#i wanted to draw bane but ill just do that later sigh

[nonplussedqueer]

Lazy fucking drawings

#jason todd #red hood #cassandra cain #black bat #stephanie brown #spoiler dc #i wanted to draw bane but ill just do that later sigh #i love steph #and cass #and stephcass #and jason #i love them all #dcu #my art

[solastia]

Love And Lies | 3

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x F!Reader

Summary: You are a simple maid. When your lady and dearest friend need help escaping an arranged marriage with King Seokjin so they might be together, you do the only thing you can - take her place. 

You followed behind the man who introduced himself as Chancellor Namjoon Kim, listening to him halfheartedly as he explained that while that was his official title, he was more of a Jack-of-all-trades and preferred calling himself the King's right-hand man.

You smooth your hands down your gown, hoping it was grand enough to disguise the commoner wearing it. You’d changed for supper, something that Eleanor had told you was common for people at court. According to her, depending on the person they might even change outfits as many as three or four times a day! The nobility were a ridiculous bunch, you sniffed derisively to yourself. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the maids that had to care for all that clothing and the laundresses that cleaned them. Two times a day - not counting your sleeping gown - was extravagant enough for the likes of you.

The ensemble that you had now made you feel like a fairy princess of legend. You were a shimmering cloud of pink and white as you glided along the stone floors. The dress was pink velvet lined with white silk, along with white ermine fur on the edges of the sleeves and bottom of the gown. The bust was embroidered with silver thread and decorated with glistening pearls. You were also very happy to note that the top was much more modest this time around, though not by much. Eleanor had let you pick the jewelry yourself, so you’d settled on a simple strand of pearls around your neck and tiny pearl earbobs. Your hair was left loose and free of any painful and tedious styling with the hot iron.

Truthfully, you rather liked this dress. The fabric was soft to the touch and very comfortable. You even liked the little slippers that matched. When you asked Eleanor why she was letting you wear something like this, she had told you that your previous ensemble had been to impress the King, and this one was to appeal to the man. It was an odd statement considering that your goal was to not appeal to him, and she’d seem rather conflicted saying such a thing. You wished you’d had the time to question her further, but the Chancellor had shown up before you could.

In the end, it wouldn’t matter if you looked rather pretty in your outfit because you knew that eventually, he’d move on to the other women. You had literally nothing of interest about you to keep royalty interested. After all, what could you speak to him about beyond stain removal techniques and how to haggle for the best prices at the market?

Chancellor Namjoon opens a door and ushers you inside, seeming to not notice or mind that you hadn’t even been listening to him talk this entire time.

“His Majesty will be with you in a moment.”

He nods and leaves briskly, closing the door behind him. You take the chance to look around, your mouth falling in awe as you take in the rows and rows of scrolls. So this was a library! You had heard of such things but had simply chalked it up to the fancies of nobles, but this was truly amazing. Beyond the scrolls, there were even parchment tied together filled with writing and little sketches. A few were even covered in decorated leather, something that boggled your mind. Books! You had never thought to see one in your life.

You adored the family you worked for, of course, but not a single one of them had any use for reading and writing. Eleanor could write a little, mostly her name and a list of things she needed that looked like badly designed inkblots. Jungkook was a little better but mostly relied on drawing things out. You remembered the departed Duchess had a slanting script that was like beautiful art to your young eyes. She’d taught you how to read and write before she’d passed, but you rarely got a chance to use that knowledge. You never had anyone to write to and the Duke saw no use for books.

Your hand trailed reverently across the hard leather of one of the bound pages, wishing you had the freedom to peer inside.

“Do you like to read?”

The voice startled you, and you gasped and turned with your hand on your chest.

“Goodness. I’m...sorry, Your Majesty.”

His smile was kind, but his eyes looked like he was laughing at you. “It’s quite alright. So, do you?”

“Hmm?” You hummed softly, distracted by the way his now silver tunic made him glow like an otherworldly being. “Oh, read?” You smile sheepishly, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation and not on his lips. “I don’t get to very often, but I like stories.”

He seemed pleased with your answer, gesturing towards the book. “We got this one from a visiting Monarch years ago. Livres des merveilles du monde. It’s about a merchant named Marco Polo who was an adventurer for a while and traveled through the Orient. I was certain I was going to grow up and conquer the world someday when I first read this.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Ah, the bane of my existence. Responsibilities,” he says dramatically, obviously trying to make you smile. “You may borrow it if you like. I’m not certain if it will be riveting enough for you, but you’re welcome to it. Or anything else here, during your stay.”

He picked up the book and handed it to you, his grin growing as he watched you cup it in your hands and stare at it in awe. A whole book!

You smile up at him genuinely for the first time, your smile wide and beaming with joy. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m not certain I’ll have time to finish it since I read so very slowly, but I thank you for the chance.”

He nods, his cheeks pinkened slightly. He gestures with a hand towards a table in the corner.

“I have some warm wine and honey pastries if you’d like to join me. I thought we might have a chance to get to know each other a little more before we have the pressure of an entire room watching our every move.”

“Oh...yes, that will be...tense” you gulp and sit as gracefully as you can in the highbacked wooden chair.

His smile is soft and kind as he pours you a drink. “I suppose despite your status you’re not quite used to court life. Your father mentioned you preferred staying home.”

“Yes,” you stuttered nervously. “I found I was more comfortable tutoring at home rather than being fostered out. I’m afraid the one time I tried, I found the group of ladies rather spiteful and begged Papa to come home after only three months.”

Which was a true story. Eleanor had been sent to the Duchesse Aline Villeneuve - the King’s very own aunt - to learn how to run a keep and other “women’s arts” not long after her mother had passed away from a sudden illness. According to Eleanor, she had been horribly bullied by the other ladies in the Duchesse’s care and she “hadn’t cared to make friends with such vain and heartless wenches, anyhow.”

Personally, you had rather fond memories of that summer, as with Eleanor away you’d had the freedom to do as you pleased and you’d even made a new friend for a few months - a village boy with the most annoying laugh you’d ever heard but had been sweet and fun. The two of you had been inseparable for the entire summer until one day he didn’t show up to the stream you often met at. You still thought of that boy from time to time and hoped he was doing well. You never did learn where he disappeared to.

King Seokjin nods in understanding. “Unfortunately, it’s not going to be much better here. Gossip is practically a form of currency, and whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter,” he rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, bringing up a mug of steaming spiced wine to his lips. He gulps and sighs, setting the cup back on the table.

“And in your case, it will be twice as bad as you are...well…” he coughs lightly, his cheeks blushing once more. “A high contender to be Queen?”

You sputter on the drink of wine you’d just taken, trying to hastily wipe any spilled droplets before he sees them.

“Yes...err, I am...that.”

“So,” he says loudly, slapping his hands onto his thighs. “I mostly wanted to set aside some time right now so you can tell me things you like to do. I’m afraid I have to live my entire life by a set schedule, so if I had some ideas for my courting days with you that would help greatly.” “Oh,” you smile mischievously, “Yes, I imagine it must be difficult trying to balance so many suitors. Romantic sailing on Monday, serenading on Tuesday, kissing in a dark alcove on Wednesday...”

“You have no idea, “ he groans, only to still and gape at you in astonishment. “You’re making fun of me!”

“I would never, Your Majesty,” you drop your eyes to your lap, still smiling despite the way you were internally smacking yourself. This wasn’t home, you had to curb your tongue.

He squints at you suspiciously. “I have a feeling you would and will. You have some spirit hiding under that demure stance, don’t you Lady Eleanor?” He cocks his head and looks at you with an expression of pleased wonder.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty.”

“I think,” he begins softly, his tone making you lift your eyes to meet his. “In private settings like this, you may use my first name.”

Your eyes widen incredulously. “Oh, I couldn’t!”

“I can order you to if I must,” his smile is playful, even while his eyes are staring at you intensely.

“I...alright. Thank you...Seokjin,” you respond quietly and no doubt with crimson cheeks.

“There. That wasn’t so hard. And...I liked hearing it.”

He stands up and offers you his hand. “It’s time to head to supper. I can escort you as far as to the hall, but I have to go to the high table without anyone seeing you with me. Don’t want them to see you entering the dining hall on the King’s arm; that would make you a target for the harpies,” he winks, linking your arm in his. “You can send a list of activities we can do together later.”

The walk down the hall is too short, but you’d enjoyed the feeling of his strong arm encasing yours and the occasional sneaky peeks of his beautiful side profile. He releases you as soon as the noisy dining hall is close enough to hear.

“I must leave you here, but I look forward to speaking with you on the morrow. I’ll have someone bring the book to your room tonight.”

“Thank you, Your M…” you begin, only for him to raise an eyebrow at you daringly. You glance around you for eavesdropping servants and sigh. “Thank you, Seokjin.”

His beaming smile is worth your embarrassment. “Well done, lambkin. Be sure to try the custard tarts, they are the best!”

He waves and strides off, leaving you to find the waiting Jungkook and be escorted to your seat. Something pricked at the back of your mind, however. Lambkin? Why did that seem so familiar? Perhaps you were just overwhelmed. You shake your head and focus on the elegant supper in front of you as you find Jungkook waiting just inside the door, and he gestures for you to walk ahead of him. You can tell from the way his jaw is clenched he’s dying to ask you about the meeting, but there is no way to subtly speak to him at the moment.

