#in the ass now. because I do think that diplomatic call would have gone different between him and Cellbit had he not fucked them over so

[zeb-z]

talking entirely character wise. do you think today was a bit of a wake up call for bad. do you think he heard red screaming out of their minds begging for toxic gas and thought about how they’ve lost their minds just a little bit. do you think that when he was given an immediate no when he asked where the red egg was to help them defend he understood how deep of a rift he created. do you think as he sat there silent while the rest of red cheered at killing the egg statue, he wondered if he could have pushed them a little too far. do you think that maybe, just maybe, with the red sun beating down on him in that desert, the gas mask team cheering and dancing, he felt for a single moment the consequences of his actions? that maybe, if he hadn’t started out so hostile with extreme tactics, if he hadn’t been so bloodthirsty and ruthless, if he had had just a little bit of hesitation, that his own attempts at diplomacy would have gone over better? that the rest of the teams would have listened? that red would have trusted his judgement on the egg statues, or at the very least respected him enough to honor an agreement? do you think he realizes that burning his bridges may have fucked him over?

#now again stressing here I’m talking about q!bad. character wise. I feel with how tense folks are getting this needs to be stressed #do you think he sees red and their tight knit unbreakable trust and their unwillingness to listen to a single thing he has to say #and considers that mayyybe he should have killed and tormented them a little less #he was told to not be afraid to run over the competition and took it to the extreme without hesitation or second thought and it’s biting him #in the ass now. because I do think that diplomatic call would have gone different between him and Cellbit had he not fucked them over so #terribly. if he hadn’t done what he had done to slime and to jaiden. if he wasn’t at their base 24/7. if he had a single ounce of tact #maybe there could have been a world where they agree to damage but not kill the eggs and honor it. but bad blew it long before that #disastrous call. he blew it day 2 when he just doubled down on his day 1 nonsense. which again that is the name of the game but yknow #consequences meet actions. and no he’s not the only one who didn’t want to kill the eggs but he’s a big reason why the deal fell through #specifically with red. in another world they could have been convinced. do damage but don’t kill. idk #again. qBBH. bless him but good god he has taken ‘whatever it takes’ to the extreme and he’s paying for it now #mcyt #qsmp #qsmp purgatory #q!bbh #z speaks

[welcome-to-oslov]

Oh man. I just got to the point where Artur told Tilrey that it was him who made a split-second decision to leave him behind when Malsha escaped. The touch about Tilrey saying, "Oh maybe you just got to the apt too early or too late, I was at the gym before..." and Artur saying, "No, I saw your boots in the cold room with melting snow on them," was just 💔

I can see Artur wanting to seize a chance to separate Tilrey from Malsha. Thinking he's helping him. "So what happened? Did the Island Party take you in?" Oh Artur...

If this is definitely what happened, I say Artur definitely made the wrong choice. Though Malsha was evil and def wasn't easing up his mindfucking (and literally fucking) of Tilrey, I say the 3 subsequent years with the Island Party were worse than if he'd gone with Malsha - as Artur said, Malsha had less power in his new locale and Tilrey could've eventually escaped.

Instead, Tilrey got the harm of abandonment, grief, IntSec, and 3 years of various ritual gangrapes, uncontrollable multiple partners, dehumanization, and brutalization with objects, fists, & others by Linden. This continued to affect him all his life: overhearing himself being described in humiliating ways at Council meetings for decades, his own son being shown porn pics of Tilrey that he'd been so upset to be forced to do in the first place (that one hurt me 😢). Tilrey creates an impressive role for himself (his intelligence & strength put to work) and may even be the savior taking down the whole system. But.... I bet he could've found a way to that path through escape from Malsha in Harbour. Poor guy.

(Also agree with you that it's hard to believe Malsha didn't actually want to inflict this on Tilrey. I can't believe Artur, knowing Malsha as he does, would apparently interpret Malsha's reaction at being told he couldn't bring Tilrey as heartbroken?! Maybe Malsha was disappointed because he wanted to see Tilrey's face as he told him he's abandoning him and describe the abuse/fate he'll have now 🤷‍♀️. That said, Tilrey was still very young & they'd "only" had 2 years together, so maybe Malsha was just sad to lose such a hot piece of ass with a constantly distraught mind.)

