself with the noises he began to make on her command, the thought of herself as his mentor somehow impossibly arousing. He leaned into his hand, his mouth following where she had led him, tongue sloppy but eventually finding what she had been searching for - her voice heightening immediately.

That noise, mixed with murmurs of ‘yes’ on repeat, rippled throughout her whole body and into his, making both feel whole. He began to moan in tandem with her, shedding any sense of self-consciousness as he gave into pleasure’s brilliant, hot glow. This was Dorothea he was making sing like this, his wife, the woman who had said yes, the woman who had overcome hardship after hardship, hatred after hatred, scorn after scorn and still - in the end - walked down that aisle in a white petal dress that turned had turned red before their very eyes. Even in ceremony, she would not leave the audience wanting.

For how many had she performed for? For how many had she brought pleasure to, spread her legs for, laid down in the hopes that their enjoyment might be a salve for her suffering? No, he soothed himself, listening to the wavering in her breath, feeling the desperate curving of her stomach, tasting her unconscious rolling of her hips as she completely and utterly lost control of herself… No, tonight, she was the centre of enjoyment, he the performer, and for once, he was determined, she would not be the one left wanting. And as soon as that thought entered his mind, she tugged on his hair, her face an utter, crazed mess. Her eyes still shut, but her neck craned back, her chest fluttering wildly. It was too much, it was simply too much - choking out a garbled whine, he pressed down hard with his fingers and rolled his hips against the lounge, frustration ebbing out into bliss as he turned his head and buried it into her thigh to suppress a cry.

Slowly blinking back into reality, he could still feel her body lifting up towards him, her thighs trembling against his cheek. She was… plainly requesting that he continue, and though by all accounts he should have been finished, he could not deny her.

Following her command, her fingers had spread herself apart, one nail pointing to where he now brought his mouth, her back arching delightfully as he followed through. “Dorothea,” he ached out, once, then twice, then again and again. Until he lost himself again in the edges of her name, in and out up and down and then ending, every single time, with an open mouth. He had hoped she would say his name in return, scream it, even - but she seemed incapable of saying anything, her cries first deepening, then lightening, then lifting to unbearable heights.

He did not stop, but he felt her tighten underneath him, pulsing in a steady rhythm as she undid herself with one singular, arching cry.

After a while, her breathing returned to normal, her body spent. Simply looking up at her for the longest time, he felt… utterly relaxed, despite the uncomfortable warmth in his trousers, the unnatural positioning, the fact that her eyes had not opened once during their entire encounter… but

“So, I trust that I impressed?”

She laughed, and he blushed, pulling himself up from the floor as she finally  opened her eyes, staring blearily at the ceiling.

“You certainly left an impression.” Smiling to himself, he took her hand, bowing his head onto her chest. She played idly with his hair, and both listened to their steading breaths. She thanked him, then. A soft, breathy little thing.

And that blossomed in him a feeling so much deeper, so much more intense than orgasm, all in that one lilting, gentle little thank you.

--

 ACT VII - CADENZA

Dorothea had been thanked many, many times before. Cordial thank yous, applause for a wonderful performance, a swell of glee because she brought treats backstage for a hoard of hungry singers. It hadn’t always been that way. Even now… it surprised her, that gratitude. How could anyone be truly grateful for what she brought into their lives?

She was a spectacle, a moment in time, a sparkling dress for a special night out, she wasn’t… she wasn’t the one who changed lives, who completed all the domestic chores every day, the silent figure who moulded students on their path to greatness. When she thought about the people she was truly thankful for… they all fit into those brackets. Mentors. Stage-crew. Saviours.  

It was terrible of her, wasn’t it? To not believe those people when they thanked her.

Yet…

She remembered the glow of his brown eyes, so bright that they were almost amber, his tentative, nervous little smile.

She remembered…

The White Heron cup, only… not. They didn’t have a name for it the second time they hosted it. Winter had come in full force, that bleak feeling that sank into everything since the war began only thickening as the daylight trickled down to just a handful of hours. This time of year… Enbarr used to be covered in lights, as though the city itself could become the sun. The opera house had always been so busy. What else was there to do in the chill and the rain, when travels were so often cut short?

Yet, since the war began… Well. The sparkle had left. People became colder. More distant. More keenly aware that time was running out, for them or for… something else, society as they knew it. Maybe there wasn’t any time left for frivolities like going to watch people pretend to die on stage, maybe it felt just a little too real while the world was falling in around them.

Yet… Garreg Mach kept that sparkle. No. Reignited it.

She felt ashamed of some of those memories now. Ashamed but… happy, too. Those were probably some of the most joyful times of her life, as terrible as it seemed. Back together again with Manuela, relived that they had made it through one battle and into the next, singing and eating and praying even when it made no sense at all. She’d grown closer to those people in that ruined monastery than she ever would with anyone ever again. To imagine marrying anyone, anyone, who had not experienced that total heartache, that surreal joy, would have been impossible.

Who else would understand why they’d chosen to host the White Heron Cup when there was no one but themselves to judge it? No prizes, no music, no atmosphere at all, really… Yet Claude had let them dig into the rations, pull out the wine, and lose themselves in the illusion that maybe there really was somewhere in this world that hadn’t been ruined forever.

Manuela had long passed out and Seteth had taken her to her room. Leonie and Raphael had lost interest and kept themselves to the dining hall, chattering about the fresh taste of wild game. Marianne wasn't saying much at all. Ignatz was busying himself away in his corner, colours bleeding from his brush as Lysithea and Claude argued about how well she was handling her drink.

So, the White Heron Cup was largely forgotten about, just an excuse, really. Yet she remembered leaning into Hilda’s shoulder, their shoes kicked off while they cheered the boys on. Lorenz and Ferdie, their peacock tails in full display, a whole night of one attempting to out-noble the other.

It should have been annoying. Infuriating, even. Spending time with three of the most privileged people in the world, listening to Hilda whine about how she couldn’t be bothered dancing right now despite her years of training, the static that droned everything else out as Lorenz and Ferdie seemed to act on script with one another. Honestly, though? It was … just. Fun. “Come now, Hilda, it is unbecoming that a noblewoman of your stature would decline such a prestigious invitation. Why, it was your very brother who, while he was a student at the academy, swept himself to victory at every Cup, was it not?” Lorenz had been staring at them both, though… Even then, Dorothea noticed how his gaze would linger.

“Well yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m not doing it this year,” she’d wriggled her legs, turning her toes inward. “It’s just not fair! Let someone else have a turn. Besides. I don’t see why you even need a woman part. Just, I don’t know, dance with the chairs or something.”

“Well,” Dorothea interrupted, half tempted to go up to Manuela’s room and drag down that awful mannequin - though, she supposed she didn’t exactly trust herself with the knife firmly lodged in its head while she was this inebriated. “I have an idea…”   Lorenz shifted on the spot, “Ah, of course. Lovely Dorothea, your talents were not all spent on singing, were they not? Why, the opera has some of the most complex choreography of all… Will you be volunteering tonight?”   “No,” she smirked, tilting her head. “I’ve never been a fan of these noble dances. They’re too prescriptive for my style. I’d worry about… stepping on your toes.”

Before Lorenz could protest any further, she raised her voice, “I think… Ferdie should play the woman’s role.” Lorenz’s eyes snapped open, his hand waving, “That’s absurd -!” “I don’t see why not. It happens all the time at the opera house, which you are a fan of, after all.” “Yes, well, this is not theatre! Ferdinand is a man of grand stature, stripped though he may be of his titles, and he would not… debase himself so egregiously, particularly not at such an important event!” “Um,” Hilda laughed, eyes only half-opened. “We’re in the reception hall. And we’re the only one’s here. Who cares!”

“Even so -” “Enough!” Ferdie finally spoke, stepping forwards decisively. Well… alright. There had been a little waver in his step, but he saved himself from stumbling, his confidence far more effective than his drunkenness. “I will not allow this debacle in my name to go on any longer. If there are but two to compete in this year’s cup, and if none will bend, then I will be the one to volunteer.”

Turning to Lorenz, he offered his hand towards him and bowed in a curtsey that was more than half elegant. “… Come now, Ferdinand. This is simply unfair. You cannot possibly know the correct movements. You are an able dancer, I admit, perhaps my most admirable competitor - yet that is precisely why I will not allow you to forfeit to me on purpose.” “Oh? Where did you hear it said that I would forfeit? You underestimate me, Lorenz. A true dancer learns not only the role of his own, but his partner’s also. Through this experience, and this alone, I have learned to anticipate my partner’s every move, timing my own movements precisely. This, my friend, is the spirit of the dance. If you can not understand this, then you have no hope of besting me!”

And so, it was this way, that Lorenz and Ferdie swept each other off their feet. Well. More accurately - locked into one another hands with awkwardly tangled limbs, their stiffness not faded on their first nor second dance, but yielding in the third. Those sweeps of long hair, one so straight and to the point, the other glorious but wavering. Their steps in time to music that Hilda and she drummed out with their hands and with their heels, laughter rising as their drunken faces contorted with such intense concentration.

They were beautiful.

They were all so… so beautiful.

She could not remember who they declared the victor that night - if any. That wasn’t in the spirit of the dance, after all. Not in the spirit of the night. Not in the spirit of this monastery, still surviving despite the gaping hole that pierced its heart.

What she did remember was walking with all three of them back to their rooms, up those endless, winding stairs, the gulf that separated them all. She recalled Lorenz drunkenly offering to guide her back down the stairs, lest she get lost, lest she miss his company, lest she wished to speak more words into that pitch black night. She refused, that night, though she found his persistent desire to impress her rather… endearing. He truly had changed, in those five years.

Yet it was Ferdie whose drunken offer she agreed to. Who invited her back to his room. Who had looked so dashing being bent over Lorenz’s arms, whose hair she fantasised about holding onto almost touching the ground as they’d leaned into one another. Ferdie who, that night, she knew might ask her for something that they could not take back, something she was… ready enough to follow him into his bed.

Yet that question never came.

Instead… He asked her to brush his hair. To do his makeup.

To borrow one of her dresses.

He told her… he always liked when she called him ‘Ferdie’.

He asked her… exhausted and trembling, his amber eyes fixing her with a look so vulnerable she felt that her heart might break that night, he asked her if he looked good. If she still liked him this way.

If she…

If she thought, after the war… That, maybe… He could be called Ferdie forever.