The dining hall was brimming with people and you praised Eleanor for being the sort of noble who kept to herself, since the chances of anyone knowing her here were incredibly low. Your seat is incredibly close to the high table - in fact, it was directly above you. A few more steps to your right and His Majesty would be getting crumbs and wine on your head.

You’re not brave enough to look at him yet, though, and decide to look around for your “competition.”

Your table seems to be where they are all located, judging by the way most of the women gathered around you meet your curious gaze with measuring looks of their own. Most of them turn away after a few seconds, obviously dismissing you as not a threat.

One girl that looks similar to Eleanor all the way down to her bouncing curls grins at you playfully and waves at you with the chicken leg in her hand. You nod in answer, adding a slight smile as you decided she seemed nice enough.

A regal brunette meets your eyes with a quirk of her eyebrow, blatantly looking you up and down. Her lips thin and she pointedly turns away with a sneer, clutching her silverware almost threateningly. Alright, she will not be someone you want to know.

Directly across from you is a redhead and you snort, coming to the realization that His Majesty literally has every color of the rainbow to pick from for his bride. Variety is the spice of life, you suppose. This woman seems very disinterested in everything around her, however, focusing on her meal and only interacting with servants to refill her goblet.

At the head of the table and directly at your elbow is the one that you can only assume is the Princess. She is incredibly pretty, you have to admit. Her dark black hair is mostly loose and cascading about her in waves. The sides have been pulled back and secured with a large golden hairpin the size of a dagger with little jeweled flowers adorning it. Her dress is strange yet beautiful. Silk or satin, if you had to guess. The top was lavender and embroidered with flowers and some sort of serpent that vaguely looked like a dragon. The bottom was nearly peach-colored and consisted of the same decorations. Her features were sharp and sculpted, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. She looked exotic and lovely, but it wasn’t until her smile blinded you that you realized she was beautiful. She met your eyes with a twinkle in hers, reaching her delicate hand up to point at herself.

“I am Hosook. You?”

“I am Lady Eleanor Rose D’Aily, Your Highness,” you answer slowly, assuming that the way she was squinting while you spoke was her concentrating on your words. Perhaps she was learning the language still.

“You for him too?” she asked with a wave behind her at the high table.

“Yes, I was brought here for the King. I’m sure you’re a much better choice.”

The Princess smiles her understanding and waves away your compliment. “Too...ugg,” she grunts, obviously failing to find the word she wanted. She chose instead to flap in the general direction of King Seokjin like she was shooing away a fly.

“You...aren’t attracted to His Majesty?” you ask in a hushed voice. How could anyone not find him the most beautiful being to ever walk this earth?

She sticks out her tongue, “Reminds me of Haraboji...uh...Grandfather?”

You sputter a laugh which you know is too loud, but you can’t help yourself as Princess Hosook giggles with you. You feel yourself being watched and glance up to lock eyes with the very man in question. The King looks down at you curiously, his lips tilted in an amused smile as you can’t stop your giggles. Suddenly, he winks at you and you look away quickly as your laughter dies down into a shy smile.

“Oh,” Princess Hosook says slyly, clucking and patting your hand with a grin. “I see now. You nice, make pretty Queen.”

“Goodness, it’s not like that at all. We just met,” you rush to explain, your excuses being waved away yet again.

“I like…” she waves between the King and you. “Nice together. Uh...need more words,” she grumbles quietly, biting her lip.

“I could help, if you like? I helped my Lad...err...my Ladies Maid learn how to read and write.”

Her smile was beaming as she nodded her head in agreement. “Yes. Need be better to deal with them,” she nods her head towards the gaggle of noblewomen surrounding them.

“I understand. I have to wait to hear which days I need to spend with the King, and then we’ll set aside some time for us!” You smile kindly at the Princess, who grins back and attends her meal with much more gusto now that she had something to look forward to. You sigh and quietly thank the powers that be for making some sort of friend to get you through this, and one that you were able to fall back into your natural state of submission with. It would be easier to explain any lapses in your behavior if you were just a mere Duke’s daughter shadowing a Princess, rather than being with the other women who were basically your equals and expected you to be just as much of a spoiled prat as they were.

The meal comes to a close (and you were amazed that you only caught yourself staring at His Majesty less than five times), and Jungkook is back at your elbow to escort you to your rooms. As you accept his helping hand, you feel someone tap on your shoulder. Princess Hosook flicks her eyes up and down Jungkook with an exaggerated waggled of her eyebrows. Her hand goes to her chest and she mouths something that you assume is complimentary. Jungkook’s eyes are huge as he tries to follow what’s happening.

You giggle and slap his arm. “She thinks you’re handsome.”

“TAKEN…” he squeaks, “I’m taken. Sorry..uh...lady...majesty…”

“Always pretty ones,” Princess Hosook sighs and waves goodbye with fluttering fingers, disappearing with her own small army of attendants.

You continue to laugh quietly as Jungkook begs you to stop. You pause just before leaving the hall and catch the King’s eye right before he leaves for his own apartments. He smiles and shallowly bows, and you watch him until his broad shoulders disappear from sight.

“Sis,” Jungkook mutters quietly as he herds you back to your hallway. “You can’t…” he sighs. “I’m sure you think he’s handsome and he seems to be nice to you, but you can’t be with him. You remember that, right? You’re not who he thinks you are and he’d find that out if you were to marry him. I am literally stealing a potential bride from him, and the moment he finds out, he can kill us all.”

“I know, Jungkook. I’m not an imbecile.”

“I know that, but you’ve never been courted before. I forgot about that and now I’m worried that you’re over your head.”

You sigh and loop your arm in his as you walk. “I suppose I forgot that he’d be trying to win me over as much as the rest, at least at first. I might have let the sweet words and smiles affect me, but I promise Jungkook, I’ll remember. Besides, I saw the other potential brides. I am no match for them. The novelty of someone new will fade in a few days, and I pray that we have the deed to the keep no later than a month. Then, I will tell him that I don’t think I’m a good match for the Kingdom and we can be on our merry way.”

He sighs wearily and tugs you close for a quick hug. “I know, I trust you and your judgment, I just got worried. If he does anything that makes you uncomfortable or makes you feel compromised, let me know. I don’t care if he’s the king, I’ll throw down my glove.”

“You’ll not duel the King, Jungkook. Go seek your bed, brother dear,” you say with a tiny smile, pushing him away from you once you reach your room. “Tell Eleanor when she comes back from the kitchens she can go straight to her room. I won’t bother her tonight because I’m so exhausted from all this excitement I’m going to fall asleep the moment my head hits the mattress.”

Jungkook grins, a look you really don’t want to identity lighting his eyes. “Will do. Sweet dreams, sis.” He stomps off and leaves you to close the door to your opulent apartments.

You yawn and observe the room as you undress, leaving the layers of clothing across a chair to be taken care of the next day. The room was spacious and absolutely gorgeous, decorated in lovely shades of robin’s egg blue, white, and gold. There was an entire room just for clothing, one for washing, and yet another whole room for your ladies maid - something that Eleanor had seemed suspiciously excited about. You worried that she was going to try yet again to seduce her love now that she had a new sort of freedom without her father about.

You crawl onto the giant golden bed and arrange the blankets over you as you fight off another yawn. A full belly and an overwhelming day full of excitement seemed to be all your poor body could handle. Another yawn and you drift off to sleep, visions of warm brown eyes and smiling lips filling your dreams.

A/N: 

1. Yes, that is Hoseok. He’s a pretty princess today. 

2. I don’t really like using the term “exotic” but since this is a historical and being done from the viewpoint of a person in the middle ages, it seemed fitting. 

3. Oh, look at that totally huge and obvious hint to the past. Hmmm....

#bts #bts fanfic #bts scenario #kim seokin #seokjin #jin #seokjin scenario #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #king seokjin #historical romance #solastia #love and lies #jin scenario #bts x reader

[chronicbatfictioner]

"Overall, it wasn't so bad..." Tim commented.

"Except for the fact that Bane roared like a constipated bear and literally lunged at Damian and Jason threw him out the window..." Barbara quipped, her face serious but her lips were still twitching. "I... am highly amused. Twice."

"You were laughing until you bent over double that if you weren't in a wheelchair, you've probably knelt on the floor laughing." Dinah deadpanned. "It was hilarious."

"Yes, it was. The fact that Jason could actually lift Bane and throw him out... Did you guys see Bruce's face, though! Oh my god! He... he looked at Jason as if he'd seen the lord savior Jésus Todd or something!" Tim crowed. "Like, the dude Bane got thrown out a bay window twice. I get the awe, I was a little star-struck myself. But I can't believe dude actually wanted to try the third time until Alfred pointed a damn shotgun to his forehead! I can't even!"

"This thus solidifies my thoughts that the Waynes may be trying to figure out a way to get rid of this... brute without... I dunno..." Barbara pondered.

"Gotten themselves broken in half?" Tim suggested. "He sure insinuated that he would do such a thing to Damian."

"Oh, gee, Tim. Which part of his speech insinuated that? 'You lying bastard!', or 'I'll break you in halves!'?"

"I'm partial to the 'bastard' remark, really. I mean, pot, kettle?" Tim replied, giggling.

"Technically," Helena Bertinelli - The Huntress - sighed as she chimed in; "and ironically, at that; the 'bastard' would be Bane since he claimed to be Thomas Wayne's son and is younger than Bruce. Which means he was 'conceived' while Dr Thomas was already married to Mrs Wayne..."