I think you're right, Artur made the wrong choice, even as he tried to help! Tilrey could have been so happy in Harbour. He could have healed from what Malsha did to him—not quickly or easily, but it would have made a difference.

But Malsha's escape to Harbour was a bit of a leap in the dark: Neither he nor Artur knew much about what to expect. Malsha had lived there as a diplomat, but that was basically living in a walled Oslov compound. He and Artur might both have imagined that he would have more control over Tilrey in Resurgence than was actually possible, or that Tilrey would be too afraid to escape him. Oslov propaganda paints everywhere that isn't Oslov as lawless and terrifying, and even Malsha might have been subconsciously influenced by that.

Then there's the factor of Malsha's pure possessiveness. I do think he wanted more time with Tilrey and didn't want Verán to have his "property." I can imagine him debating the issue. He is a control freak, so he might have trouble knowing someone else was hurting Tilrey and he (Malsha) could neither control nor even observe the process.

OTOH, Malsha was also the one who called Tilrey "the key to Oslov," which could be taken as a premonition of Tilrey eventually leading the rebellion—or just a lucky guess. I do think that if Malsha were still alive by the time the rebellion came to fruition and could know how Tilrey turned out, he would be very pleased and attempt to take full credit for shaping Tilrey into a weapon to take down the system. Because he's just that twisted!

[favoniuscodex]

forever, forgotten

prompt: The two of you realize that you don’t work as well as you originally think. characters: zhongli/gn!reader, diluc/gn!reader, childe/gn!reader word count: 2.2k warnings: brief injury description, putting in stitches is described, emotional cheating (but not physical or overt), pain and angst a/n: rev up those fryers, because i am sure hungry for some angst! i love pain. i really do. it’s where i feel my writing thrives. but i apologize for making reader an ass in some of these. oops. it’s only human nature :) no beta reader btw, pls send in an ask if you see any errors so i can fix them!

CHILDE/TARTAGLIA

childe has always been one to thrive in the heat of battle, while you’ve been one to thrive literally anywhere else than a fight.

your relationship is kept on the downlow, both because you don’t want the attention of dating a fatui harbinger and childe doesn’t want you getting caught in the crossfire of any battles of his.

why date a man if you can’t be involved in what he loves the most?

he arrives at your doorstep, a sheepish, tired smile on his face, one hand clutching his opposite arm, trying to tamp the blood that seeps into the grey fabric of his clothing.

you meet his gaze with an equally tired one. the sun has yet to rise and you are no longer surprised by your lover’s impromptu visits at your doorstep, nor his condition.

he only shows up when he needs something, after all.

you usher him in without a word and he sits at your dining table, quiet as you stitch up his wounds.

you’re not a nurse. you shouldn’t be so good at piercing a needle through someone’s skin. the thought of it unsettles you a bit, but you withhold these thoughts from the harbinger before you, who always desires to run a sharp blade of water through the necks of his enemies.

the silence between the two of you isn’t tense. rather, the air is dull and laced with fatigue. you know the man before you will fall asleep wordlessly on your couch soon before you navigate to your bedroom and slump over on your mattress. you’ll leave for work in the morning, leaving him to dream away on the couch. by the time you arrive home, he’ll be gone without a trace, except for the stack of mora he leaves on your kitchen table.

your relationship is no more than transactional at this point, but at least those who are paid for the night feel the warm touch of another.

however, tartaglia throws a wrench in your typical night plans. he decides to speak.

“there’s a new guy where you work,” he speaks, lifting his eyes from the needle in your hands to meet yours. “you get along well.” the words of the harbinger are embittered, laced with a childish petulance. but rather than assuage his fears, you furrow your brows and lift the needle up, before puncturing the skin with it once more.

“you sent people to watch me,” you scoff. it doesn’t exit your lips as a question, but rather a statement of ire. childe huffs in response.

“do you wish for me to leave you unguarded?” he says, irritation lacing his tone. nonetheless, he shakes his head slightly, ruffling his brunette hair. “whatever. Coworker.”

“what about him?” you respond, finishing his stitches and scooting your chair backwards to give him space. you finally make eye contact and realize that within his azure eyes, jealousy lies. “he’s a coworker.”

exhaustion is getting to the both of you. childe takes note of your dull-eyed look, a far cry from how you once looked at him. your lips rest in a slight frown and dark circles rest underneath your eyes. you look absolutely exhausted. nonetheless, he pushes onward.