He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, nakedness so tantalising and so awe inspiring that he had run away. He knew the Dorothea before the stage, the Dorothea after it was crumbled and gone. He’d seen her anger, her spite, her ugliness that now, to this day, stung her with regret.

Yet, here he was. Naked in his own way, in… in her own way. Asking her for her approval.

“Thank you, Dorothea, for everything you have shown me.”

That gorgeous smile. Those insatiable eyes.

“Thank you for showing me myself.”

She remembered…

The tangle of vines that erupted from Ferdie’s stomach, sharp and thorned, laying still across her belly.

She remembered…

Every petal being shorn from her at once, red red red streaking across her vision as, in that moment, all she was left with were thorns.  

She remembered…

Lorenz dragging her by the hand, her screaming still echoing across the battlefield, every needle point of hers driving into him as she scratched his arm to ribbons. His face still in full bloom, his stalk artificially trimmed.

There had been no rain that day, just like there was no rain this day. The day they buried Lorenz’s horse in the rose garden, its body sitting wet beneath the vines. The clatter of war still echoed out in this quiet place, even if you had to strain your ears to hear it, even if they were putting yet another piece of it to rest.

The sun had been so bright, that day. Golden. Almost amber. “We say rest in peace. As though to live is to struggle, A war beneath the Eternal Moon. As though when is all said and done, All we can hope for, Is to rest.” Lorenz’s eulogy to his horse was… touching, in his own way. Yet. It was seeing the tremble begin in his arms, up through his shoulders, a trembling that opened up as wide as the wound in Ferdie’s stomach, a trench from which those thorn covered vines had never stopped spilling.

It was then, she realised, watching him weep for the first time that she had ever witnessed, that that trench lived on in him. She wondered if those scratches on his arms had scarred. She wondered if they veined out and came alive some nights, strangling him.

He choked out a wretched sob, covering his eyes.

He’d used to think that… anything truly beautiful could never be destroyed, that people would fight to preserve such beauty - even at the cost of themselves. He’d styled herself under that same rule. Something magnificent was almost something immortal.

A ravaged opera house. A dead war steed. A dear… dear friend. “I… I miss…” She reached for him, tangled him into her embrace, felt out whatever piece of softness she still had left in her, the petals that he had so diligently helped regrow.  

“I know, Lorenz. I know.” So quietly she barely heard it, the wind picking up and rushing through the endless green around them, he thanked her. A soft, breathy little thing.

She pulled him tighter into her embrace, the world melting through. “I know.”

--

ACT VIII - COLORATURA - CURTAIN CALL The opera house was in full bloom, bright lights and gilded smiles all around. Freshly painted decor was made all the more decadent by the hundreds of donations that had been poured into this place, rich azures and splendid reds that were as much a spectacle as those on stage. Ah, it was as though the war had never taken place at all. That was the point, was it not?

Still, he could not help but feel… for its artisanal beauty, like a fetching young lady newly jewelled and furred, he could not help but miss those impassioned days. Where Dorothea was the only focal point in a sea of dusty browns and greys, where the chill of the outside world was quelled by the warmth of her rich voice. It was unlike him to appreciate such aesthetics, never mind pine for them. Yet, regardless, just like that night, she stepped onto that stage and into a halo of light.

The music dimming, the calm tension as the sound began to swell within her throat, but not quite set free.

He leaned forwards in his seat, her eyes cast above him, her face a picture of mourning.

—

The roar of the rain outside, drops long and thin sticking to the window panes, the smell of wet earth and bodies spent. Her rolling curls of hair, her beautiful smile, her insatiable eyes.  

Her hands cutting through the black, cupping his face, the sound of rain growing ever louder.

—

The feel of her body pressed underneath him and into the grass, her nightgown soaked through, her mouth an elegant little bud that burst into the widest grin he had ever witnessed. “Now, Lorenz, do it now.”

—

After all that waiting, heaven finally spilled from her mouth. One endless, echoing note that ran on and on before it wavered, trembled, shuddered in time to the orchestra that could only hope to follow her lead.

— Daylight, mid-summer, the rose garden. She’s laughing, he’s trying to catch her. He can’t remember why, all he can remember is when she peels a rose from its stalk and hurls its petals at him. How he does the same. His precious, prized roses - and they’re throwing them over one another. She’s laughing, he remembers, she’s laughing because the petal’s stuck to his eyelashes. He looks an impossible spectacle, like a bird, like a butterfly.

—

She shudders underneath him, his fingers brushing over her and then inside her, and he’s gasping some mangled cry - her name, the goddess, it did not matter because all he can think about is the sound of her voice as it lifts and lifts and lifts the deeper his fingers go.

—

The rain grows heavier, and she nestles herself in the crook of his neck, her voice so soft and so tired as she says,“I was thirteen when I first had sex.”

—

The petals all come falling down. She’s ripped another rose’s head off, but she doesn’t tear its petals free, not this time. She stands by that horse’s grave, glancing up at him through her lashes, her smile melting the world away.

Between her fingers, she presents the rose to him. Nails brush along its edges, gently feeling their way across the inner petals before turning hard and stiff, crushing into the rose’s centre.

She looks up at him, and laughs.

— “He was… kind to me, even if I didn’t think so at the time.”

He stares out into the blearing rain, wondering if that whole garden might drown, wondering if there’s any roses left. — He forgot himself in that garden, her thighs squeezing against his waist, her mouth open and singing. There’s no such thing as anything else as he pushes his hips forwards and touches her - hungry, alive, wet enough to take him in one long, soft, wavering moan.

She wraps her entire being around him, the rain ravaging both their bodies, his hair bleeding into hers as it waves itself into violent, violet curls. He presses his forehead to hers, and lays still awhile, a protracted gasp as he fully takes in that he is tasting her without tasting.  

He gently, so so gently, drifts his hips forwards.

—

She plays a Countess in an opera that would prove to be her most controversial yet. All her sparkling wears and finery mask the wild thing that rests beneath. A woman in love, a woman mad with it, a woman set to destroy the world without it.

Her lover dies. Torn apart by a crazed murderer. She knows that he will soon take her too.

She sings, she sings, she sings.

—

She sings, she sings, she sings.

He clutches her hand, clutches her hair, clutches anything as he desperately tries to find air. He can feel her breathing beneath him, he can feel her every motion, he can be inside of her without really knowing her at all

Yet it’s an illusion, is it not? The grandest illusion of them all.

—

“I thought that he loved me,” she said, her chest so still. “On some level… it’s silly, isn’t it, but on some level, I still believe that he did.”

“It hurt, a lot. Physically, emotionally, all of it. I thought he… was going to save me. Take me away from all this - even though he was married, even though his daughter sang up on that stage right beside me, just a few years older.”

The pages spiralling open, her fingers in the rose, his body lost in hers, the lights on the stage dimming.

“He was the one… actually, who let me sing centre stage. Picked me over his daughter, just like I thought he would keep on picking me over his wife.”

She’s laughing at him, drunk and full of life, Sherry toed as she dances in their living room - crawling over the méridienne, kissing him on the nose, on the mouth, on the chest, on and on until he’s losing herself into her bliss again, his eyes never shutting, never once leaving her.

She’s glorious on that stage, wailing, howling in a rage that seemed beyond human. This opera… it should have been like any other opera, but there was but one fundamental difference.

The murderer comes for her, her voice growing higher and higher, defiant on defiant, as though challenging him to kill her, as though she is ready for anything. After all, this one link to earth has been severed.

Her lover, a woman.

They were going to cross the ocean, disappear somewhere, no church, no Crests, no memories.

The rain begins to fade away, and he strokes his hands through her hair, he holds her while she tells him, “I thought my only worth was in what could be done to me, not by what I could do, I… really, really did believe that, for the longest time. I’m not good for much. Half-decent in a war, I suppose.”

She’s wrong.

Of course she’s wrong.

Yet the knife goes in all the same, her voice lilting and howling, impossibly powerful. How could she not even be aware of that power? How can she simply stand there as he stabs her, again and then again, her body crumbling, her voice still ringing out across the stage. He asks her, over and over, if this is alright, if she is alright, if he is alright. He trembles with pleasure so intense he is brought to the point of weeping, made worse by the opening of her eyes, her gaze so wonderful and sweeping. She tells him,

“You have a petal on your lash, Sir Lorenz.”

And he laughs.

She never stops being able to make him laugh.

She disappears into the earth, the stage lights go out, yer her voice keeps going.

On and on and on into that night. As though that pulsing, ethereal cry could pierce the veil.

As though it were searching for her lover, still. She holds his face, looks him in the eyes while their bodies meet, infinite pools of emerald green, holds his gaze until he cannot hold on any longer, he

If there’s anything he’s learned it’s that…

He can’t hold onto this moment forever.

Pockets of bliss so bright it blinds him. Sadness so cruel and all consuming it swallows him.

Anger at this cruel and unjust world, at spectres that no longer exist, so potent it feels poisonous.

There’s nothing that he can hold onto. Nothing. He lets go while scrambling to hold onto the image of those green green eyes, and the world curls out with it.

—

The performance ends and he is the first to his feet. He’s the only one there, after all. It’s only a practice, just a trial run.

The curtains raise, and Dorothea’s chatting among the girls, Manuela’s fingers ruffle her hair, their faces lit up red with the effort and the fading adrenaline.

Lorenz waits until she turns to him, until the corners of her smile shallowed, until her sparkle faded.

The stage falls away. Silence echoes. She meets his gaze, the warmth in her eyes that had been there just moments ago now dried and cold.

The rain’s still falling, somewhere.  

Rose petals drifting in the wind.

Her voice reverberating, on and on, forever.

Which mirror was the truth?

He decided, then, that it did not matter.

He raises his hands and Applauds.

[thatfairyfangirl]

True Colors Chapter 13

You woke up in the bed of your childhood, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting up from the kitchen below. You warmer than you ever remembered being in the old home before. Groggily you attempted to stretch, finding yourself pinned down. With half a groan you opened your eyes to see dark tendrils covering an almost heavenly face, one arm wrapped around his pillow the other wrapped around you. Slowly you wriggled your way out, your eyes lingering on him sleeping shirtless in your bed, finding you had to catch your breath at the sight. What is going on with you? Could you actually be catching feelings for one of your best friends?