"Right? Bruce and Talia were two consenting adults, albeit under 20 years old; and were wed in a local ritual witnessed by locals, according to Jason. You should see Bane's face when Jason presented copies of the marriage's registry." Tim continued.

"Oh, we saw, all right. Harper's drones worked quite well." Dinah replied, snickering, referring to Harper Row, one of their tech 'consultants'. "Even at that height, it still delivered crystal clear pictures. I vote we use them again."

"No vote needed, the drones are on stand-by at the Wayne Manor permanently at this point. I'm more interested in his reaction when Damian offered them a DNA test." Barbara told her.

"I'm more interested in Bruce Wayne's reaction, really. He didn't seem too surprised, as if he was expecting this to happen or something." Helena pointed out.

"Maybe he did," Barbara replied absently. "Dude has been swingin' more than the roarin' 50s, there has got to be some juniors out there that even he didn't know of."

"Ugh, while I'm not a fan of Bruce Wayne's womanizing ways, I personally don't think he's that reckless. He's not a drinker or a junkie, as far as I know. He has virtually no vice other than extreme sports." Helena argued.

"I agree," Selina, who has been quietly watching from the corner, chimed in. "This is a guy who got visibly antsy when some sexy girls in bikinis come up to him - I thought he was gay. But if he'd been... wedded to Talia Al Ghul all these times, that would make sense. He knew exactly where he stood, and what would come up if he screwed it up."

"Has Jason or Dick said anything of the Doc and Mama Wayne's reaction?" Helena asked.

"They seemed truly confused, a little apprehensive, but didn't seem to be opposed to the idea that Damian is Bruce's child. Dr Wayne said that a DNA test wouldn't be necessary, but Jason insisted it." Tim replied, and added a little absently a few heartbeats later. "But why would he, a physician with more specialties than a truck stop, would not question the biology of anyone claiming to be his biological descendant?"

Barbara glared at Tim, "excellent question, Tim. If my dad has someone coming out of the boonies saying he's related to me, the first thing dad would do is draw blood."

"They... don't care?" Dinah suggested. "Maybe the Wayne men were less... chaste than they appear?"

Barbara glared at her this time. "Of all the women Bruce Wayne has dated, I've only recorded a handful who would end up in a second date. Less than a handful who were actually mentioned beyond social media photos; and you know how I feel with social media photos: generic, unverifiable, and showoff-only. Dates with Bruce Wayne generally would start with the pick-up, dinner, and then some form of jewelry. I..." she looked at Selina and Helena, "you've both dated him at one point or the other."

Selina shrugged, "I went for a gala dinner, and was honestly there to scope the homeowner's safe, really. I wasn't interested in a follow-up date." she replied. "Helena?"

"Social arrangement. My people called his people and boom, we were on a red carpet." she elaborated. Helena was a part of a mafia family, until she decided that the mafia way would not be the best way to make Gotham a happy place for all, and donned the costume of the Huntress to hunt down wrongdoers. Barbara had decided to let her join to prevent her from going over the line and murder anyone out of overzealous-ness; but also in order to get a line-in into the mafia families.

"No second dates, either, huh?"

"No, I'll have to check, though. I think his people called me again, but I wasn't interested in a vapid playboy, even if he has more money than Jesus."

"Vicky Vale," Selina reminded. "She has had a... somewhat lengthy relationship with Bruce some years ago."

"Sooo... the next answer in our mystery could probably be answered by interviewing an investigative journalist." Tim commented.

"Oh, no..." Barbara grinned mischievously. "Not this investigative journalist. I know just the journalist to talk to when it comes to gossip among themselves."

Dinah snorted a laugh. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I liked Vale less," Barbara griped. "Plus, Vale is already getting news on Bruce's probable child; why shouldn't I send Lois Lane the allegations of the Bane Conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy with who?" Dinah asked curiously.

"Oh, the Waynes, of course, to get rid of the Court of Owls," Barbara smirked. "Why should we be the only ones racking our respective and collective brains when we can have someone else on the ground doing the grunt work?"

"Babs, you can be... pretty evil sometimes," Selina remarked. "I know there's got to be a reason why I like you."

"I'm also awesome with technology and can launder your ill-gotten money and make it legal and undetected." Barbara pointed out.

"Oh no, that's why I liked you." Helena quipped smirking. "Seriously, how many mob family can say their ill-gotten money is accountable by law?"

"As long as it is within the facets of the law, and so on and so forth... Anyway! Tim, you're quiet for more than two seconds. I'm always nervous when you're quiet."

"Just thinking..." Tim said, looking a little lost in his own brain. He often does that when he has at least a dozen scenarios running through his mind. Through the time of Barbara knowing him, Tim would probably be the only person whose claims of 'just thinking' wouldn't immediately be picked on by anybody.

"Care to share with the class, kitten?" Selina prompted.

"It's not fully mapped yet... but I was thinking. What if the Waynes aren't... didn't cooperate with Bane in order to destroy the Court of Owls, and they're literally being hostages in their own home? What if Bruce Wayne has predicted something like this could happen, and has gotten himself all prepared all the way to ten years ago when he wedded Talia Al Ghul? I mean, who would have had enough firepower to defeat Bane other than the Al Ghuls? Look at Jason," Tim pointed out. "He threw Bane out the window as if he was a fly. While Jason is as solid as a rock but isn't a metahuman - Bane is. He was assigned by Talia herself - out of Gotham - to protect and guide Damian-- why? What's so special about Jason Todd? Why did Talia choose him? Why didn't Bruce Wayne - at least - act shocked when Damian said he was his son? Surprised, sure. But not shocked or in denial.

"Who's gonna win if Bane turned out to be Dr Wayne's son? Who's gonna lose? What will they lose? Who is Bane accountable to? If none, who planted the idea of him being Dr Wayne's son? Because from what I've read about him, he was born and raised in a prison with his mother - no mention of a father. His mother was an insurgent of Hasaragua, fighting against US-condoned democracy. And while there was a record of Dr Wayne being there, there was no exact date and length of stay, because he was there privately and not as a part of Médecin sans Frontieres or something like that.

"What about Mrs Wayne? She wasn't a poor or uneducated woman, since she was a Kane. Society-wise, do you think she would have tolerated her husband's indiscretion, both then and now? Yet she kept quiet for nearly two months. She has a Ph.D. in psychiatry, and would she be the ones to keep quiet about DNA testing and all that? Personally, I don't think so. If my mother - a little 'lesser' society lady compared to Martha Kane-Wayne - ever got a word of a child that 'probably' got fathered by my dad, she would have demanded a divorce right away without bothering with a paternity test, sure. But my dad, who was also a society man, would have at least attempted to convince her that it was a mistake and/or it was a lie. What best method to decide a child's paternity than DNA test?

"The criminal front in general - especially the costumed criminals - has been pretty quiet since Bane eliminated the Court of Owls. Why? That's rather stupid since we know that the Court's Talons were the ones who made moves to 'discourage' the costumed freaks. Annnd... that's where I couldn't map out things further." Tim rambled.

"Keep talking, even half sentences are better than none, Timmy." Barbara prompted. Tim might have had a brain that worked a mile a minute, but he was still very young and would often get flustered with himself. Barbara, on the other hand, has an eidetic memory, and things Tim said tend to stick to her brain and would fill the gaps in any puzzles she might be thinking about. Even half sentences.

"Right, I do the fact spreads, you do the jigsaw-puzzling." Tim nodded. "The murders of Talia and Ra's Al Ghul. Jason said they were deliberately murdered in a way that they would never be able to be resurrected through the Lazarus Pit. The perpetrators would be the League of Shadows, a rogue splinter of the League of Assassins. Lead by Lady Shiva. Why? Why were they murdered? Why now and not - say - next year or last year? Who benefited by their death? Aaand... I'm done, for now, I think..."

"I... can feel a headache brewing," Dinah admitted. "You and your conspiracy theories." she rubbed Tim's head fondly. Tim gave her a half-smile, still trying to articulate the thoughts in his head.

"That's why we need him, he takes the most random input and makes a theory out of it, and some of them would actually make sense. I'll start a search string based on some of your questions. If you have more, don't hesitate to tell me, Tim." Barbara realized belatedly that her tone sounded dismissive, and turned to Tim. "Want me to call up for Chinese and powwow a little more?" she added.

Tim shook his head, still glaring blankly. "Thanks, I gotta go... I've some... things to look into. Thanks, Babs," he replied, ending it with a genuine smile as he got up.

"Want to come home with me, Kitten?" Selina asked, worry for Tim apparent on her normally-blank face.

"No, thanks, Ma. I gotta go back to the mansion, just in case, right?" Tim pointed out.

"Then Dinah should go with you," Selina decided.

"She's coming there later, right, aunt Dinah?" Tim asked. Dinah nodded.

"I'll get home with food, so don't worry about that, kiddo." she said. Tim waved them all and then walked out.

Once he was out of the door, Selina sighed. "Ah, young love..."

"Right? Remind me to check in on him before going to the House. I don't want to walk in on something and have him traumatized." Dinah agreed.

Barbara glared at them quizzically, and then at Helena, who shrugged. "Grayson said it first, I think. Our kitten is growing up. I just hope that Jason guy is worth his firsts..."

The memory of Tim gawking at Jason when he thought Barbara wasn't watching flashed in her mind.

Oh.

And then of Jason blatantly checking Tim out just before Oracle made her appearance, and at times when her Oracle projection was turned off.

"Oh boy," she sighed.