“you two spend quite a bit of time together,” tartaglia remarks.

“if you have someone following me around all the time, then you know i’m not cheating,” you respond, folding your arms and narrowing your eyes at him.

“i know. but maybe it would be easier if you did,” his words soften and reveal a subtle pain behind what he’s saying, but in your fatigued state, the meaning is unclear.

“what the hell does that even mean?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay level. you’re tired, which means you’re more likely to be irritated, but you stay steady. whoever raises their voice first loses the argument, in your eyes.

“maybe it would be better if you were with someone you still loved,” childe finally confesses, yet another layer of defensiveness stripped from his voice, revealing his nerves. you glance up from where you had absentmindedly fixated your gaze on your thighs -- when had you done that? -- and look into his eyes to see the flames of jealousy being overwhelmed with an ocean of sadness. the harbinger had always loved the sea.

“don’t say that,” you murmur. “don’t do this to yourself, tartaglia.”

“ajax,” he whispers, correcting you. you know if he speaks louder, the ocean within his eyes will seep out. “and if you feel that way, then say it.”

“say what?” you ask, rubbing a hand across your eyes.

“say you love me,” ajax whispers. his face is flushed red as he struggles to contain the melancholy emotions he’s tried so hard to lock away.

you go quiet. at one point, you would have screamed the words from the top of the highest liyuean mountains, but now, a lump in your throat prevents them from exiting your mouth to reassure your lover, if you’re even allowed to call him that.

a bitter smile spreads across his face, his eyes growing red. “thank you,” he says, his tone saturated with emotional agony.

you watch him leave. your past screams at you to reach out to him, to beg him to stay, but you watch him collect his things and exit your house silently. as tartaglia closes your front door softly behind him, not bothering to look back at you, you let out a shaky sigh and curl up on your couch.

your head finds itself upon the throw pillow that his blood had leaked onto, but you’re too tired to care. instead, you lie on your side, wondering about what could’ve been before falling into a dreamless sleep.

DILUC

you’re a people person while he’s a lone wolf, a commoner while he was always destined to be a societal elite. in comparison with the man significant enough to receive a gift from the gods, you are nothing.

but he always made you feel differently. he would hold you close on winter nights, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you fell asleep to his heartbeat. but that’s all they were -- nothings.

you saw how he looked at her -- a liyuean diplomat. you had asked him about her before.

“she’s just someone from the past,” diluc had stated, not making eye contact and brushing away your words, an uncharacteristic move for the man who would once recite ballads of your beauty whenever you had expressed an insecurity. “nobody to worry about.” he

but as they leaned in close to each other, whispering to each other as diluc tended the bar, her resting her elbows on the counter, you realized that their relationship had never been platonic and you were a fool to believe they didn’t have a history together.

you stayed positive until the calvary captain noticed your sad looks towards the bar. he simply murmured a few words to you that would confirm your fears.

you didn’t want to play if you were always going to be second place to a woman who showed up every blue moon.

maybe that’s her appeal, you thought to yourself. she’s here infrequently enough that he’s smitten with her. she leaves before she can become mundane, exits the scene before his memories of her can sour.

but the days roll by and you find yourself becoming more and more embittered. diluc stays out late, saying work is keeping him. kaeya tells you otherwise. for a man who has no reason to be involved, you owe your dignity to kaeya for intervening and telling you the truth.

but diluc doesn’t cheat. he just smiles at her. they’re friends, that’s all. but jealousy is the devil’s mistress and you lay in bed with her in your heart as she pries her fingers into your love and rips it apart at the seams.

the liyuean woman leaves. upon her departure, your love for the red-haired man exits the stage as well, leaving behind a neglected husk of a relationship.

diluc smiles at you, none the wiser, approaching you after you finish your shift one evening. this is the first time you’ve spoken in three weeks and he doesn’t even seem to notice.

upon seeing his lips curl upwards at your appearance, the fragments of your heart shatter into dust, for you realize that the way he looked at the liyuean diplomat will never compare to the look he gives you.

he invites you over to his place, saying he misses your company. what is there to miss? you’ve been here all along, watching, waiting, agonizing over him, and yet he acts like he wasn’t the one that caused the two of you to be apart.