No time to think about that now. You had work to do before the rest of the world woke. As silently as possible you snuck your way into the attic, retreating to the old studio that started it all. The plan was to use this time home to finish working on Bucky’s gift, but with him here now it was a little more difficult.

Bucky woke to the sweet sound of your music as you put the finishing touches on one of the last few songs for him and him alone before transferring them from your flash drive to a blank CD.

Once you came back into the room the bed was empty and you could hear rustling down below. You closed your eyes hearing the two women berating Bucky with questions. Oh no, were they catching on? Them knowing you’re single would be so much worse, it would give them reason to tell you how worthless of a person you are….again. You burst down the stairs throwing your arms around his strong shoulders...oh god you never expected them to feel this good in your arms. “Hey Buck how about a workout before it gets too late in the day? We missed one yesterday…” His brow curled as he turned his head to you, wondering what exactly has taken over your mind...normally you hated training.

“Umm sure..?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The two women watched as you both sparred across the backyard. It was hard for your mother to admit that you really did seem like a natural at this. Snow caught in both of your hair and on your white knit cap as you exchanged blows, your breath changing to steam in the early winter air. Before you knew it a cold hand was around your wrist, though in this weather it was hard for your skin to distinguish from cold metal or cold flesh...in the end it didn’t matter either way, he was pulling you into a killshot. You had to think fast...but you couldn’t think fast enough before feeling the poke of a sheathed blade poke at your stomach. “You’re getting better.” He huffed as your eyes caught each other, clouds of breath mingling between the two of you. “Next time,” he brought your wrist into your view, turning it to show you his thumb and index finger meeting just under your palm. “This is the week point, twist your arm and pull.” You could feel him holding on tighter as he gave you the instruction, but still you did as you were told, finding your wrist free. Bubblegum hair fell into your face as the hand came to rest on his shoulder, feeling natural there. Your heart tugged at itself as you felt Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist as his tongue glided across his lips...a motion you have seen him do countless times, but never before it was right in front of you did you realize just how damn sexy it is. Wait a minute, he’s drawing in closer! In a panic you spun, hooking your arm under his shoulder as you swept your leg under him, forcing him to the ground. Bucky felt as if all the air had left his body as he looked up to you, watching your hair shift from pink to rainbowed in a glorious display as you retook your fighting stance. “Much better…” The way the corner of his lips tugged up into a smile suddenly seemed so perfect.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bucky looked around the room as he waited for you to finish in the shower, toweling off his hair as he examined the sheet music that lined the walls, having 100% no idea what most of it meant outside of the names at the top of each piece. After what felt like forever he finally heard the door click open and closed again. “So what’s up with the walls?” He asked turning to see  facing the opposite wall, you had only been clad in a small towel barely covering your parts. Thank goodness you weren’t watching him to see how red his face had become.

“Oh, it was something my dad started when I was a baby.” You explained as you reached up to point out the remnants of Brahms lullaby under something labeled ‘Memory’. “I guess it kinda stuck. Mom says I was able to read music before I could read words.”  Bucky could feel the blood rushing from his face as your rear began to poke through, showing a tattoo on the right cheek of a small clownfish.

“Geeze!” He sputtered out in surprise as he spun around to watch the other wall. “Maybe put some clothes on?” Stumbling over words as he sat on the bed to pull his clothes out of his bag.

“What’s wrong Barnes? It is my room you are in afterall. Don’t like what you see?” You teased as you sauntered over to the bed. “I am one hundred percent offended! You shall pay!” You joked as you pinned him down watching his face turn to a cherry as your fingertips began exploring his exposed flesh, wriggling over his muscles in an attempt to tickle. The scent of your shampoo in your still damp hair and the feel of your hands on his skin did get a reaction, just not the one one you were looking for, one he needed to surpress. “Should have known you of all people wouldn’t be ticklish.” You pouted before letting out a yelp of surprise as he flipped you over, pinning you to the bed with his lower half.

“Pay back.” He quipped before returning the favor. Soon you were writhing under him screaming in laughter as his fingers found all the right spots to make you giggle and yelp. The assault continued until you were gasping for air between each high pitched giggles, only then did his hands move away from you in a slow bittersweet motion to rest on the bed. Both your hearts raced as you were once again realizing just how close you two were...both physically and emotionally. Would it really be so wrong if…? His eyes sparkled as you propped yourself onto your elbows. You felt as if you were loosing your breath as he leaned in on his hands. Inching closer and closer until you could taste eachother’s breath on your lips, a hair away from touching.

“GET THE HELL OFF OF MY DAUGHTER YOU MONSTER!” You mother screamed as the door flung open. In her hand she held a kitchen knife that she really wasn’t sure how to use for anything other than chopping vegetables. Her eyes darted over the scene, taking in the amount of flesh realizing the mistake.

“Mom! What are you doing?!” You demanded as Bucky just froze, conflicting instincts battling inside him. Feeling the need to protect his ray of sunshine from the possible threat and feeling the need to hide what wrestling on the bed had done to him between his legs.

“I thought...You were screaming…” She stuttered looking over the scene once more, jumping from one conclusion to the next. “And now I see why...Young lady how dare you! In my house! Did I do that horrible of a job of raising you that you can’t respect me and your Nana enough to not fornicate -”

“MOM!!” You hollered. “We weren’t!” Bucky crawled off the bed, letting you up as your hair swirled with conflicting emotions. Your mind a fog of questions over everything. Was what you think was about to happen actually about to happen? Was she actually showing that she cared? She seemed like she was ready to fight the winter soldier for you after all…”He was tickling me”...no need to mention that you liked it. “That’s all.”

“Oh...Well...get dressed, Nana’s ready to do presents.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The sun hung low in the window, setting the white powder ablaze with a brilliant display of orange and pink as Nana bent down to hand out the gifts she had just finished wrapping for the both of you. You were sure you knew what was in the boxes, it was always the same every year since you grew up...something sensible...socks, things like that. As per tradition you always opened yours first. Sitting inside the glittering box was a crochet cap in every color you could think of. Your eyes widened, this was a first. Never have they ever encouraged the rainbows with you. “Nana...This is wonderful thank you.” You lept up giving her a gentle hug, more grateful of the gesture than the item itself. In their eyes you could see remorse over the words that were exchanged last night. With a half smile she hugged back before returning to working on something for one of your cousins to give on actual christmas day. Bucky was next, a red and white christmas sweater...missing one sleeve...the correct one. “Nanna?” You asked as he pulled it on, wondering where the insult in this was hiding.

Without a word she just waved her hand going back to her work. “Thank you ma’am.” Bucky said softly as he offered his hand to her. He may have not known either of them for very long but he could see the gestures they were making.

She took the hand gesturing for him to come closer. With his ear to her lips she whispered softly “We may not understand her but we do love her.” His lips curled into a smile hearing that as he nodded. “Family calls me Nana, not ma’am. Take care of her for us.” He nodded his confirmation that he would in fact do that.

You then got up handing both your mother and grandmother their packages, pre-releases of both the CDs schedualed to hit the shelves after the new year she had been working on. Your face swelled with pride as you watched them open them only to drop back down as they both frowned. “Dazzler CDs? Really (y/n)?” Your mom asked a little disappointed. “Why would you think we’d want these?”

“Look closer mom.” You nudged as you pointed to track number 3 of the first one, specifically the (feat. Spectrum). “And the other one isn’t Dazzler...It’s Spectrum….me....I made it...I have a recording contract.”

“That’s great sweetheart.” Was all she could think to say.

Bucky frowned watching the less than wonderful reactions, he would have been ecstatic to get a recording of her stuff. “Here Doll, open mine next.” He offered as he sat back down by you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders. Inside the small box sat a small clear square crystal attached to a gold chain. You raised a brow looking up to him questioningly. He simply chuckled, taking it in his hands and fastening it around your neck. “Shine some of your light on it.” He nudged. As your hands glowed bright around the small stone it shone, lighting up the room in a glorious rainbow of colors. The chuckle turned into that 40’s charm smile you had been secretly swooning over lately as he watched your face light up with amazement. “When I saw it I instantly thought of you.” His eyes shot your parents an icy look. “If you don't know what to look for it seems average, but just below that...an explosion of something amazing.”

“Bucky…” You sighed before looking up to him. “I love it.” As you reached up, brushing your lips against his stubbled cheek you wished you didn’t have these feelings, that your heart wasn’t racing just being near him. Afterall...you were sure he’d want a more classic look to a girl, not a walking rainbow with tattoos and piercings all over her. “I just wish mine was half as good.” You added with a sigh as you handed your gift for him over.

Peeling the paper back all he saw was a silver disc of a writable CD. On the case was in your best handwriting ‘good night bucky’ followed by a doodle of a rainbow. You watched as his face lit up with wonder, having a pretty decent idea of what this was. “Is it you?” You nodded, informing him it was for when he was having trouble sleeping. “It’s perfect.” He replied as he pulled you in tighter, your hair pinkening asis lips met your forehead. “I love it.” He added as he rested his cheek on the soft pink, loving the smell, wishing the charade could go on forever.

~ ~ ~ ~

As the night pushed slowly and coldly on Bucky laid listening to the sound of you breathing lightly next to him. Crystal eyes were drinking in the vision of you sleeping in the moonlight like an angel as he brushed a small chunk of silky rainbow hair from over your face to tuck gently behind your ear. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep...more like he didn’t want to...didn’t want this dream to end. With a sigh he reached down, planting a soft, barely there kiss to your temple before reaching into his backpack for his headphones, eager to hear what your gift for him held.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLzuVXopZdSTkrUvUtTWIkvfA4kDQg-dqj

As your gentle glorious voice flowed over him he could feel his heart racing as each song was sweeter than the last. Wide eyed full of hope as he listened he looked down to you as you rolled over, finding comfort and warmth as you cuddled yourself against him…

[britishassistant]

Nana: Part 5

All characters belong to Futamata Shou. I just wrote about them.

Elf screamed in agony, trying to frantically rub out what had assaulted one of his most delicate senses.

His EYES!! What the fuck had that little brat thrown into his EYES?!!

His painful blindness was then compounded when a pair of feet landed solidly in his gut, propelling him away from his target and winding him.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done. Do you have any idea, any at all, how hard it is to collect salt and iron filings?” 0307’s voice moved away from him, sounding throughly belligerent and irritated.

“Y-You threw SALT into my EYES, you little BASTARD?!” He roared.