"That's about it in a nutshell. Good thing I've told him of the birds and the birds..." Selina grinned slyly.

"Millennial parenting at best, Ms Selina Kyle." Dinah grinned. "Come on, let's go patrol and induce the fear of goddesses to Gotham's low-lives before inducing maternal fear to our little kitten."

"...or to the big tabby. We'll see," Selina added, waving as she and Dinah walked out of the room.

Suddenly Barbara felt a little sorry for Jason. Just a tiny, teensy, weensy bit of sorry.

#Batless!AU #jaytim #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Barbara Gordon #Selina Kyle #Helena Bertinelli #Dinah Drake #Oracle

[allthegodstars]

Reminiscence Of TSC till QoAaD is released

10 days

The Bane Chronicles

A loud explosion caused him to look up. There was a boy standing in the middle of the room, a cocked silver pistol in his hand. He was surrounded by broken glass, having just shot off one arm of the chandelier.

Magnus was overwhelmed with the feeling the French called déjà vu, the feeling that I have been here before. He had, of course, been in London before, twenty-five years past.

This boy’s face was a face to recall the past. This was a face from the past, one of the most beautiful faces Magnus could ever recall seeing. It was a face so finely cut that it cast the shabbiness of this place into stark relief—a beauty that burned so fiercely that it put the glare of the electric lights to shame. The boy’s skin was so white and clear that it seemed to have a light shining behind it. The lines of his cheekbones, his jaw, and his throat—exposed by a linen shirt open at the collar—were so clean and perfect that he almost would have looked like a statue were it not for the much disheveled and slightly curling hair falling into his face, as black as midnight against his lucent pallor.

The years drew Magnus back again, the fog and gaslight of a London more than twenty years lost rising to claim Magnus. He found his lips shaping a name: Will. Will Herondale.

Magnus stepped forward instinctively, the movement feeling as if it were not of his own volition.

The boy’s eyes went to him, and a shock passed through Magnus. They were not Will’s eyes, the eyes Magnus remembered being as blue as a night sky in Hell, eyes Magnus had seen both despairing and tender.

This boy had shining golden eyes, like a crystal glass filled brimful with crisp white wine and held up to catch the light of a blazing sun. If his skin was luminous, his eyes were radiant. Magnus could not imagine these eyes as tender. The boy was very, very lovely, but his was a beauty like that Helen of Troy might have had once, disaster written in every line. The light of his beauty made Magnus think of cities burning. 

Fog and gaslight receded into memory. His momentary lapse into foolish nostalgia was over. This was not Will. That broken, beautiful boy would be a man now, and this boy was a stranger.

Still, Magnus did not think that such a great resemblance could be a coincidence. He made his way toward the boy with little effort, as the other denizens of the gaming hell seemed, perhaps understandably, reluctant to approach him. The boy was standing alone as though the broken glass all around him were a shining sea and he were an island. 

“Not precisely a Shadowhunter weapon,” Magnus murmured. “Is it?”

Those golden eyes narrowed into bright slits, and the long-fingered hand not holding the pistol went to the boy’s sleeve, where Magnus presumed his nearest blade was concealed. His hands were not quite steady.

“Peace,” Magnus added. “I mean you no harm. I am a warlock the Whitelaws of New York will vouch for as being quite—well, mostly—harmless.”

There was a long pause that felt somewhat dangerous. The boy’s eyes were like stars, shining but giving no clue to his feelings. Magnus was generally good at reading people, but he found it difficult to predict what this boy might do. 

Magnus was truly surprised by what the boy said next.

“I know who you are.” His voice was not like his face; it had gentleness to it.

Magnus managed to hide his surprise and raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. He had not lived three hundred years without learning not to rise to every bait offered.

“You are Magnus Bane.”

Magnus hesitated, then inclined his head. “And you are?”

“I,” the boy announced, “am James Herondale.”

“You know,” Magnus murmured, “I rather thought you might be called something like that. I am delighted to hear that I am famous.”

“You’re my father’s warlock friend. He would always speak of you to my sister and me whenever other Shadowhunters spoke slightingly of Downworlders in our presence. He would say he knew a warlock who was a better friend, and more worth trusting, than many a Nephilim warrior.”

The boy’s lips curled as he said it, and he spoke mockingly but with more contempt than amusement behind the mockery, as if his father had been a fool to tell him this, and James himself was a fool to repeat it. 

Magnus found himself in no mood for cynicism.

They had parted well, he and Will, but he knew Shadowhunters. The Nephilim were swift to judge and condemn a Downworlder for ill deeds, acting as if every sin were graven in stone for all time, proving that Magnus’s people were evil by nature. Shadowhunters’ conviction of their own angelic virtue and righteousness made it easy for them to let a warlock’s good deeds slip their minds, as if they were written in water. 

He had not expected to see or hear of Will Herondale on this journey, but if Magnus had thought of it, he would have been unsurprised to be all but forgotten, a petty player in a boy’s tragedy. Being remembered, and remembered so kindly, touched him more than he would have thought possible. 

The boy’s star-shining, burning-city eyes traveled across Magnus’s face and saw too much.

“I would not set any great store by it. My father trusts a great many people,” James Herondale said, and laughed. It was quite clear suddenly that he was extremely drunk. Not that Magnus had imagined he was firing at chandeliers while stone-cold sober. “Trust. It is like placing a blade in someone’s hand and setting the very point against your own heart.”

“I have not asked you to trust me,” Magnus pointed out mildly. “We have just met.”

“Oh, I’ll trust you,” the boy told him carelessly. “It hardly matters. We are all betrayed sooner or later—all betrayed, or traitors.”

“I see that a flair for the dramatic runs in the blood,” Magnus said under his breath. It was a different kind of dramatics, though. Will had made an exhibition of vice in private, to drive away those nearest and dearest to him. James was making a public spectacle.

Perhaps he loved vice for vice’s own sake.

“What?” James asked.

“Nothing,” said Magnus. “I was merely wondering what the chandelier had done to offend you.”

James looked up at the ruined chandelier, and down at the shards of glass at his feet, as if he were noticing them only now. 

“I was bet,” he said, “twenty pounds that I would not shoot out all the lights of the chandelier.”

“And who bet you?” said Magnus, not divulging a hint of what he thought—that anyone who bet a drunk seventeen-year-old boy that he could wave around a deadly weapon with impunity ought to be in gaol.

“That fellow there,” James announced, pointing.

Magnus looked in the general direction James was gesturing toward, and spied a familiar face at the faro table.

“The green one?” Magnus inquired. Coaxing drunken Shadowhunters into making fools of themselves was a favorite occupation among the Downworlders, and this performance had been a tremendous success. Ragnor Fell, the High Warlock of London, shrugged, and Magnus sighed inwardly. Perhaps gaol would be a bit extreme, though Magnus still felt his emerald friend could use taking down a peg or two. 

“Is he really green?” James asked, not seeming to care overmuch. “I thought that was the absinthe.”

Then James Herondale, son of William Herondale and Theresa Gray, the two Shadowhunters who had been the closest of their kind to friends that Magnus had ever known—though Tessa had not been quite a Shadowhunter, or not entirely—turned his back on Magnus, set his sights on a woman serving drinks to a table surrounded by werewolves, and shot her down. She collapsed on the floor with a cry, and all the gamblers sprang from their tables, cards flying and drinks spilling.

James laughed, and the laugh was clear and bright, and it was then that Magnus began to be truly alarmed. Will’s voice would have shaken, betraying that his cruelty had been part of his playacting, but his son’s laugh was that of someone genuinely delighted by the chaos erupting all around him.

Magnus’s hand shot out and grasped the boy’s wrist, the hum and light of magic crackling along his fingers like a promise. “That’s enough.”

“Be easy,” James said, still laughing. “I am a very good shot, and Peg the tavern maid is famous for her wooden leg. I think that is why they call her Peg. Her real name, I believe, is Ermentrude.”

“And I suppose Ragnor Fell bet you twenty pounds that you couldn’t shoot her without managing to draw blood? How very clever of you both.”

James drew his hand back from Magnus’s, shaking his head. His black locks fell around a face so like his father’s that it prompted an indrawn breath from Magnus. “My father told me you acted as a sort of protector to him, but I do not need your protection, warlock.”

“I rather disagree with that.”

“I have taken a great many bets tonight,” James Herondale informed him. “I must perform all the terrible deeds I have promised. For am I not a man of my word? I want to preserve my honor. And I want another drink!”

“What an excellent idea,” Magnus said. “I have heard alcohol only improves a man’s aim. The night is young. Imagine how many barmaids you can shoot before dawn.”

“A warlock as dull as a scholar,” said James, narrowing his amber eyes. “Who would have thought such a thing existed?”

“Magnus has not always been so dull,” said Ragnor, appearing at James’s shoulder with a glass of wine in hand. He gave it to the boy, who took it and downed it in a distressingly practiced manner. “There was a time, in Peru, with a boat full of pirates—”

James wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set down his glass. “I should love to sit and listen to old men reminiscing about their lives, but I have a pressing appointment to do something that is actually interesting. Another time, chaps.”

He turned upon his heel and left. Magnus made to follow him.

“Let the Nephilim control their brat, if they can,” Ragnor said, always happy to see chaos but not be involved in it. “Come have a drink with me.”

“Another night,” Magnus promised.

“Still such a soft touch, Magnus,” Ragnor called after him. “Nothing you like better than a lost soul or a bad idea.”