“i don’t think it’s the best idea for us to keep being together in such a manner,” you respond as you grab your bag, not making eye contact. “we wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

diluc watches you leave, stunned by your response. “wait,” he calls out to you, making you turn around. “did i do something wrong?”

“no,” you lie, plastering a fake, soft smile on your face. “i just think i did. it’s nothing you did, i just… don’t think i can keep doing a relationship right now.”

“you’re breaking up with me?” diluc asks, dumbfounded. “here? Now?”

“yes,” you respond, praying your voice doesn’t crack and revealing your sadness. “i’ve found someone else to put first.” myself, you think. you watch as diluc attempts a stoic expression, but you can see the sadness in his eyes.

as the winds of mondstadt swirl around the two of you, blowing the dusty ashes of your heart that had been burnt away by the redhead with the pyro vision into uncharted territories, you can only manage a weak, apologetic smile at seeing him go through the grief you had gone through only a week prior, when you had finally determined that you needed to break up with him.

“i’ll see you around,” you say, before brushing past him and heading home, for once, alone.

ZHONGLI

the two of you sip your tea quietly as zhongli relishes in your company, pleased to see you after you had returned from an adventuring commission.

“i’m glad you returned to liyue harbor safely,” zhongli confesses. his words, much like his actions, are predictable.

you love zhongli, you really do, but after spending two years with him as his lover, you realize that maybe he’s not the one for you.

the geo archon is reliable, loyal, and honest. he’s considerate and kind. you had no reason not to take him as a lover -- he’s the perfect gentleman with a well-paying job. staying with him would provide love and stability.

but, you realized you made a mistake not long after accepting his romantic confession. zhongli was lovely, but he failed to ignite the spark in your heart that most lovers did. he was predictable, too predictable in your case. the geo archon, after millenia of war, anguish, and disconnect from the human race, decided the best life to live as a human was one of routine and peace.

you envied him. you truly did. his happiness was rooted in the status quo, the idea of nothing in his simple life changing. you longed for adventure, for excitement, never having been one to stay in a place for too long.

just as you knew when it was time to move cities, you knew it was time to move on past this relationship in your heart. your love for zhongli had fallen platonic. you were only clinging onto the familiarity zhongli provided as he had not given you a reason to leave.

but maybe zhongli himself was your reason to leave. after all of his service to liyue, he deserves someone who loves him with his whole heart. despite your consistent completion of adventurer’s guild duties, this is one commission that you cannot complete. no matter how hard you wish to, you cannot bring yourself to love the geo archon with your whole heart.

therefore, you realize, you must let him go.

you’re a coward, though. a person who can slay a stonehide lawachurl alone, who has countless battle scars from the most fearsome of challenges, is unable to look their lover in his patient amber eyes and tell them how they feel, for they do not wish to acknowledge the pain they will bring to their gentle lover who would, truly, move mountains for them.

so you write a letter while he’s at work, detailing your sorrows and how you wish for him to find happiness. you’re a coward, you scream at yourself as tears roll down your face, staining the parchment your pen shakily moves across. he deserves better.

he deserves better, which is why you leave the letter in an envelope for him on the table, the ring that normally rests on your left hand on top of it. by the time he reads it, you’ll be on a boat to inazuma, free from the consequences of your heartbreak and your actions.

you never quite forgive yourself for leaving the geo archon behind.

#zhongli's section is the shortest but it's my favorite #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #diluc x reader #childe x reader #zhongli x reader #*writing #*50 follower celebration #*zhongli #*diluc #*childe #*tartaglia #*headcanons #*angst

[athenasbloodyspear]

The Viper: Chapter Two

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Find this fic on Ao3.

This fic is 18+ for violence and eventual sexual content. Please read at your own risk.

Master list

“I know where to find her.” Nat pipes up from her spot at the table. 

No one had moved since the Viper had shot out the security camera. 

Tony whipped his head to look at her and scoffed. “Oh? Are you an omnipresent God who knows all? Because if Friday can’t find her, I think we’re fucked.” 

“I know a place in the city where someone like her could disappear. Where I would disappear if I were her. It’s a hunch, but I have a feeling it’s where she is.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Care to enlighten us?” 

“The Mist.” Nat said simply. 

“Okay that just sounds fake.” Sam scoffed. 

“It’s not.” Nat snapped, “It’s an underground nightclub in Brooklyn. Famously has no cameras anywhere. The name is a nod to the fact that it’s a blind spot in the city. It’s filled with people in similarly seedy professions and rich and powerful people looking for illegal fun.” 