“And iron filings. Honestly, even with the fact that we get to work with the inventor lady on her projects, it’s really hard to get those you know! Getting the right sized granules that will mix well and aren't a completely different metal is tricky business! The salt’s even harder, because I have to take just enough from the cafeteria that nobody gets suspicious or thinks I have bad eating habits!”

His voice was coming closer. Elf stepped back and felt something whoosh past where his stomach was.

He struck out, but hit empty air as light footsteps scuttled away from him again.

“I had built up a good stash too! I save all that up just in case a real threat comes along, and then you have to go and make me waste it on you!” 0307 complained, the tremble underneath his bravado showing that the frightened boy from before was not completely gone.

Elf heard footsteps approaching just in time to avoid another two blows, but noticed that he seemed to be stepping back towards the center of the hallway— almost as though he was being herded.

Fuck blindness. Elf pulled out a pair of his own daggers and went back on the offensive. He didn't know who the hell this asshole thought he was, but there was no way he was getting the upper hand in this encounter.

However, rather than dodging, his blade was—caught—on something. It didn't have the pleasant firm yet yielding texture of flesh, or the tissue-like consistency of fabric.

“And honestly,” The child’s voice sounded slightly out of breath now as he pushed back against the assault, moving away before the second dagger could slice through where he had been. “Why the hell is it that everybody who wants to murder me in here uses knives?! I mean, I already have this souvenir from the last guy, I don't need more of the same from you! You’re a guard, give me some variety like a gun or a taser or something!”

Elf dashed towards where he’d heard him and struck again, one blow landing on the child’s weapon and one flying free.

The resulting sound wasn't like the typical clash on steel on steel. The fact that the boy’s blade didn't immediately give out ruled out anything plastic—ceramic, maybe? That would allow the knife to be smuggled into the prison without setting off any metal detectors.

“Sorry, but I’m trying to do a no-hit-run of this place, and I really can’t afford to have you messing me up.” 0307 grunted.

There was no way this inmate was Johnny Powers. Based on the tabs kept on his behavior Powers still preferred to let others do his dirty work for him, hiding behind his mother’s skirts and the amazing ability Elf’s supervisor had gifted him with.

Powers didn't have the speed to outrun Elf, nor the stamina to continually evade his knives all this time.

Elf grinned. While unexpected, this replacement held potential for many new avenues of research. Based on his exclamation earlier, his subbing-in for Powers hardly seemed voluntary. And he was clearly stronger than a normal child, making him an ideal test subject to fix up.

All Elf needed to do was cut him once, and he would belong to them, forever.

He could only hear the kid once he started moving, not see any indications of what his body was preparing to do beforehand. So he listened carefully for the brat’s footsteps, and the guide his voice provided to avoid incoming blows and return a few of his own.

The only problem was that the inmate was agile. He kept darting in to try and score little swipes before dancing back out of reach, constantly circling and changing direction so he couldn't even stab where he thought the replacement might going.

Every three times Elf struck, his blades would be caught on the child’s once, and slice harmlessly through empty air twice.

Trying to blink the salt out of his eyes only seemed to drive the pinpricks of metal into the sensitive flesh, and when he tried to swipe his arm across them to get rid of the worst of the damage, the brat would attack ferociously to obstruct those plans.

It was galling, but he was being forced on the defensive.

“A-and I have no clue what you w-were going on about earlier, with Jyu-Jyugo-San and ex-experimenting on kids,” 0307 panted, tiredness coloring his tone, “Buh-But you try any of that on any-anyone here and—and I swear I will viv-vivisect you.”

His breathing was getting heavier, and he hadn't been quite as quick dodging out of the way.

Elf lashed out, using the hilt rather than the blade. There was a satisfying smack of flesh and the inmate cried out, the delicate dancelike steps stumbling as he attempted to regain his footing.

He pocketed a dagger and managed to grasp the brat’s little throat, slamming him down onto the floor and pinning him under his body weight with a knee in the small of his back.

Swiping an arm across his eyes alleviated some of the burning and gifted him with the glorious, if blurry sight of his pestilence turning red as he gasped for breath, a pretty bruise blooming on his temple.

He hefted his other knife. “Finally. Don’t you ever shut up? Even if you have a nice tenor, every voice gets grating when you go on, and on, and on.”

A thought struck him. The figure beneath him was awfully slim, and he could hardly feel an Adam’s apple in the throat he was currently choking…

Elf’s grin was like a shark’s as he leaned down to whisper. “Or should I say alto, little miss?”

The girl beneath him went stiff as a corpse, exhausted breathing growing ragged with fright.

Elf took a moment to enjoy the expression up close before pushing his dagger in between her shoulder blades.

The only thing he’d forgotten was that she had a knife as well.

[seniichi]

Lovely Boy (V)

Prompt: Now that his subject is home, all that’s left is to clean house of the last available toy, and present Green with his prize. He knows Green will love it. For @murdeirin who inspired the series with that amazing drawing and @askgarymfoak bc you like it too.

Note: If you like my work, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi account - Seniichi.

To take care of the house was a big responsibility. Green trusted Gold to not let anyone in, to make sure that his greatest secret, his most hidden, base desires remained in the depths of mystery. Hiding his real home from the persistent noses of the press and the rest of the league only made Gold tired and grouchy, enough so that he was seriously contemplating a rather extreme method of extermination for the reporters who had made his life annoyingly inconvenient.

But no. Gold is a good boy. Green’s good boy. So he doesn’t stir up trouble that Green can’t smooth over. He smiles and he nods and he pretends he doesn’t want to rip their damn throats out.

(oh, how he missed popping spines out of alignment)

He’s saving his recruiter for last. He wants his prey’s Pokemon brainwashed fully, his gift to Green complete before he even thinks of touching him. So instead he’s warding off curious strays, breeding Houndoom to patrol and protect the shady woodland area Green’s home resided in, training them up so no normal news floozy could dare pierce the protective veil of the much sought-after Gym Leader.

(the travel time from near Mt. Silver to Viridian would be less convenient if Green didn’t already have a few Abra)

Green is home early today, his beloved mentor already in a towering temper, and Gold decides that even if his beloved Natu wasn’t done yet, Green needed the stress relief. He sweeps in to kiss slowly, hands buried in rich chocolate strands to draw Green out of his righteous fury.

Green responds with enthusiasm, pulling him close and caressing his body with open affection.

I’m sorry my pretty little good boy, Green whispers, breath hot against his ear. It’s been too long. Gold smiles up at him, kisses his mouth gently again and leads him upstairs.

It’s okay. I’ve got a present for you, Gold says, and he gets the lovely pleasure of seeing Green’s eyes go delightfully hungry. He leads him up the stairs into his recruiter’s room, and Green gives him a curious little look, watching as Archer weakly struggles against the wall where he lays pinned.

Not much of a present if I’m the one who got it, Green jokes playfully, though he knows how much Gold hates giving up prey. Gold pouts at him, before planting a light kiss to Green’s mouth.

Now what kind of lazy present giver do you take me for? Gold is pouting, and Green can’t help but chuckle at how indignant his cute little love seems. Green apologizes with the softest touch of his fingers down his spine, and the boy gives a happy little sigh at the feeling of Green’s hand over his body.

(the hidden strength that he kept on such a touch leash every time he chose to touch Gold)

He leads Green to a seat, kisses him again just because he can, and then pulls Archer front and center before his beloved mentor.

(he couldn’t call Green his lover even inside his own head. it made him blush too much.)

Instead, he focuses on Archer, forcing the man into a prone position before Green. His beloved Mentor’s curiosity will be sated of course, but until then, Gold will give him the best show  he could imagine.

Green’s head tilts to a side when he sees Gold pull out his specially gifted knife set, gives a curious hum at him for it. Gold smiles at him, winks playfully in a way that makes Green laugh, relaxing from the tense, almost paranoid state he’d originally been in.

Oh? Do I get a show, lovely boy? Green asks him fondly, and Gold grins.

Of a kind. He takes the time to sharpen his knives, can feel the unger that pervades Green’s entire demeanor as he watches Gold prepare. Archer remains pinned in place - Gold had taught Archer how futile it was to flee quite quickly - the man was too sharp to stay unless proven otherwise.

He’s not planning on it being a long torture, slow and drawn out. Those aroused Green yes, but what he had planned was simple in it’s elegance. He yanks Archer up, so that Green can see the expanse of his flesh, untouched by any knife. He debates for a second, before deciding why not.

(senseless carnage is beautiful no matter the name.)

The first time his knife goes through Archer’s body, it’s somewhere nonfatal. The resulting spray however sprinkles over Green’s clothes, a few light droplets landing on perfectly sculpted features. Green looks surprised at the savagery of it - it’s rare for Gold to be anything less than refined.

But tonight is not about refinement. Tonight was about vengeance. With no Giovanni to harm, he metes out the personal revenge he wished he could give that monster into physical art. Green is enraptured, unblinking gaze settled upon the bloody flesh as the knife plunges in, stab after stab spraying blood all over him.

(the way Green licks his lips is utter sin, sweeping droplets of blood into his talented mouth)

He finishes it off with his trademark, scoring over the taut flesh of his throat in a glorious shower of arterial spray as his carotid is at last exposed, nearly ending the torment of which Gold had put Archer through. He’s not done of course. The knife is set aside, and he lifts Archer’s body up, one hand grasping at the still weakly moving man’s face. He laughs, crazed and delighted, as he smashes Archer’s head into the floor. He does it once, twice, three times, and keeps going until he loses count, until the man’s skull is splintered under his fingers and his face all but unrecognizable.

Only then does he lean back, fingers bloody and hands aching, but utterly satisfied. He hears the faintest little moan come from his beloved mentor, and Gold only manages to see the crazed, feral desire in his beautiful gaze before he’s dragged into a kiss that is almost unspeakably rough, all teeth and tongue and dominance to Green’s core. Green’s fingers dig into his hip,his other free hand tearing viciously at his unexposed body, forcefully ripping the clothing off of him as his beloved insists on displaying what, exactly, Gold had done to his libido.

His mentor is hot and needy against his thigh, but Gold isn’t interested in giving in quite yet. Gold is strong enough to battle with Green, though he’s not quite enough to overpower him. Even so, he fights. It’s a test of wills and willpower before Gold can spread Green’s arms wide, run his tongue over the bloody flesh. Green freezes at that, and goes pliant with pleasure when Gold’s lips worship his every inch, sucking the blood off of him.