Magnus wanted to argue with that, but it was difficult when he was already forsaking warmth and the promise of a drink and a few rounds of cards, and running out into the cold after a deranged Shadowhunter.

Said deranged Shadowhunter turned on him, as if the narrow cobbled street were a cage and he some wild, hungry animal held there too long.

“I wouldn’t follow me,” James warned. “I am in no mood for company. Especially the company of a prim magical chaperone who does not know how to enjoy himself.”

“I know perfectly well how to enjoy myself,” remarked Magnus, amused, and he made a small gesture so that for an instant all the iron streetlamps lining the street rained down varicolored sparks of light. For an instant he thought he saw a light that was softer and less like burning in James Herondale’s golden eyes, the beginnings of a childlike smile of delight.

The next moment, it was quenched. James’s eyes were as bright as the jewels in a dragon’s hoard, and no more alive or joyful. He shook his head, black locks flying in the night air, where the magic lights were fading.

“But you do not wish to enjoy yourself, do you, James Herondale?” Magnus asked. “Not really. You want to go to the devil.”

“Perhaps I think I will enjoy going to the devil,” said James Herondale, and his eyes burned like the fires of Hell, enticing, and promising unimaginable suffering. “Though I see no need to take anyone else with me.”

No sooner had he spoken than he vanished, to all appearances softly and silently stolen away by the night air, with no one but the winking stars, the glaring streetlamps, and Magnus as witnesses.

Magnus knew magic when he saw it. He spun, and at the same moment heard the click of a decided footstep against a cobblestone. He turned to face a policeman walking his beat, truncheon swinging at his side, and a look of suspicion on his stolid face as he surveyed Magnus.

It was not Magnus the man had to watch out for.

Magnus saw the buttons on the man’s uniform cease their gleaming, even though he was under a streetlamp. Magnus was able to discern a shadow falling where there was nothing to cast it, a surge of dark within the greater darkness of the night.

The policeman gave a shout of surprise as his helmet was whisked away by unseen hands. He stumbled forward, hands fumbling blindly in the air to retrieve what was long gone.

Magnus gave him a consoling smile. “Cheer up,” he said. “You can find far more flattering headgear at any shop in Bond Street.”

The man fainted. Magnus considered pausing to help him, but there was being a soft touch, and then there was being ridiculous enough to not pursue a most enticing mystery. A Shadowhunter who could turn into a shadow? Magnus turned and bolted after the bobbing policeman’s helmet, held aloft only by a taunting darkness.

They ran down street after street, Magnus and the darkness, until the Thames barred their path. Magnus heard the sound of its rushing swiftness rather than saw it, the dark waters at one with the night.

What he did see was white fingers suddenly clenched on the brim of the policeman’s helmet, the turn of James Herondale’s head, darkness replaced with the tilt of his slowly appearing grin. Magnus saw a shadow coalescing once more into flesh.

So the boy had inherited something from his mother as well as his father, then. Tessa’s father had been a fallen angel, one of the kings of demons. The boy’s lambent golden eyes seemed to Magnus like his own eyes suddenly, a token of infernal blood.

James saw Magnus looking, and winked before he hurled the helmet up into the air. It flew for a moment like a strange bird, spinning gently around in the air, then hit the water. The darkness was disrupted by a silver splash.

“A Shadowhunter who knows magic tricks,” Magnus observed. “How novel.”

A Shadowhunter who attacked the mundanes it was his mandate to protect—how delighted the Clave would be by that.

“We are but dust and shadows, as the saying goes,” said James. “Of course, the saying does not add, ‘Some of us also turn into shadows occasionally, when the mood takes us.’ I suppose nobody predicted that I would come to pass. It’s true that I have been told I am somewhat unpredictable.”

“May I ask who bet you that you could steal a policeman’s helmet, and why?”

“Foolish question. Never ask about the last bet, Bane,” James advised him, and reached casually to his belt, where his gun was slung, and then he drew it in one fluid, easy motion. “You should be worrying about the next one.”

“There isn’t any chance,” Magnus asked, without much hope, “that you are rather a nice fellow who believes he is cursed and must make himself seem unlovable to spare those around him from a terrible fate? Because I have heard that happens sometimes.”

James seemed amused by the question. He smiled, and as he smiled, his waving black locks blended with the night, and the glow of his skin and his eyes grew as distant as the light of the stars until they became so pale, they diffused. He was nothing but a shadow among shadows again. He was an infuriating Cheshire cat of a boy, nothing left of him but the impression of his smile.

“My father was cursed,” James said from the darkness. “Whereas I? I’m damned.”

#cassandra clare #qoaad #the dark artifices #the shadowhunter chronicles #tsc #booknerd #fandom #fangirl #shadowhunters #tda #the infernal devices #theresa gray #william herondale #the bane chronicles #magnus bane #james herondale #emo boy #the last hours #tsc reminiscence #tsc scenes #mine

[rufousnmacska]

Child of Peace Epilogue 2 - Nesryn

Fanfic master list

full work on ao3

Note - I screwed up. I wrote the Chaol chapter then got the idea to write a separate little head canon about Manon-Dorian meeting Nesryn-Sartaq. Little did I know that head canon would morph into an entirely new chapter. (Alright. I kind of knew. This thing is never going to end, let’s be honest.) The screw up is the chronological corner I wrote myself into with that Chaol chapter. So. This is epilogue 2, but it takes place before the events of epilogue 1.

Also, as I was posting this on ao3, I realized it’s been over a year since I started writing this fic. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me from the beginning and thanks to new readers who just started!

Dorian strode out of Aedion’s empty tent, frustrated at missing the General yet again. A lieutenant from the Bane said he’d left at dawn for Suria to deal with some of Rolfe’s ships which had recently arrived. Apparently, he wanted to make sure the pirates caused no trouble in the small port city. Dorian couldn’t help but wonder if Aedion had simply needed time away from Lysandra. He felt badly for both of them being stuck in such a difficult situation. But her disguise was the glue to their piecemeal alliance until Rowan returned with Aelin.

He had hoped that when they joined up with Aedion and Lysandra that it would be the real Lysandra again. He’d hoped that Aelin would be here waiting for him and Manon. Instead, they’d brought their witch army to Orynth only to find Aedion and Lysandra at each other’s throats. Her shapeshifting and acting abilities, not to mention her cunning, made Lysandra the perfect imposter. But the growing weight of responsibility and worry for Aelin was wearing on her. And such a haphazard mix of forces – Terrasen foot soldiers and cavalry, the Whitethorn ships, the Ashryvers, the assassins, and the various armies and navies Ansel had thrown together – would be a nightmare for anyone to oversee, let alone a gifted general like Aedion.

At least that had been Dorian’s excuse to Manon when trying to calm her temper in the few weeks they’d been here. But no matter the reasons, Aedion’s reaction to the forces they’d brought with them had been disappointing. Upon first seeing the fields of wyverns and the squadrons of witches, both Ironteeth and Crochan, Lysandra had been ecstatic. Aedion, on the other hand, had looked over the group with stubborn impassivity. Later, Lysandra had confided that she thought Aedion still harbored some ill will towards he and Manon for their roles in Aelin’s capture. For Dorian sending her into the mirror, and for Manon not doing enough to stop Maeve from taking her.

“He blames me too. He actually thinks any of us could have stopped her once she set her mind to something,” Lysandra had said. “She’d resigned herself to the possibility of capture a long time before any of us even knew what was going on."

Although Dorian and Manon had agreed, they still felt some small measure of guilt, and knew Aedion was taking his own out on those around him. Understandable, if not necessarily fair.

That didn’t quite explain his stupidity however. When he’d demanded the witches swear their allegiance to Terrasen in writing… Dorian had to physically restrain Manon. Thankfully, Aven and Petrah had stayed calm enough to simply tell him no before walking out of the meeting.

Which was why the entire aerial force of witches was relocating to the southwest near Perranth. They’d be closer to the Crochans. And farther from an inevitable explosion between Aedion and Manon. But they’d still be near enough to respond if and when they were needed. So, they were leaving tomorrow morning. Many of the witches were pissed off at having to double back over terrain they’d already crossed to get here. Some were upset to leave the large encampment of men and women, a novel source of fun. But he was glad for it. As were the leaders of the witch coalition. It had been getting difficult keeping the witches under control with so many humans nearby. And vice versa. Old prejudices remained, just as he and Manon had feared.

Dorian stopped suddenly in the middle of the road that wound its way through the sprawling war camp. Having just barely missed him, the driver of a horse-drawn cart shouted curses at him and Dorian stepped aside, ignoring the soldier. He stared down an intersecting path at two people who looked like they were lost. The woman looked familiar and it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize who it was.

“Nesryn?” She looked in his direction, and after a moment or two passed for her to recognize him, he didn’t feel so bad about not immediately knowing who she was. Neither one was expecting to see the other in this setting. “Rutting gods! It is you!” He ran at her and before she could speak he swooped her into a hug.

When he let her go, she looked awkwardly back and forth between him and her companion. Who was definitely not Chaol. Dorian turned in an anxious circle, searching for his friend.

“He's just landed in Suria,” Nesryn said, her face falling. Dorian’s look of worry startled her into a nervous laugh and she raised her hands defensively. “No! He’s fine, it’s just...” She sighed. “He wanted to surprise you with his return and if he finds out it’s been ruined, he will never forgive me.” She gave the man an odd look, then turned back to him. “He’s got a lot to tell you so... all I will say is that he is healthy and excited to see you.”