“Alrighty then. Sounds like my kinda place.” Tony rubbed his palms together. Steve just groaned. 

“You’re telling me this woman would hide out in a nightclub full of people who potentially know there’s a bounty on her head?” Bruce chimed in. 

“Yes. It’s highly frowned upon for outside business to interfere with the fun inside, so if anyone is hoping to make the hit they would have to wait for her to leave. Hence why I bet she waits there a long time.” 

“How do you know about this place Nat?” Steve countered. 

“How do you think I know about this place, Rogers?” She spat back. 

“Whatever, you two. Suit up for an evening at the club and meet us all back here in an hour.” Tony interrupted before Steve could stick his foot in his mouth. “Banner, you’re excused.” 

“Thank god.” Bruce sighed. 

“The rest of you are going. I’m staying here to monitor cameras with Friday and see if I can scrounge up any more interesting tidbits on our new friend.” 

“Great.” Bucky muttered to himself. A club. His favorite thing in the world. 

Not.

--

After a particularly complicated series of sneaking into various clothing stores in Manhattan you’d finally stolen something acceptable to wear for your evening of fun. 

You could feel the adrenaline pumping through you still. This whole thing was a massive gamble and you knew that. 

At any moment it could all come crashing down. In a lot of ways. 

You hadn’t been this out of control in a very long time. It was terrifying. 

But you would gamble with your life if you had to. It didn’t matter to you anymore. There was only one thing that did and you would give everything for it. 

So you’d continue to spiral out of control. To rely on others' choices. 

You didn’t have any other options. 

--

Bucky was relieved to discover that while this underground club was a club it at least wasn’t deafeningly loud. At least not in every section of the club. 

He was horrified to discover that the “underground” descriptor wasn’t only figurative. The club space was in the basement of a non descript warehouse that screamed Hydra wannabe. Everything in the club was a shade of black.  There was an upper floor, where the team was currently spread out, with many lush couches and smaller tables. It was more reminiscent of jazz bar’s he’d been to in the 40’s. The upper level had a metal railing that looked over into what could only be described as a pit. There was a large black marble bar along one wall of the lower floor and the rest was a dance floor. Or at least that’s what Nat had said, all he could see was a sea of bodies smashed together writhing. Apparently that was dancing. 

Even more horrifying was the fact that there were no windows. Not a single one. And the only exit that anyone knew of was the single door they came in. It was eating his skin alive. He felt so suffocated. Trapped in a way he hadn’t felt in years. 

He knew if he voiced this to Steve, he would immediately tell him to go home and the rest of them would probably be fine on their own. However, there was something keeping him here. He felt a pull towards this enigma of a woman and he needed to see her with his own eyes. Something in his gut told him she needed his help. He didn’t really know how or why, but his instincts were rarely wrong and he was tired of ignoring them. 

Even if his instincts were fighting within him at the moment. 

“Anything?” Nat questioned through the coms from where she sat on a sofa, pretending to chat with some diplomat from a country Bucky couldn’t think of right now. 

“No one who looks like what I think I’m looking for.” Steve replied. He’d been the only one who had offered to venture downstairs surprisingly. Bucky didn’t know how he could do it. 

“Sam?” Nat prompted. Sam had taken to exploring some of the strange and windy back hallways of the upper floor that lead to restrooms and stock rooms and who-knew-what-else rooms. Again, Bucky didn’t know how he willingly ventured into this creepy hell hole. 

“Nada.” Sam mumbled, “Have seen lots of faces I recognize from front pages of magazines. Most in compromising positions. Gonna be hard to forget.” 

“Gross.” Bucky muttered. He heard Nat’s soft laugh filter through the com. “I haven’t…” Bucky started. His thought cut off abruptly. 

He was standing at a railing, looking down on the pit from an aerial view, when he saw her. 

She was stunning, even though he knew she was trying to keep a low profile. It wasn’t anything in the way she looked necessarily, even though she looked amazing in her slim black velvet suit. When she shifted he noted that she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath the blazer and he hoped that there was some sort of tape involved to keep the lapels in place on her chest. The smooth expanse of skin he could see between the jacket was nearly too much to handle already. 