(in return Green licks the hand he’d used to smash Archer’s head in clean, which feels so good)

He undresses Green with all the skill his practice has given him, tongue sliding over every crevice and fold of his flesh, tasting the slightly spicy flavor of Green and the coppery tang of his victim. He moans against the skin, and Gold feels Green quiver under his fingertips.

(it’s so hot when he can leash the man down. it’s like capturing a god.)

The wildness of his gaze seems even stronger now, and Gold shivers at it.

Come here my lovely boy. Green whispers the words, and he is helpless to do anything but obey. How lucky I am to have you, his words envelop Gold in warmth, fingers sliding off what’s left of his clothing, their bodies bare against one another, though the blood from his victim is close enough to touch them. Such a good boy. My lovely boy. All mine. His words are a mantra, a strong hand grasping between them to stroke both of their cocks in tandem, pressing Gold against the floor, kissing him until he cannot breathe.

Green pulls back only to allow him a brief respite, before Green does it again, this time until his head is spinning and dizzy from the lack of oxygen. It only takes a few cycles of this for him to come against Green’s talented, wonderful hand, and Green follows him shortly afterwards, though he has much more planned.

Green’s hands are messy with cum and blood, and Gold makes to clean them off. A single sticky red finger presses against his mouth to stop him. He’s glorious, kneeling between his thighs to wrap messy hands around Gold’s throat, thumb circling his Adam’s apple. He is smiling softly at Gold’s sharp intake of breath.

You didn’t think I would miss this little kink of yours? Green chuckles, straddling Gold’s hips and placing his young love’s hands on his hips. Now now, that doesn’t sound like me, does it? Green is chuckling richly, stroking his throat until it’s a mess of white and red against his skin. Three taps if you want me to stop, lovely boy. he murmurs the words sultrily against yielding lips.

(his greatest fantasy was coming true he could barely believe it he was going to die of happiness)

Green’s grasp is light, but the pressure increased slowly and steadily as Green’s hands pressed in all of the right places to rob the very breath from his lungs. He’s dizzy again, euphoria ringing in his veins and the very world fuzzing at the edges in soft pastels and splashes of blood. His heartbeat is very loud against the muted noise of the outside world, only his Green in focus.

The rush of oxygen nearly makes him pass out, but he gulps in deep lungfuls, feeling the weight of Green’s darkly pleased smile.

(there is no need for a bed, not with the way Green so delectably took care of him.)

In the morning, Gold watches the news with Green, uncaring of his naked state - though Green certainly doesn’t let him move from his lap. The report of Archer, found so brutally mauled and pinned against a wall like a sacrificial lamb is more than enough reason for Gold to spoil Green with an enthusiastic thank you.

[aion-rsa]

What If…? Episode 5 Review: Magnificent Marvel Zombie Chaos

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This review contains spoilers for Marvel’s What If…? episode 5.

Episode 5 of Marvel’s What If…?, entitled ‘What If…Zombies!?’, is a tremendously fun half hour of television, and is also likely to be a really good time for fans of the Marvel Zombies comics.

The installment is packed with laughs and shocking moments, using classic zombie tropes to keep some of the best and most underrated MCU characters on their toes while maintaining an enviable pace as it throws one wild scenario after another at them.

As you may know by now if you’ve been reading our weekly What If…? reviews, they’re adopting a slightly different format. More of a breakdown that we hope will satisfy die-hard Marvel fans but also help younger viewers and those less familiar with the MCU keep up.

Alright! Now, let’s dig into ‘What If…Zombies!?’, which ponders what would have happened if Janet van Dyne had contracted a terrible virus during her time in the Quantum Realm.

Required viewing

It helps to have seen all the MCU movies leading up to Avengers: Infinity War, but perhaps Spider-Man: Homecoming, Black Panther and the first two Ant-Man films are the most essential watches. There are also a fair few gut punches for any WandaVision fans in the building, and whomst amongst us is not?

Voice cast

Our Watcher Uatu is of course Jeffrey Wright, Chadwick Boseman is T’Challa/Black Panther, Paul Rudd is Scott Lang/Ant-Man, Mark Ruffalo is Bruce Banner/Hulk, Evangeline Lily is Hope van Dyne/Wasp, Sebastian Stan is Bucky Barnes, Paul Bettany is Vision, Jon Favreau is Happy Hogan, Danai Gurira is Okoye, Emily VanCamp is Sharon Carter, David Dastmalchian is Kurt, and Tom Vaughan-Lawlor is Ebony Maw.

The missing voice here is Tom Holland. Musician and Mad Men actor Hudson Thames fills in as Peter Parker/Spider-Man in episode 5.

What’s different?

Bruce Banner in Hulk form returns to Earth via the Bifröst just as he did at the start of Avengers: Infinity War, but this time when he crashes down into the Sanctum Sanctorum he finds Iron Man, Wong and Doctor Strange already turned into flesh-eating zombies.

Bruce is thankfully saved by Hope van Dyne and her swarm of ants, and Peter Parker whisks him off while we get some helpful exposition.

In this universe, Hank Pym’s Ant-Man and the Wasp journey to the Quantum Realm to retrieve his long-lost wife Janet went badly wrong when he found her infected by a quantum zombie brain virus upon his arrival. When she returned, Janet started gnawing on everything within reach and the virus spread like wildfire, quickly infecting millions. Cap, Widow, Hawkeye, Iron Man and Black Panther apparently set out with arguably the worst Cap plan ever to turn back the tide, and disappeared under a pile of hungry zombies.

Banner finds himself among the last of the still-human holdouts. Bucky Barnes, Okoye and Sharon Carter are tracking a signal from Camp Lehigh that may or may not provide a solution to the zombie problem. Along with Happy Hogan and Kurt (who I still don’t think has a last name), the gang forge a loose, Train to Busan-y mission to try and reach Camp Lehigh.

Unfortunately, they are attacked by numerous familiar faces before they set out, and Happy is turned into a zombie, further dampening Peter’s hopes for a W. They eventually get aboard a train, but Zombie Cap climbs on and Bucky has to fight him, which leads to a small sliver of time with Bucky as Cap when he nabs his shield.

Hope gets infected, but helps the rest of the gang get to Camp Lehigh, where they find Vision experimenting with the Mind Stone, and Scott and T’Challa still alive (to varying degrees). Okoye realizes they can use Vision’s research to cure the zombie population, but only from Wakanda where the tech they need could be easily constructed.

Vision’s base turns out to be a bit of a trap. He’s been luring people there to feed a contained – and admittedly extremely cool-looking – Zombie Wanda, as he couldn’t bear to lose her (gulp). His guilt gets the better of him when his friends are attacked by Wanda, and T’Challa, Peter and Scott Lang’s head escape Camp Lehigh and fly to Wakanda while Banner Hulks out and attacks the hoard.

How does it work out?

Oof, not good. Earth seems utterly screwed. Scott is still a head in a jar being supportively cuddled by The Cloak of Levitation, T’Challa is missing a leg, Peter is clinging on to his last shred of hope, and the safe haven of Wakanda plays host to an Infinity Gauntlet-wielding zombie Thanos. Yikes.

Standout moments

There were so many fantastic moments in episode 5 that it will probably require a rewatch or two to catch them all!

First, I’ve gotta give a shout-out to the The Cloak of Levitation. It really is the gift that keeps on giving – kind of like the MCU’s version of a silent movie star. That thing has surely saved the day as many times as the Avengers by now, and it asks for nothing in return. The Cloak of Levitation always knows the assignment, and always delivers.

You’ll be unsurprised to learn that I also loved Peter’s glorious zombie training video, which started off with a distinct Mutant Enemy-esque ident. What a smorgasbord of joy! Kurt’s ketchup-squirting special effects, Bucky listed as “silent but deadly”, Happy forced to wear a custom Thor shirt of questionable origin. This instructional clip had everything, didn’t it?

Peter’s struggle to keep hope alive in the zombie apocalypse is an arc that has almost certainly been pulled from Philip Kennedy Johnson’s spectacular Marvel Zombies: Resurrection run, and it’s just as affecting in this episode as it was in the pages of Marvel Comics. Peter can always be relied upon to maintain his earnest spirit until the bitter end.

Both Kurt and Happy were terrific additions in this episode. Happy’s insistence on yelling “blam!” every time he used the repulsor glove reminded me of Ewan McGregor’s behind the scenes Star Wars: The Phantom Menace story, where he admitted that he made lightsaber noises out loud when he was filming. Apparently, McGregor did it so much that the post-production crew ended up having to edit in louder lightsaber sounds to cover it all up.

Of course, the continuing heartbreak of Vision and Wanda’s relationship was once again ready to twist the emotional knife. In WandaVision, Wanda couldn’t help but use her Chaos Magic to keep Vision around after his death, but here we see that Vision arguably went to more disturbing lengths to contain a zombified Wanda. It was even hard to cope with the monstrous Wanda finding Vision’s lifeless body, and yet Marvel still refuses to pay for my therapy.

See you again next week!

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Marvel’s What If…? is now streaming on Disney+.

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[rockhoochie]

No Apologies

(*Edit, previously titled “He Brings Me Sugar”)

Pairing: Dean/OFC

Warnings: Adult Content, Smut, Slow Burn, Somewhat Dubious Consent, Angst, Prescription Drug Abuse, Drinking, Knife play (very brief), Minor OC (sibling) Death, Language, Oral Sex (M/F receiving).

Summary: After losing her sister Anna to a demon, the Winchesters have taken Lexi under their wing. She studies and trains with them, tense friction quickly growing between her and Dean. When Sam and Castiel leave to take care of the demon that killed Anna without her, the levee of tension amidst Lexi and Dean breaks, flowing into something neither of them expected.

A/N: This is an edit of a fic I’ve posted previously. I meant to write a brief smutty one-shot and ended up developing the OFC a bit. Since the word count is 10K+, I decided to chapter it out. There may still be some errors, so please forgive me as I haven’t had this beta’d yet. Thank you for reading and as always, if you’d like to be tagged just send an ask!