Dorian looked between the two of them, noticing their clothing - leathers that were similar to those worn by the Ironteeth witches - their braided hair, and their vibrant, windswept quality, complete with chapped lips and cheeks. He had an odd, sinking feeling that much had happened to his friends in the Southern Continent, and more was to come. More, like he was losing his captain to her father’s homeland, and possibly, to this handsome man waiting patiently next to her.

“And if I order you as your King, you still won’t tell me?” he asked finally, only half joking.

The man’s eyes grew wide and his entire demeanor changed as he glanced to Nesryn. Dorian conceded, “The hug was probably not the most regal of greetings.”

Nesryn’s cheeks were bright red as she said, “King Dorian Havilliard, this is Prince Sartaq, Heir to the Khagan of the Southern Continent.”

The Prince bowed low. “It is an honor Your Majesty.”

Now it was his turn to stare in astonishment. Not just a prince, but the Heir to the Khaganate had accompanied Nesryn back to Erilea. Dorian quickly regained his poise and said in Halha, “The honor is all mine Prince Sartaq. Please forgive me.” He bowed and then offered his hand.

“What am I forgiving?” the Prince asked, a smile lighting his face as he shook Dorian’s hand.

Dorian laughed. “My inappropriate behavior in response to this wonderful surprise. And my atrocious accent.”

“There is no need for either,” the Prince said. “And your accent is excellent, Your Majesty.”

Nesryn rolled her eyes, so quick that he probably wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t so used to seeing it from Manon. “Please, call me Dorian. And the only thing we have no need for is flattery. My Halha is awful. Nesryn can attest to that.”

The Prince’s face lit up even more as he said, “Dorian it is. I prefer going without titles as well. And I’d be happy to help you improve your accent.” He gave Dorian a cocky grin. “Assuming we have any spare time while saving the world.”

Nesryn didn’t bother hiding her reaction this time. “Perhaps there is no need for me to stay. I can go look for Aedion on my own.”

Her eye roll was impressive, Dorian thought, as Sartaq took her hand and leaned down to whisper something in apology. Nesryn glanced hesitantly at him, but Dorian smiled. Undoubtedly, he was in for a hell of a story whenever Chaol got back. And though he was dying of curiosity, he wouldn’t interrogate Nesryn here.

“Actually, Aedion isn’t here.” Dorian said. “But there is someone I’d like you both to meet.” He gestured for them to follow. As he started down a narrower road that led out of camp, he twisted around and said, “Thank the gods she wasn’t here for all of the Your Majesties. I’d never hear the end of it.” He caught the curious look Sartaq gave Nesryn, but she didn’t. She was too busy giving Dorian a smug smile.

He had liked Nesryn from the moment they’d met, but it was obvious that she’d changed a great deal from her journey to Antica. She’d always been straightforward, but also reserved. Quiet. Now, she seemed as if she’d found some piece that had been missing before. Dorian didn’t think that was only due to the Prince who couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It was more like something she’d discovered within herself. A new sort of confidence that went deeper than just being highly skilled at her job. She was still smirking at him and he found he quite liked this new Nesryn. “What is that look for?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Just excited to see the wyverns.”

Sartaq stopped and looked between the two of them. “You have wyverns here?”

Dorian nodded, shooting a mocking glare at Nesryn for figuring out his surprise. “How did you know?”

“How did I know princeling?” she asked, drawing out the last word as if harassing a sibling.

He felt his cheeks heat but the small embarrassment disappeared when she added. “We have a surprise of our own.”

 Nesryn knew she should probably stop teasing the King of Adarlan. It was just so easy. And fun. The sight of his jaw dropping when she mentioned the ruks was worth it. But, he was still her ruler. And employer.

That thought made her stomach churn, and she stayed mostly quiet the rest of the way to the wyvern paddock, letting Sartaq describe what the Rukhin could offer in the war, and Dorian update them on the state of Adarlan and the forces under Aedion’s command. Trying to catch them off guard, Dorian threw in a question here and there fishing for more details about Chaol. But neither gave anything away. Sartaq always glanced to her for permission and when she’d shake her head in annoyance, he’d turn back to Dorian with a ridiculously sorrowful expression. To which Dorian would say something like No, no, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. They were like little boys commiserating over some great injustice she had committed against them. She would have been pissed. If not for them clearly liking each other. And the fact that her heart had swelled with that knowledge.

They turned a corner and Nesryn almost ran into Sartaq, who stood frozen, staring in awe across a field filled with what had to be hundreds of wyverns. She walked around him and gaped too. She’d seen them before of course. But... “Gods! So many...” she breathed.

She’d forgotten how big they could get, some easily three or four times the size of Salkhi. And the colors. Various shades of grays and browns and greens, but also blues and even reds. One looked almost purple. Every few moments one would let out a shriek or rumble a low roar, but it was surprisingly quiet for so many beasts confined to one area. There were witches milling about, checking on injuries or throwing sides of meat at their mounts.

Sartaq broke her focus as he anxiously asked, “Do they all fly for you? Or does Erawan still have some in his army?”

She knew what he was thinking. Seeing them in person, seeing the size difference compared to their ruks… She looked towards Dorian, who also seemed to understand Sartaq’s concern.

“He still has some witches with him, but not as many as we have. Though he has other flying monstrosities within his forces.” He pointed to the trees edging the field and she saw a group tending their brooms. “The wyverns are intimidating. But the Crochan clan held back a large enemy force with brooms and magic until Ironteeth allies arrived.” Turning back to them, he added, “And they don’t fly for me. They fly for her.”

She and Sartaq turned to face a beautiful, white haired witch who was walking towards them, smiling at Dorian. Nesryn recognized her immediately, though she would have known her from rumors and reputation if she hadn’t seen her that day in the Oakwald Forest. Sartaq shifted closer towards her side, eyeing the witch warily. She did have a brutal looking sword strapped to her hip, Nesryn thought with admiration. But the way the witch looked at Dorian should have told Sartaq they had nothing to fear.

“Manon Blackbeak,” Dorian said, “this is Nesryn Faliq, Captain of my Royal Guard, and Prince Sartaq, future Khagan of the Southern Continent.”

Nesryn wasn’t sure how to greet Manon. She knew the wing leader was heir to the Blackbeak Matron. Or, had been. If Manon was on their side she must have broken from her clan leader. But either way, Nesryn didn’t think that qualified her as royalty. A hand shake seemed like not enough though. Thankfully, Manon saved her the trouble of deciding.

“Captain. Prince.” She nodded respectfully to both of them, which they graciously returned.

With a casual shrug, Dorian said, “Nesryn knew you’d end up helping us.”

She glared at Dorian in disbelief. It was one thing to tease him, but she certainly didn’t want to get on the bad side of a Blackbeak witch. Manon’s golden eyes landed on her and she forced herself to meet them. They practically glowed in the sunlight. Having only ever seen Manon from afar, she’d had no idea how truly captivating she was.

Manon looked her up and down then turned back to Dorian and said, “Of course she did. She must be exceptionally smart to manage a guard full of men.” The witch wrinkled her nose on the last word.

She and Sartaq choked on their laughs but Dorian didn’t bother covering up his. When Manon shifted her attention back to Nesryn, she smiled and said, “You favor the bow if I recall? Perhaps you’d like to show some of my witches a trick or two?”

Nesryn exchanged a glance with Sartaq, who winked at her. “She does have quite the reputation,” he said. “But, first…” He looked longingly at the bustling field. “May I trouble you for a ride?”

“Oh,” Dorian said, taking hold of Manon’s hand and leading them towards a small, dark wyvern sprawled in the grasses nearby. “I forgot to mention Witchling. They’ve brought reinforcements.”

Manon whirled around and studied them, seeing their clothes for what they were – flying leathers. Then she stared at Sartaq, her eyes wide as saucers, and whispered, “The Winged Prince.”

Before she could stop herself, Nesryn shook her head and said, “Please be sure to call him that in front of his hearth sister.”

Sartaq elbowed her gently. “And she prefers you call her Neith’s Arrow.”

Manon wasn’t even paying attention, too enthralled by the prospect of having the ruks join their forces. But she caught Dorian watching her with a brotherly smile. He pulled Manon along and she thought she heard him say something about wyverns first, ruks second, otherwise, Abraxos would be jealous. Assuming that was the name of the little wyvern they were now approaching, Nesryn almost pointed out that Kadara and Salkhi would be equally upset if she and Sartaq returned smelling of another beast. But the thought left her mind as the wyvern turned and looked at them.

Its head tilted to examine them, then it huffed out a breath and ruffled its wings. Just enough for her to see the silvery sheen on their surface. If she didn’t know better, she’d think it was trying to show off for them. Its intelligence clearly rivaled that of the ruks, and she wondered if all wyverns were like that. Or if it was just this one. “Abraxos? Is that right?” she asked Manon. Who had walked off to… pick flowers? The wyvern bobbed its head as if answering her and she startled backwards into Sartaq.

“He’s too smart for his own good,” Manon said, returning and surreptitiously handing her a bunch of wildflowers. She nodded for Nesryn to give them to Abraxos then whispered, “He already likes you but this will make him love you.”

Nesryn hesitated, then split the bunch giving half to Sartaq. She held them out, expecting the wyvern to eat them. But instead, the beast closed his eyes and pushed his snout into the petals, inhaling deeply and loudly. He reached a bit further and nuzzled her hand. Sartaq stepped up next to her and repeated the gesture. Abraxos took his time smelling them as well, even though they were the same flowers.