No, it wasn’t the outfit that made her stunning. She simply was so commanding and present that her energy was intoxicating, even from his perch a floor above. He didn’t understand how everyone around her wasn’t staring at her. He couldn’t really remember what he was supposed to do now that he was faced with her. 

She was the new him, he realized. Her hair fell to her shoulders, almost a direct replica of the mop of tousled locks on his head, only darker. He noticed she didn’t look nearly as robotic in this space compared to the videos he’d seen of her. 

I knew it. He thought. This is the real her. 

“Care to finish that thought big guy?” Sam chuckled through the coms, snapping Bucky out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. 

“I uh…” Bucky started again. “I’m lookin at her.” 

He heard voices come through the coms, asking where the hell he was and where she was but he couldn’t speak.

He watched her, you, toss back a shot of some dark liquid. 

As he stared, your eyes shifted up and locked with his. 

Every sound in the world disappeared for him. Bucky couldn’t hear a thing but the pounding of his own heart. There was a string between the two of you that went taught as you stared at each other. 

Some part of his brain registered his increasingly frustrated friends trying to get his attention through the coms but he didn’t even dare blink, let alone speak. He was convinced that if he even twitched you would disappear into the smoky haze of the room. 

“I see her.” He heard suddenly through the com. Steve must have spotted you across the room from him downstairs. “I’m closing in.” 

Bucky watched the corners of your mouth peel into a tiny little smirk. His dry eyes forced him to blink and when his lids opened again, you were gone. 

Fuck. He thought. 

“What the hell was that, Buck?” Steve snapped through the coms. “I lost her. Anyone else still see her?” 

“The only way out is the front door.” Nat breathed. Everyone shifted instantly to beeline for the front. Even if you snuck out before them, Bucky knew you couldn’t have gone very far. 

--

You careened out the front, gasping in fresh breaths of air as you peeled to the left and down the sidewalk at a quick pace. You felt grateful you’d forgone the heels for high top sneakers tonight as you needed to haul ass. Fast. You didn’t really know why you suddenly felt the need to flee. Your intention had been to attempt to speak to them inside, where you had the upper hand.  

But every well laid plan had flown out the window when you’d locked eyes with the Winter Soldier. Or Bucky as he was now called. 

He looked the same. 

He looked different in every way possible. 

It ripped a hole in your chest. 

So you ran. 

You paused briefly to stuff your fingers to the back of your throat, forcing the liquor you’d nervously pounded out of your stomach. You were gonna need every bit of your cunning. They were all there, and you were vulnerable out on the street now. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

Why had you run? Why did you run from him? 

You heard the door crash open a half a block behind you. 

--

Bucky was the first one out the door. Sam had to wind out from the back of the building, Nat had to disentangle herself from conversation and Steve had to make his way up from the bottom floor. He was at an advantage. 

His instincts were telling him that he needed to be the first one to intercept you. He felt territorial about it. He didn’t know why, but something shifted while you had stared at each other. It was a glimmer, nearly lost in the recesses of his mind, but he knew you. Somehow. 

When he looked to his left, he captured the image of you, curled over your knees, emptying your stomach onto the curb. 

What the fuck? 

“Please don’t run.” Bucky yelled. “Please I swear we don’t want to kill you.”  

He watched you straighten yourself up, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. 

“That sounds exactly like something someone who wanted to kill me would say.” You chuckle. 

Your voice. It’s… exactly like he imagined it. 

It’s nothing like he imagined it. 

Before he can process the whirlwind of emotions in his head, you’ve taken off. He bolts after you. After a few strides he hears the door blow open behind him as the rest of the team flies out of the establishment. 

He has to get to you first. 

--

You sprint as hard as you ever have. It hurts more, now that you’re fully in control. You hate it. 

You love it. 

It makes you furious.

You careen around corners and slip between crowds of people, trying your damnedest to throw them off their trail. Eventually you skid to a halt next to an older BMW parallel parked on a busy street, slamming your elbow into the corner of the back window, shattering the glass. You reach through the now open hole and manually unlock the drivers door, not caring that the remaining glass catches and opens your skin. 

“Wait!” A voice calls across the street. It’s him. You fight the urge to cover your ears. That voice. 

You scramble into the front seat, reaching under the dash to rip the wires of the starter out of the plastic covering. As you fumble with your hands you glance up, watching the Winter Soldier fling himself expertly through moving traffic towards you. 