**My work is not to be copied, altered, posted on other sites or otherwise used without my express written permission**

 Chapter 3

I had been living with Sam and Dean for about six months no, ever since my life had been turned completely and insanely upside down. Ever since my house had been burned down by a demon. Ever since that same demon had possessed my sister Anna and made her snap her own neck…

It had just been Anna and me. Our parents were gone, killed in a car accident almost two years ago. Anna had resolved to stay home with me after our parents’ funeral. They had left the house to us in their will – rather than try to deal with selling it, we moved in. Although sometimes painful, living in our childhood home again, surrounded by our parents’ possessions and essence was comforting in its own bittersweet way.

Sam had been only halfway through the exorcism when Anna was killed. Dean had been holding me from behind as I simply cried and screamed for my sister. I watched, helpless and confused and terrified as the demon glared me with eyes black as obsidian. It cackled with Anna’s voice, and unceremoniously twisted her head almost the whole way around. The demon left her then, in a thick black vine of smoke that reeked of sulfur, and making the most wretched squealing sound I had ever heard. Dean’s grip loosened on me as her body hit the floor. I had run over to Anna and held her, stroking her hair as my tears fell into her open, dead eyes, not caring that the flames licking the walls were gaining more and more strength. Sam had yelled repeatedly at Dean to get me out; Dean had to coax and scream and pry me away from my little sister. He had dragged me out of the burning house – literally kicking and screaming – as I watched Sam pour a copious amount of rock salt over Anna’s corpse.

Once Dean had gotten us a safe distance away and Sam had run out of the burning house, everything I had left in me vanished as I collapsed on the street. The brothers stayed with me the entire time, through the police and fireman interrogations, through the paramedic examination. The EMT’s kept telling me how lucky I was. I kept silently telling them to go fuck themselves.

Once the fire was out and Anna’s body had been wheeled away, all I could do was tremble, and repeatedly ask Sam and Dean what hell happened, what’s going on, what was that thing. They tried their best to calm me and explain. My head swam along with my tears as they told me that monsters were real, that they were hunters – the kind of hunters that kill the things that everyone else dismissed as fairy tales. They told me were demons real, angels were too, but God had left the building…and vampires and werewolves and even dragons absolutely existed outside of nightmares. At first, I thought they were insane, or that everything that had happened had caused me to go off the deep end.

They took me to their car, a black ’67 Impala, and showed me the contents of the trunk. Guns, knives, bullets, a goddamn machete. Dean reached for and opened a leather-bound journal, and flipping the pages slowly as I peered at them. They were full of hand drawn pictures of awful creatures, of handwritten information about each one – what is was, where it came from, and how to kill it.

Despite the obvious proof, I maintained the position that either I was losing my mind or they were certifiable lunatics.

Deep down I knew it was all true - nothing else could explain it. The weight of accepting that truth crushed anything that remained of my heart that night.

That demon had destroyed the only home and family had left. The only thing I was able to walk away with were the clothes on my back and the necklace I wore – a heart-shaped silver pendant with a single diamond embedded near the top, a single silver angel wing decorating the right side, and the words “Big Sister” engraved in simple print. Anna had one that matched – the only difference was the angel wing on the left side, and the engraved phrase “Little Sister”. We had found them in our mother’s closet, already wrapped in Christmas paper, tucked away amongst other gifts and boxes. Mom had always called us her angels on earth.

One of the EMTs had slipped Anna’s necklace into my hand. I slid the pendant off the chain, and joined it with my own. I silently promised my sister retribution. Whatever it took, wherever I had to go, I was going to destroy the thing that murdered her or die trying.

When Sam asked me if I had someone to call or someone I could stay with, I had shaken my head ‘no’. I had some friends out of state I could’ve called, but I couldn’t even bring myself to consider leaving. I needed answers about what had happened to Anna, and I was hellbent on revenge. I had told them I’d get a hotel for now, but Sam said he didn’t feel comfortable just leaving me alone. That demon was still out there somewhere, and chances were it was going to come after me.

That night they brought me to the bunker.

I sat at the library table in silence, watching Dean unpack his gear while Sam got a room ready for me.

“Hey,” Dean had said, “When’s the last time you ate anything?”

“Not hungry,” I mumbled.

“Not what I asked you.”

“I don’t know, sometime yesterday…”

Dean walked into the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the strange arsenal he had laid out in front of me - a sawed-off shotgun, several knives, bloody clothes and flasks – either full of holy water or whiskey.

He returned with a small plate and a fork, setting a piece of cherry pie in front of me.

“I’d rather have a drink,” I mumbled.

“Pie first.”

I cut a small piece, forcing myself to take one small bite after another until I finished it, trying to at least find some comfort in its sweetness. I licked the last of the thick filling off of my fork, and ran my finger along the sides of my lips to clean off any trace that may have remained.

When I looked up, I found Dean staring at me, his lips parted, his green eyes fixed on me.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is there some on my face?”

He blinked with a slight shake of his head and leaned back in his chair.

“No,” he said. “I just…I’m sorry for everything you went through tonight. I know how it is to lose family, and…”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“Here,” he said, handing me a silver flask. “You can have that drink now”.

***

I had stayed in my room for three days after I got there, only leaving to use the bathroom. For the most part, Sam and Dean gave me my space. Sam would knock twice a day, come in and bring me food. Sometimes we would make small talk. Sometimes we would just sit there in silence, until he would put a movie on for me. He’d hold me while I cried, listen calmly when I screamed.

Dean had been present, but had kept himself fairly distant. On the morning of my third day at the bunker, I woke to find a pint of Jack Daniels and slice of cherry pie on my night stand. I knew that was from him. As great as Sam was about being attentive to my emotions, Dean knew what I didn’t know I really needed – sugar and booze. I washed down the pie with the whiskey, and spent the rest of the day getting blissfully drunk while watching old western movies.

On the fourth day, I finally came out of my room with a staggering hangover. That was the day I met Castiel, and experienced the glorious magic that was angelic healing. Cas had simply touched two fingers to my forehead, erasing the lingering physical pain I had from the night Anna died, healing the cuts and bruises covering my body. Even my hangover was gone. It was also the day I asked Sam and Dean to teach me everything they knew.

Sam read through lore and research with me, quizzing me on what the most common creatures were and how to kill them. He showed me the best places to look for the rare, odd things, and told me to who to call if I got stuck on something. I studied symbols, warding, summoning spells and credit card fraud. Sam was patient and warmhearted while he taught me, leading me to correct my own wrong answers and guiding me step-by-step as I practiced sketching Devil’s Traps. Sam quickly became like a big brother to me – that was the reason I picked him to take me to get the anti-possession tattoo on the back of my neck.

Dean led me in the more hands-on aspects of hunting. He taught me how to handle the guns, how to clean them, how to put them back together. He showed me the different bullets, the rock salt shells and the witch killers. He gave me a hunting knife, a lock-pick kit, and finally my own Glock.

We also spent time sparring, practicing hand to hand fighting. He never held back with me, saying that if I was going to have his or his little brother’s six, I’d better damn well know how to fight.

Dean was tough on me, critical, demanding perfection from everything he was trying to teach me. It only took about two weeks before started grating on each other. The more comfortable I got around him, the more he learned that not only could I take it, but I could dish it right back to him. That seemed to piss him off, and I found myself secretly enjoying it.

One particular day in the shooting range we really had it out. I was holding my Glock, trying to aim at the target and he would just not shut up. My stance was wrong, I wasn’t holding the gun the right way, what did I think this was, the goddamn movies? I finally cracked that day, screaming at him to get the fuck out of my face and back the hell off. I had stormed off, hiding myself in an archive room for the next several hours. When I finally returned to my room, there was a pint of Jack Daniels and a slice of pie sitting on my nightstand. By that time, I had learned how high pie was on Dean’s list of priorities. So, with a smile, I took the gesture as an apology and forgave him.

After a couple of months, I went out on some simple hunts with them – a spirit here, a poltergeist there. Sam was proud of me. Dean was impressed. I wanted to do more. Despite my insistence and protestations, they left me behind on the more difficult hunts - vampire nests, werewolf packs, things that hunted in twos, or anything demon-related.

Whenever they left me behind, I resigned myself to trying to track down the demon that killed Anna. I looked for patterns, strange sightings, any hint that the thing was still around. Sam and Dean tortured any demon they came across to get information before destroying or exoring them. Not one of them knew anything, or if they did, they weren’t talking. Dean had even summoned Crowley to interrogate him. After Crowley spent an eternity talking in circles and flirting with me, he insisted he knew nothing about my sister, or which one of his minions may have killed her. He did however, offer to make finding it out for me his top priority in exchange for my soul. Dean had cursed at him for that, charging at him with Ruby’s knife. Crowley vanished with a snap of his fingers before Dean could even get close to him.

I kept hunting, kept researching, kept hoping. I made it extremely clear to Sam and Dean that I was going to be the one to destroy that demon once it dared to show up again. They never protested, but never seemed too thrilled with the idea either.

It was comforting knowing I had people who had my back – hell, it was comforting to know that an actual angel had my back. Any time they left and hunted without me it filled me with dread. The Winchesters were the best at what they did, but if anything ever happened to them I’d be lost. I couldn’t imagine life without Sam, the brother I never had. I couldn’t even imagine life without Dean…the Dean I never had.

[elfnerdherder]

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 17

You can read Chapter 17 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 17: One Eye of Love, One of War

           It was the blood that stopped him. The blood, and the way it’d seeped through the denim to stick to his leg and taint it with the ugly discoloration. He was pressed against the doorway to the bedroom, gasping for air that refused to come, and as Hannibal worked the jeans off of his hips, he looked down and saw the blood.

           “No,” he murmured, and it seemed to shock the desire out of him, a cold douse of water to his system. He shook his head, like it could dispel the image. It didn’t. Streaks of blood, faded but still present. A cop, dead by his hand. No, no, Red Dragon’s –weren’t they the same, though? Didn’t Will exist in this form because Red Dragon existed? Weren’t they, in some odd sort of way, two parts of a convoluted whole?

           He wanted to meet Red Dragon. He was sure they had a lot in common.

           Hannibal glanced at his face, then to the streaks that continued down to the top of his calf. He passed a hand along the skin, but the blood was long since dry and didn’t wipe off so easily.

           “No?”

           “No,” Will said, and Hannibal nodded. Perhaps it was something bleak in the way Will stared down at himself, trembling with desire, underwear tented with just how hungry he was. Perhaps it was the way Hannibal was so in tune, so completely part of Will now that he’d tasted him that he could feel the coil of disgust, of self-loathing that was fast replacing his want.