On her other side, Manon said quietly, “He was a bait wyvern, used to train the bigger ones. He’d never seen sunlight or grass until I took him out of his cave.”

That certainly explained the scarring. And the decidedly unbeastlike behavior. Nesryn smiled and stroked his snout. Sartaq stood by, silently taking it all in. She could see the note of worry in his eyes. It wasn’t just about fighting against Erawan’s aerial legions. But he was also worried about fighting with these wyverns. Despite her surety that Manon and her coven would ally with Dorian, she had not expected this. A thousand wyverns. And now, a thousand ruks.

“This is going to be interesting,” she sighed, wondering how Salkhi would do surrounded by giant flying lizards.

“First thing’s first, wind seeker,” Sartaq said as he kissed her cheek and walked around Abraxos, his mood lightened by Dorian’s indication that the saddle was ready. She watched as Dorian helped him with the straps to keep him in place. Manon climbed up and sat behind him, pulling the reins around his waist. Before he jumped down, Dorian gave Manon’s braid a little tug, and she gave him a playful scowl. As soon as he was on the ground, Abraxos stood and beat his shimmering wings, visibly excited to be taking to the air. Maybe the wyverns and ruks weren’t so dissimilar after all, she thought. Dorian joined her and they watched Abraxos as he leapt upwards, soared across the tree tops, and disappeared.

After a moment of silence, he walked a short distance away, leaned against a fence and crossed his arms. She remembered him from before he’d become King. Before he’d been collared and forced to do the bidding of a valg demon. Prince Dorian had always been fastidious about his appearance. Always new clothes, trimmed hair, shining boots. Now though… He certainly didn’t look bad. He was as attractive as ever, she thought. But his plain clothing was much more suited to this war camp than a throne room. And his hair was long enough to curl around his ears. He apparently knew his way around a wyvern, and had settled in with the witch clans. He noticed her staring so Nesryn walked over and joined him. She figured now was as good a time as any to get things out of the way.

Leaning on the fence next to him, she opened her mouth to speak but he asked, “How long do I have to find your replacement?” He looked down at her with a bittersweet smile.

Nesryn was quiet, trying to think of the right thing to say. Eventually, she gave up and just went with the truth. “I feel awful,” she said, continuing to watch the activity in the field. “You naming me Captain… It was so important. Not only a woman leading the Royal Guard, but a woman of mixed heritage. I feel as though I’ve betrayed the trust you put in me.” Nesryn faced her King to find him still smiling at her. She’d never truly expected Dorian to be angry with her. Disappointment. That had been her fear. And yet, there was no trace of it in his expression.

“You’ve done nothing to betray my trust Nesryn. Besides. It appears that you have more important things awaiting you than leading a guard,” he said, nodding in the direction Sartaq and Manon had flown. “As a King, I’m sad to lose you. But as a friend, I couldn’t be happier.”

Nesryn didn’t care about protocol as she reached over and hugged Dorian.

“I should have pretended to be more upset in order to blackmail you for details about Chaol,” he said, making her laugh.

They broke apart and Nesryn said, “I’m sworn to secrecy. But I can tell you a bit about my adventure.”

“Please!” He moved to sit down in the grass. “I expect it will include some romance?”

She felt her cheeks flush with heat and said, “And what about your adventure? I’d like to hear it as well. You’ve clearly been up to… a lot.”

Dorian laughed. “Yes, well. That could take all day. Suffice it to say, I managed to convince a witch to fall in love me-“

She interrupted him with a snorting laugh. “I bet that took a lot of work on your part.”

He looked thoughtful. “Actually, it did...: With a wink, he added, “But it was worth it.”

“Can I ask you something?” He nodded. “Do you intend to make her your queen?”

“There is no ‘making’ Manon do anything,” he said dryly. After a moment, he continued. “Actually, we are mates. Through a witch bond. So… I don’t know in what capacity we'll be together. Only that we will be together.”

“I had no idea witches even had mating bonds.”

A shadow of some memory passed over his face. “We didn’t either until we reached the Crochans. It turns out much of the old histories are wrong.” He looked at her, seeming to decide whether he should go on. “Manon’s father was a Crochan Prince, and she is the heir to Queen Rhiannon.” At Nesryn’s gasp, Dorian said, “She hasn’t accepted the title and they’ve not yet offered. It’s… complicated.”

She knew about the Ironteeth’s centuries old campaign against the Crochans, and knew that yes, it must be extremely complicated. She was amazed they’d managed to make an alliance with them in the first place. “Is she still heir to the Blackbeak coven?” Dorian’s face hardened and she wondered if she’d pried too much.

“Technically she is Matron to the Blackbeaks who broke off to join us. But there is a faction who allied with the Yellowlegs and fight for Erawan. This group,” he waved a hand towards the field, “consists of those loyal Blackbeaks, Bluebloods, and Crochans. But the Bluebloods have their own matron and the Crochans have a governing council with only a few members here.”

“What will she do after all of this? Do you think they will accept her rule?”

He glanced at her curiously. “Why are you so interested in all of this?”

Nesryn blushed, then inwardly cursed her traitorous skin. She sighed, planning to explain, but only able to get out one word. “Sartaq…” Dorian’s eyebrows raised as he realized why she was asking so many questions about ruling and governing.

“Are you two betrothed?”

“No! I mean… No. No.” She fiddled nervously with her hands. She hadn’t meant to bark out that response. “We’ve talked about it. And I am…” She laughed. “I’m very willing. It’s just…” She couldn’t bring herself to actually say it.

But Dorian could. “Empress Nesryn Faliq.”

“Exactly,” she said.

He laid back and propped himself up on his elbows. They sat like that for a while, watching the occasional commotion as a wyvern refused its dinner or snapped at a neighbor who’d gotten too close. Manon and Sartaq had been gone longer than she’d expected. Manon’s desire to see the ruks made Nesryn think they’d go up and be back down within a few minutes. But Sartaq must have convinced her to stay airborne for a while.

“Once Sartaq was named heir he told his siblings that he would refuse to follow tradition. He would not kill them or force them to be sterilized just for his throne to go unthreatened.”

“That’s… good?” Dorian said, and she gave him a dirty look. “No, I mean it,” he added, sitting up. “If he has the authority and desire to end that practice, then he can create a court of his choosing. He can run it the way he wants. Or,” he nudged her arm. “The way both of you want.” Nesryn wasn’t convinced.

“Listen, it’s likely that if we win this war, Adarlan will need to be rebuilt from scratch. Not just the physical structures, but the government as well. And I don’t intend to do things the same way they’ve always been done.” Dorian’s eyes were a bright, fiery blue. She couldn’t help but feel pulled into his hopefulness. “Manon and I have talked about it and we both want things to be different. Better. For everyone. Human, witch, fae, noble or poor, those with magic, those without. Aelin does too. It sounds like Sartaq does, though from what I know of the khaganate they’re already centuries ahead of Erilea in most things.” He drifted away in thought, but before she had to regain his attention, he said, “Ruling, the responsibility of it, the pressure, it’s scary as hell.”

“Is that meant to help?” she asked with a laugh, watching a unit of witches zoom overhead on brooms.

“It’s scary but we aren’t left without choice. We can decide how to best help our people. You can decide how involved you want to be.”

“He can’t,” she said, turning back to face him. “You can’t.”

“No, but he and I were both raised for this. It’s all we’ve known. There’s a difference between living this your entire life, and entering into it as an adult. I’ve accepted it. It sounds like he has as well. The question is, will you? And if so, what will you do with it?”

Nesryn nodded, thinking over all he’d said. She had more questions and worries, but Abraxos suddenly appeared from behind the trees, landing gracefully in front of them. He looked like he was grinning. “Are those…” She squinted. “He has iron teeth?”

“He’s a member of the Thirteen,” Dorian laughed, then froze in thought. “Wait. I think I have some ideas for your replacement. If you decide to go on to bigger and better things that is.”

She agreed that any of Manon’s witches would make an excellent Captain of the Guard, but Nesryn wasn’t sure if she shared his confidence in her. She stood and walked towards Abraxos as Sartaq climbed down and almost ran over to meet her.

“That was incredible! It’s so different from a ruk but yet the same!” He picked her up into a hug and she couldn’t help but laugh. When he sat her down and went back to talk to Manon, Dorian came up beside her.

“You should talk to Manon. Her position is... unique, but it might be good for you both to have someone to talk to about it. And, for what it’s worth Nesryn, I think you’d make a wonderful Empress.” He squeezed her shoulder and went over to join Sartaq and Manon.

Nesryn bit her lip, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her. She watched in amazement as her King, now, her friend, his witch mate, and the man she loved, who just happened to be the future Khagan of her father’s homeland, all fussed over a little wyvern who loved flowers. And on top of all that, she had her very own ruk waiting for her.

With a laugh that sounded more like a sob, she realized neither she nor Dorian had even gotten around to telling their stories.

Sartaq looked up and beckoned her over. When she reached him he pulled her into his arms and whispered, “You look happy my love.”

“I am,” she said. “But can you let go so I can take my first wyvern ride?” He laughed but did as she asked.

Manon strapped her in then settled into the saddle behind her, leaving the reins in her lap. Nesryn turned to give them to Manon but she pushed her hand away. “You hold onto them. Sartaq said you’re as good a flyer as you are an archer.” Nesryn smiled and waved to Sartaq and Dorian as Abraxos reared up and pushed off the ground.