           Either way, he helped Will out of his jeans. Instead of taking him to the large bed, he took him to the adjoining bathroom. Will’s feet were cold against the tile, and he shuddered in his flannel shirt that clung to his back, from sweat and what he now remembered as the blood that’d coated the seat in the cop car. He’d pressed himself to it in his exhaustion. It clung to him now, accusing.

            He stared at the ridiculously glorious tub, and the cubicle shower beside it burst to life under Hannibal’s adjustments, the room quickly filling with steam as he adjusted the water temperature. He turned back to Will, jumpsuit halfway down to reveal a white t-shirt underneath, and he padded over, fingers going to the buttons on his shirt.

           “No,” Will said, mournful. Hannibal hmm’d low under his breath in agreement and nodded.

           “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

           Will thought to say no again, but under his touch he was clay. He nodded mutely, and when he stood naked before him, he didn’t find himself feeling exposed or vulgar. It was action, reaction, a disconnect between the part of him that yearned and the part of him that thought of the ease in which Hannibal had tossed the body from the car. Will’s hands passed at the hem of Hannibal’s shirt, lifted it over his head and helped him undress in turn.

           He led Will into the shower, and he stood him just under the waterfall of water, fingers tousling his hair for it to better soak up the delicious heat that hit his skin and soothed him. His body hummed at the contact, approving. Hannibal reached for the shampoo, but when Will tried to take it from him, he tsk’d and shook his head.

           “Allow me,” he said, and he turned Will so that he could tilt his head back and wash his hair, fingers digging into his scalp lightly, soothingly. He sighed under his touch, leaned back against him where his chest was broad and his skin was warm.

           “Are you so very far into your own head, Will?” he asked as he rinsed his hair. “Where nothing but the monsters play?”

           “I think I’d have used the suppressor, too,” he said at last, as Hannibal grabbed soap and a washcloth.

           “Homemade by the looks of it.”

           “But I think…to just leave them like that, in piles every which way, was tasteless.”

           “He wanted to set a crime scene where there was no doubt we were not the culprits, but it could certainly look that way to the untrained eye. Jack Crawford will know exactly what happened there.” He slid the washcloth along his back, working at removing the stains of just what’d happened only hours before. Will nodded mutely.

           “I’ve been trying to see the world through his red haze…hear the cold drips of kerosene in his darkness,” Will said. There was something vastly intimate about sharing that with someone, especially someone like Hannibal. Like whispering secrets to the devil, lips pressed too close to his ear.

           “I’d imagine it’s difficult, now that you’ve experienced your own darkness.” Hannibal passed the washcloth along his neck, paused at the scar tissue. “This is the first since Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It would no doubt be harder to imagine him killing now that you have the taste for it yourself.”

           Unjudging. A distinct lack of morbid glee at his struggles. Will nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

           “To kill is to entertain the most intimate of moments with someone as their life flees. You shared that moment with someone else, though, didn’t you?” Hannibal asked.

           “His daughter.”

           “She bore witness to your own becoming.”

           “It was just an interview,” he said bleakly. “I was curious, so I wanted to talk to him.”

           A smooth, steady pass across his chest. He stared down at the soapsuds and watched the water beat them away as quickly as they’d risen –marveled at the understanding.

           “You knew, though. In the back of your mind, you knew it was him, and you merely needed something more substantial for Jack Crawford to bring him in.”

           “He knew. I got there, and he’d already killed his wife. Had his daughter in the back room when he sat down with me, and…something. Something in his eyes, something…in his smile. I spent so long trying to know him, see him past the slides, the grainy pictures of the dead, the tender way he returned the one whose meat was wrong…we’d do the same thing, same time of day. Different location. We moved in sync, it felt, and I looked at him, and I knew that he knew.”

           “What did he do?”

           “He lunged across the table, grabbed me. We fought, struggled…he had me by the neck. Dragged me in the other room where his daughter was curled up, crying by her mom. Screams sat on the air, fat. His knife got my gut, and I just…bled everywhere. Fell to the ground, trying to hold my stomach in. I told her, ‘it’s going to be okay.’”

           “Did you keep your promise, Will?” Hannibal asked. “Was everything okay?” Will turned to him, studied his jawline and the way water droplets pearled then fell. He nodded, glancing to Hannibal’s shoulder where a long healed bullet wound lay.

           “He got the knife in her neck by the time I got the safety off, but I got him. Took ten shots to get him down, then I just…held her neck until paramedics got there.” A laugh, unamused. “They said I tilted her head just right. If I hadn’t, she’d have died, bled out.”

           Hannibal’s fingers danced along the Glasgow smile across his abdomen, his mark of ‘heroism’. Will put his thumb to the long healed circle at Hannibal’s shoulder and pressed lightly.

           “You had him for so long though, the sudden sensation of his death must have undone you far more than your own potential demise,” Hannibal noted.

           “They didn’t know it, but I had encephalitis.” A pause. “I didn’t know it. Made me…see things. I thought I was him. I thought that I hadn’t gotten him,” Will confessed. “My brain was on fire, and every time I looked in the mirror, I thought it was him. So I got rid of him to make sure Abigail would be okay.”

           “And is she quite okay?”

           “She’s in college now…one more semester and she’s done.” He smiled, bleak. “She e-mails me to tell me about her studies in criminology, sends Christmas gifts. Birthday gifts. Thanks me a lot. She avoids eyes, too. Her dad claimed he was her soulmate –one sided connection.”

           “She owes you her life. You almost lost your own in more ways than one, and I’m sure she realizes that each breath she takes is borrowed because of you.” Hannibal’s hand passed over the scar tissue once more, and he dipped his head in to drag his tongue along the line Will had made with his own two hands and a mind on fire. Will’s breath caught; he nodded.

           “No matter what, though, I’m still the guy that murdered her father. I won’t forget that.”

           “You couldn’t. So you left, made a new life for yourself once you pried him from your veins; tell me, is the Great Red Dragon so deep inside of you that you’re going to try and carve him from your skin, should you live through this?”

           Will thought about lying, but he couldn’t. He was too worn out to, too stunned by his capacity to endanger everyone around him for the sake of his own selfish desires. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I see him sitting beside me, mirroring me. Dust motes coalescing, suspended in the air to almost take the shape of his face. I think he and I are a lot alike.”

           “When Red Dragon comes, Will, I want you to deal the killing strike,” Hannibal said kindly. “You have already become so dear with him, it’d be selfish of me to take that moment from you. Don’t use a gun this time, however; when the time comes, you should find a way to make it more intimate than lead and fire.”

           They stayed in the shower until the water temperature cooled just enough to be mildly uncomfortable. Hannibal turned it off, left Will dripping on the bathmat, and returned with a robe and a thick, plush towel. After, he led him towards the bed and guided him onto it, hand hot against his hip, lips cool against the juncture of his jaw to his ear.

           “I’m relieved to finally have washed away that stench of hotel aftershave,” he whispered to him. Will couldn’t help but smile.

-

           Hannibal’s clothes were about a size too big, but Will managed. His belt cinched the slacks, and he tried to find the least expensive looking button-up in the closet. After he cleaned the blood from his shoes, he deemed those good enough for reuse, and he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scowling at himself. From the underwear to the socks to the soap he smacked of something that was not himself, but he reasoned that he hadn’t exactly packed a bag. It’d have been suspicious to pack a bag.

           He felt Hannibal through four walls away, and it was as much a comfort as a sign of too much touching. He was drunk off of it, the knowledge of knowing exactly where he was at all times, like he could reach out and find him, even blind and at a distance. He’d woken with his face pressed into his neck, like he could somehow inhale the very essence of him.

           He didn’t like acknowledging that it was the best sleep he’d had in months.

           He fingered the small phone Jack had given him to hide in his wallet. It was smaller than his debit car, as flat as four cards put together. He considered telling Hannibal about it. Considered against it. Jack needed to know where they were for when the time came –came for what, Will wasn’t sure anymore.

            Will tried to reason it was an overload of chemical reactions in his mind at being so close to his soulmate, but that wasn’t pleasant to think of. Why make science of what just felt so fucking right? It wasn’t chemicals that made Hannibal understand his mind with Hobbs. It wasn’t chemicals that made him understand where he went when he saw the blood of someone else plastered to his skin.

           He went into the kitchen of smooth, marbled counters and chrome appliances, and he hovered near the door, watching. Fingers tapped on the doorframe, and he studied everything with quick, sweeping glances.

           “Good morning,” Hannibal said pleasantly. The way he moved among the bags of groceries was vaguely reminiscent of how he moved while behind bars. There was a little more freedom of gesture, a little less animal in the curve of his step. Even now though, there was still something predatory in his motions, a sleekness in how he turned his shoulders. Will didn’t think time would ever leach that out of him. Wasn’t sure if he wanted it to.

           Maybe he just didn’t look cornered anymore, an animal one breath away from a defensive bite.

           “Chiyoh brought food?”

           “She already left, unfortunately. She is mildly reclusive in nature, and she doesn’t tend to desire being involved in any of my antics unless completely necessary. I told her to go and enjoy herself.”

           Will watched him among a spread of wildly bright fruits, and he moved closer to inspect what smelled like gourmet coffee. At what had to be a hungered, wild look in his eyes, Hannibal poured him a glass and stirred sugar into it, offering it to him silently.

           “…Thanks.”

           “There is an art gallery nearby, and I wanted to see it. Would you care to join me?” he asked, turning to his array of fruits. Will sat down on a stool to watch him chop, slice, and create. A quiet pang in his stomach reminded him of Molly’s Pinterest recipes he’d never get to try. Not after this.

           Definitely not after this. Oh, Will.

           “We’re supposed to be on the run,” he said, sipping the coffee.

           “Even when I was ‘on the run’ I still stopped to enjoy the beautiful things. There is no reason we can’t now.”

           “When were you on the run? You were arrested right after Alana turned you in.”

           “In Florence, mostly. They called me ‘Il Monstro’ there,” he mused, and he paused to glance up at Will with a devilish, knowing smile.

           “…Is that what your drawings are? Florence?” He hated that he remembered. When Hannibal circled him to find something in the pantry, his fingertips grazed his back. An unconscious gesture, but it lingered in a pleasant way –made him think of ripples in a pool of water.

           “Mostly Florence, although there are places from France, other parts of Italy, Spain; I traveled to many places in Europe, each more beautiful than the last. Florence was mine, though,” he said, returning with something vaguely resembling an ugly root. “Florence was mine.”

           “Is that where you’d go after this?”

           “Would you go with me?” Hannibal wondered. He looked up from the knife that he used to carve kiwi into stars, and he surveyed Will, the light from the windows illuminating the blue of his eye.

           “I don’t know what to do after this,” Will admitted. “I just…”

           “Couldn’t stand the thought of our separation for one more moment,” Hannibal finished for him. His flash of a smile was all canines. “I really was pleasantly surprised –it was a wonderful gift.”

           “I told Jack that I was going to kill you after you killed Dolarhyde,” he said, and he took a gulp of the hot coffee to have something else to do with his hands and mouth rather than reveal too much.

           “I assumed as much.”

           “That’s how I got him to agree.” A beat. “Alana said it was the worst idea she’d ever heard.”

           Hannibal hmm’d, as though he could imagine just how well that conversation had gone.

           “She told me I’d regret it if I did.”

           “At the school the two of you attended, and many others much like it, there was a distinct lack of personality among the student body in the psychology department. Alana was one of those that stood out from that rabble.” He mulled a memory over, eyes glazing as he thought back to something. “During my trial, you sat beside her the entire time,” he said, setting the kiwi aside to focus on the mangos. “She seemed far more upset than a person who’d discovered their teacher’s interests delved into a socially unsavory side.”

           “You asked her to be blind, and she wasn’t,” Will replied. “She respected you, cared about you, and you were the Chesapeake Ripper. She couldn’t reconcile the two, and she couldn’t understand why you didn’t kill her when you could have.”

           “You understand, though,” Hannibal said, glancing up at him. His head tilted, a saccharine smile on his face at the knowing of the depth of Will’s understanding.

           “She was smart. It would be a waste of a mind, let alone a mind you’d helped mold. You thought maybe you could twist your way out of it, but they made it to your basement before you made it to Alana to convince her not to say a word.”

           “I asked her to be blind, and instead she was brave,” said Hannibal, and there was an odd expression on his face, like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or infuriated at the thought.

           “Don’t hurt her just because you’re free,” Will warned.

           “I did promise her I would, though,” he replied amiably. “I always keep my promises, Will.”

           “It’d…” he fumbled, chewing his words around in his mouth. The thought of Alana dead by his hand through proxy made his intestines clench like he was being stabbed all over again. Then it’d be Matthew Brown, Frederick Chilton, Alana Bloom, eight cops, an FBI agent, and an orderly. “Please don’t.”

           Hannibal looked up again, and be it the panicked expression in Will’s eyes, or the remembrance of how much it’d hurt him to hurt Will with Molly, but something in his eyes softened. He pursed his lips and nodded, just once. Will nodded back, just once.

           “I like you in my clothing,” he said, and at the distinct turn of conversation Will found himself flustered.

           “What?”

           “It suits you,” he added, and the hungry, possessive look was deliciously depraved.

           Will found it best not to answer. He couldn’t have been sure if the answer would have been appropriate for a breakfast table.

           After breakfast –a fruit medley with the creamiest parfait Will had ever tasted in his entire life –took them to the neighboring town an hour and a half away that did indeed boast a small art gallery. At Will’s insistence, they wore hats and layers of clothes that wouldn’t immediately identify them. Hannibal drew the line at sunglasses, though.

           “You can’t see the art properly if you are looking through tinted lenses,” he rebuked.

           By the time they gained admittance, Will wasn’t sure whether to call it a dream or a state of limbo. The vertigo at attending an art gallery with Hannibal Lecter of all people was enough to make him laugh so hard he cried into his stupid pamphlet, and when a girl with two perfectly matching brown eyes eyed them and smiled with want and hope for her own future, it made his chest squeeze tight.

           “They haven’t changed much in the years it’s been, but they do boast one such piece I’d like to see,” Hannibal said, walking along the walls and stopping every so many steps to eye a particularly riveting design.

               Sometimes, Will let him draw ahead in order to watch his gait, the smooth and assured way in which his hips twisted just slightly, the way his shoulders stayed straight. The mark of a hunter. He was content to watch, to observe. He’d never really seen Hannibal outside of handcuffs, no matter how much Hannibal claimed to know of him during his college years. There was a passion, an energy radiating just off of the edges of his clothing that made him enticing, the ripest fruit at the tallest part of the tree. If Hannibal noticed it –and surely he had to, with as many times as Will had done it –he made no comment. His eyes were for the art, the oil paintings rendered with such skill and passion.

           It wasn’t until the final piece, one boasting a short visit before being returned to the London Art Gallery that Will found himself observing the art as much as he was observing Lecter. Years since school robbed him of the name of it, but as he stared at the painting, he found something odd inside of him that took away the ability to form coherent speech.

           “Mars and Venus,” Hannibal murmured, his breath tickling the edge of Will’s ear. He gave a small start, unaware that he’d moved close enough to touch hands to the velvet rope that kept him from the painting. “Botticelli, circa 1483.”

           Will didn’t say anything. He was at a distinct loss for words.

           “It is an allegory to love and valor, but one of my favorite arguments is the supposition that love conquers war.” A hand glided along his hip before pausing, and Will didn’t think to brush it away. “Do you think so, Dr. Graham? Can love conquer war?”

           “I think it softens it. Waves against the shore, beating rock to dust and sand.”

           “How he dozes, unassuming of her alert manner and ability to pierce him where he lays. Love makes us blind, makes us ignore the things we’d normally see within an instant. Do you suppose she means to kill him with it?”

           Will swallowed with difficulty. “Maybe in the last moment, she’d wake him so that he saw when he was beaten.”

           “Would she give him a chance to make amends before she pierced him? Or would she only let him see his defeat before striking?”

           Will thought of the small cell phone tucked away in his wallet, and he twitched a shoulder into a shrug. He thought of his mismatched eyes and how brazen he was in the open with them, even as they were ‘on the run’. His borrowed pants itched with the secret, and he scratched the side of his neck.

           “I think it depends on just what Mars did to Venus to make her feel the need to aim a lance at his face,” he said. “Sometimes, love is the killing blow, and it’s not one you can recover from.”

           “Does love destroy? Or does it only create anew?”

           “Love is a poison,” said Will quietly. “Some people fight the effects, others succumb completely. War, despite his nature, seemed to comply well enough. That was ultimately his downfall.”

           “You’ve decided just what Venus will do when Mars wakes, then?” Hannibal wondered.

           “I think so,” he said heavily. He peeked up at Venus’ eyes, quelled under the look of her perfect, calm assurance. “She has mismatched eyes.”

           “Botticelli purposefully kept Mars’ eyes closed, that you could not see whether or not he was her intended.”

           “We have mismatched eyes.”

           A grin against the shell of his ear, a teasing tingle of pleasure that snaked downwards. “That we do.”

-

           On the steps of the art gallery, as Hannibal left to pull the car around, Will fumbled for the small phone, cradling it like it was a fragile, delicate bird. He stared down at it with perfect, calm assurance, and he dropped it to the ground, marveling at the sound it made when it hit. He sighed, considered it, and he decidedly crushed it under his shoe. When Hannibal pulled up to the curb, he climbed into the car and allowed his hand to be taken, a kiss pressed to the center of his palm.

-

           Dinner was light, and the French doors were open to the elements as they ate, although at the mention of wine, Will was quick to decline. Off the bandwagon, but not under the wheels he’d told himself. Despite his lack of European grooming, he found himself eating with the tines down, small cuts of pork along a blackberry hoisin ginger sauce.

           The wind was cool against his back, the air tangy with the comings of a storm. Occasionally, Hannibal would reach out and drag his fingers over the back of Will’s hand, like he had to reassure himself that it was not a dream that he was free. Will allowed it, intrigued by the action that gave Hannibal an almost human appearance rather than the monster Will knew him to be.

           He played music after, and Will laid on the ground with his hands over his eyes, letting the bold, tender notes wash over him. There were little to no words, little to no thought in their behaviors around one another, an action and reaction from something that required no verbal agreement. Despite the storm on the way that let thunder rumble in the distance, he felt quite calm –dare he say content.

           Exposed as he was to Hannibal, the whisper to touch wasn’t so all-encompassing. It was there, but it was a gentle whisper, a reminder that the world stopped spinning around so dizzyingly when he was touching him.

           “You cover your eyes to better hear the notes.” Hannibal said, stroking the keys with utmost reverence. Will felt his gaze on him, and he liked it.

           “When I walked through a crime scene, sometimes I’d take off my shoes and only wear the cloth boots they handed out with the gloves. I heard better then, too.”

           “What sort of things did you hear?”

           “Things like this. Things like…something too silent. Walls draped in tears, longing laid out in the crudest form, passion that made the air smell like hate and shoe polish. Serenades. Discontented sighs.” A pause as he thought of Mrs. Hess’ bedroom. “The sound of screaming. Naked flesh and skin parting under eager blades.”

           “Beautiful,” Hannibal murmured, and his playing paused, the hum of the strings surrounding them, fading slow and quiet out to the building storm.

The breeze teased the bottom of Will’s slacks. Hannibal found him beautiful.

           “Did you avoid eyes because of the shell your father became, living a life without the one thing the chemicals in his mind demanded he needed, apart from oxygen and sustenance?” he wondered; his voice was just low enough that Will could have ignored it in favor of the gentle hum of the F harmonic minor scale he began.

           “Quid pro quo?”

           “If you like.” A teasing lull in his tone. “If you have need, dear Will.”

           Dear Will. Good-fucking-god. “My father did what he could, and he made no excuses for the pain he felt at my mother leaving.”

           “You saw it, though. Your empathy made it so that you always saw, even when you tried not to.”

           “…Even without soulmates, eyes still show too much.” A short, quiet breath. Hannibal shifted to Clair de Lune, a piece he recognized from enough romantic comedies on the couch with Molly, knee pressed to knobby knee. “Like covering my eyes to hear the music; I think better when I’m not distracted by the eyes.”

           A soft hum of understanding. Will felt a question on his lips, and he pressed his hands down harder to his eyes to concentrate on it.

            “Would you take me to Florence if I asked you to?”

           “Will you kill Dolarhyde, since I asked you to?”

           Will curled his bottom lip into his mouth, wet it, and sighed. He kept his hands pressed over his eyes. “Maybe.”

           “A maybe is far better than a no,” Hannibal said. “No matter how one tilts their head to look at it.”