A half hour later, they landed in the clearing near where she and Sartaq had left their ruks. They were tucked within a dense grove of trees, out of sight and away from the camp. When they dismounted, Manon took the reins and bent to look into Abraxos’s eyes. She was silent, but Nesryn had the eerie feeling the witch was speaking to her wyvern.

“It might be easier to bring them to him,” Manon said. “So their space isn’t invaded.”

Nesryn jogged into the woods and returned, slowly leading Kadara and Salkhi by their reins. She wished she’d thought to have Sartaq come along, but they’d decided to do this at the last minute. Kadara listened to her though so hopefully, it wouldn’t be a problem. As they hopped into the field and got their first look at Abraxos, the ruks wheeled back and snapped their fierce beaks. She ducked down low, keeping hold of them, and glancing back towards Manon.

Nesryn almost burst out laughing. Abraxos was on his back, rolling in the grass while his rider watched in frustration, hands on her hips. Kadara was now watching the scene, head tilting back and forth. Her beak was still twitching in agitation, but she was clearly intrigued with what was happening. Nesryn made a split second decision and dropped the ruk’s reins. Salkhi, more timid and waiting to see how Kadara fared, stayed back, his head dipped low but eyes watchful.

The larger ruk began to hop out into the clearing. Slowly, but unafraid. Abraxos continued to frolic, ignoring the approaching bird completely. He stilled when Kadara reached him, letting her smell him. And just like that, Kadara settled into the grass next to him and began to preen. Abraxos huffed loudly and the ruk jumped away, but within a minute, she was back next to him.

Nesryn and Manon shared a humorous look, and she stepped out, pulling Salkhi with her. It took longer, but eventually, her ruk was able to tolerate Abraxos. He was more wary than Kadara, but Nesryn was pleased with the introduction.

“Sartaq told me about how you saved Lysandra with a single arrow,” Manon said out of nowhere. Nesryn fought the blush creeping up her face and nodded. “He told me something else. A story Chaol had told him.” She turned to find Manon’s eyes on her and almost flinched from the intensity of her stare. But she didn’t move as Manon’s hand rested on her shoulder. “You saved Dorian with a single arrow. From Aelin. Before... Before he was freed from the valg.”

Nesryn didn’t know what to say. “We... Chaol didn’t believe he was truly gone. I was there in case Aelin... Well. At that time, he didn’t trust her not to kill him. Even if she claimed it was a mercy.”

Manon bowed her head and touched her fingertips to her forehead. “Thank you, Nesryn Faliq. I owe you a life debt.”

She felt like the moment deserved some special acknowledgment, but no words came to her. When Manon met her gaze, the witch smiled. It was so soft and kind, Nesryn blurted out something she’d been thinking for most of the day. “I’m glad he has you, Manon.”

“I’m glad I have him,” Manon said, then turned back to their mounts. “Oh gods...”

Nesryn whirled, expecting a fight, only to see Kadara nudging Abraxos with her beak and fluffing up her feathers. “Sartaq does call her a mother hen,” she said with a laugh.

Manon rolled her eyes. “If there is one thing Abraxos does not need more of, it’s admirers fussing over him. At least yours has a good head on his shoulders and knows not to feed his ego.”

Salkhi was standing back, but Nesryn could tell by the way he eyed Abraxos that he was a bit enamored of the wyvern. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I think he’s got Salkhi under his thrall too.”

Manon released a long-suffering sigh. But she was still smiling, her entire being radiating love for her wyvern. Surprising herself, Nesryn suddenly thought that she would happily call Manon her queen. And, she decided to follow Dorian’s suggestion and ask Manon for advice.

They ate together that night, exchanging stories of their recent adventures as well as old tales. She and Sartaq were careful not to mention Chaol and Yrene. Though, later in private, Nesryn had given in and answered a couple of Dorian’s questions, reassuring him that Chaol was healthy and that they were still good friends despite Sartaq’s presence in her life.

They were disappointed to hear that the group was leaving the next day to move to Perranth, but it worked out well in one sense. The timing of their departure made it a little easier for Nesryn and Sartaq to claim they had not seen Dorian. Who had sworn not to reveal that he knew about Chaol’s imminent return. Manon would be leaving almost immediately from Perranth to attend to some matters with the Crochans and expected to be gone for a couple of weeks. Nesryn caught her and Dorian exchanging looks that suggested they hadn’t been apart for that long before. She tried to reassure Dorian that Chaol and the Southern Continent forces would provide enough distraction that the time would pass quickly, but he’d only given her a halfhearted smile.

Later still, when she and Sartaq had retired to their tent, Nesryn told him about her conversation with Dorian. She hadn’t admitted all of her fears to Sartaq, worried that he might take it the wrong way. But he understood her misgivings, just as Dorian had. They both had grown up in that world and knew what sacrifices were required. He also knew, he said, that Nesryn could choose how much she wanted to be involved. Which responsibilities she wanted to take on. He even offered to let her run the whole empire.

“That would give me time to go flying with Kadara,” he said cheekily, earning him a smack on the arm. Then, sliding her over to him, he said, “You know I would never go flying without you, wind seeker.”

Nesryn loved hearing him use her mother’s nickname for her. Almost as much as she loved kissing him. Which she did, thoroughly, all night long.

Dorian woke with a choked gasp to find Manon shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name. He took one look at the terror in her eyes, something he’d never seen there before, then promptly rolled over and threw up. She jumped up and was back with a cup of water before he knew it.

“I should have expected it,” he coughed. “I haven’t had a bad one for a while.” When he reached for the water, he realized his hands were shaking. 

Manon sat the cup down and took his hands in hers, dipping her head so he could easily look into her eyes. The sight of them, vibrant and glowing even in the low light of their tent, was enough for his breathing to even out. But the tremors remained, even as she pulled his hands to her lips.

He knew she wanted to ask about the nightmare and was relieved when she didn’t. The thought of what he’d seen, what he’d done, threatened to make him sick again. He didn’t think he would be able to put any of that into words.

“I’m going to postpone my meetings with the Crochans,” she said.

Dorian shook his head. “You can’t. It’s too important and I won’t let you jeopardize building a relationship with the council because of a nightmare.”

Manon’s face grew tight with concern. “Dorian.” Her eyes stayed on his. “I saw some of it through the bond. I don’t think you should be alone.”

His stomach roiled but there wasn’t anything left to come up. “I’m sorry,” he said, and stood. But with nowhere to go, he began walking in circles.

What must she think? Seeing images of him torturing his best friend?

Suddenly, Manon was standing before him. She hugged him and said, “You forget that I’ve been in this position myself. And I will repeat your words back to you. You did not do those things.”

He hadn’t moved when she put her arms around him. And he fought the urge to shove her away, fought the feeling that she was contaminating herself by touching him. Getting the blood and filth and horror that covered him onto her.

“You didn’t hurt Chaol,” she said, pulling him tighter.

“I would have,” he choked out, finally letting go and easing himself into her embrace. The tears ran hotly down his cheeks and he struggled to hold back a sob.

Manon ran her hands around his back in soothing motions. “You would not have. You could not have. The valg was in control. Not you. It was never you.” He pulled away to look at her. She reached up and brushed the wetness from his face. “Asleep, you may not be able to tell the difference, but your waking mind can. And I will keep reminding you. Anything you need, remember?”

Dorian stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief. Amazed that this witch accepted and loved him. “Where did you come from?” he whispered.

She shrugged, her lips twitching into a smile. “Blame Abraxos. I told him to take me somewhere safe. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a boat with you.”

“I thank the gods every day,” he said, dipping his head to rub his nose against hers. And I’ll be sure to give Abraxos as many wildflowers as he wants, he silently said to her, feeling her cheeks rise into a smile.

Later, after he cleaned up the mess and they argued about whether Manon would leave in the morning, Dorian watched her as she slept. He’d insisted he would be fine and she’d finally agreed that the meeting was crucial for any hopes of a prolonged peace if they defeated Erawan.

But as the hours passed and dawn drew closer, Dorian had not been able to fall back to sleep. Whenever he shut his eyes for an extended period of time, his head was flooded with horrific images, a mixture of things that had happened, and things that could have been. If Chaol had become his prisoner.

He’d had time. Time during which he’d hoped to heal. But instead, it was only time to remember the things he’d done.

How could he possibly stand before his best friend now? Now that he harbored the memories of torturing and killing Chaol’s men?

Dorian shuddered and forced down the bile that rose in his throat. Manon didn’t stir next to him and for a moment he thought of asking her to stay. He knew she would. But he also knew that sooner or later he would need to face Chaol and what he’d done.

When rosy light began to filter into their tent and Manon woke with a yawn, Dorian pretended that he was just waking too. She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering for a long moment, then stood and began rummaging through her packs. He watched her quietly, letting her presence, her scent, her everything soak into him. Helping make him feel a little bit stronger. Hoping it would be enough to see him through the next few weeks.

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #nesryn faliq #sartaq #nestaq #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #child of peace #tower of dawn spoilers #tod spoilers #my writing #abraxos #abraxos floof #ruk floof #kadara #salkhi #my apologies #this started out fluffy and flirty and then took a sharp left turn into the pits of despair #which seems to be the standard destination with these two #and apologies to aedion fans #nothing personal #he's just my go to jerk for drama #since he doesn't like manon or dorian in the books