“Shit shit shit.” You mutter to yourself. You finally free the wires,  ripping the ends open and tapping them together until they spark and the engine roars to life. 

Thank god. 

You shift into drive, rip up the E-brake and prepare to step on the gas. You glance once behind you to monitor the traffic roaring down the one way street. There’s an opening. 

When you shift your body back forward to grab the wheel, he’s almost to you. His eyes are wild. 

Pleading. 

What are you doing? 

I’m holding your hand. 

Why? 

I don’t know. 

The pain in your chest is nearly unbearable now. You force your facial features to shift into a wide smirk and flip him off before slamming on the gas as hard as you can. 

The e-brake holds the front wheels in place as the back wheels squeal on the ground, spinning the vehicle around in place until you’re facing the wrong way down the one-way. 

Finally. 

You punch it. 

--

Bucky watches you tear off in the stolen car, panting for breath. 

There was a moment. Just a moment where he’d seen something in your face and then a mask had locked down over your features. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. The agony in your eyes when you saw him just now. 

He must know you. 

How? 

“I lost her.” Bucky pants into the coms. “I… lost her.” 

Nat and Steve came sprinting up behind Bucky, placing her hands on her knees to suck in hair. 

“I’ll tail her.” Sam called. Swooping up in the skies and taking off in the direction where Bucky’s eyes were trained. 

“I don’t understand.” Nat pants. “She would never have been found if she didn’t want to be.” 

“Why did she run?” Steve questioned. 

“I don’t know.” Bucky murmured. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the last place he’d seen your car. 

“What happened in there Bucky?” Steve turned to look at him. 

“I… don’t know.” He murmured again. 

“I’m gonna need more than that pal.” Steve prompted, placing his hands on his hips. 

“She… She looked at me.” He choked out. Steve guffawed, dropping his head back to look at the sky. Beside him, Nat eyed him curiously. “I can’t explain it, but it felt… like I knew her. Like we were connected somehow.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean Bucky?” Steve clipped. “You just stood there while she ran.”  

“Shut the fuck up Steve.” Nat snapped. 

“What?” Steve turned to her then. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he was basically paralyzed in there?” 

“No.” She snapped. “I think that there’s some deeper story here we don’t understand and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a part of it.” 

Steve looked to Bucky then, a little more sobered now, and murmured. “You know her?” 

“No.” Bucky said immediately. “At least, not really. But there’s something. She looked at me like…” 

Like you did when I was falling from that train. 

Just then Sam dropped out of the sky and landed next to them. 

“She must have noticed me and ditched the car a few blocks over. Went into a subway station.” Sam sighed. “Needless to say, I lost her.” 

The whole group stands together, panting staring down the street where they’d last seen you. 

Bucky finally breaks his silence.

“I need to find her.”

--

His damned voice.

TAGLIST:

@maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals

#Bucky Barnes #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky x Female Reader

[darkisrising]

Five Times, by DarkIsRising, pt6

Previous parts here on ao3 Five Times Din and Luke Met (and one time they never parted) +1

Luke wakes up alone, but he knew that he would.

For all that Luke has the Force on his side, it’s nothing compared to a careful, soft-footed Din that is determined not to bother Luke when he has to leave. The sun hasn’t even cleared the horizon outside Luke’s window and he knows that Din is long gone by now since he’d said he needed to get off Yavin’s moon before the chrono changed from night to day.

Luke lets his fingers idly drift down his chest, his hips, and lazily circle his cock, the cool of his beskar bracer trailing in his hand’s wake. Not to start anything, really, just to press the lingering memories of Din’s touch into his skin. Like that could hold the traces of him there for just a little longer.

Closing his eyes, Luke can almost sense that steady, even shape that he’s come to know as Din’s light in the Force. He can nearly fool himself into believing that Din hasn’t left at all, which is ridiculous because Luke knows that he has, and there’s little point in getting weird about it now.

Stolen hours. Brief meals. The occasional diplomatic function. The occasional call for a Jedi to guard the Mand’alor’s back when the diplomatic function dissolves into violence because these are Mandalorians, after all…. This is what their lives have become from the moment that that rusted-out heap of Din’s had landed in front of the temple. It hasn’t changed much through the years as Din’s thrown himself helmet-first into unifying the broken, bleeding fragments of Mandalore’s once vast empire.

This is how it is, how it has to be.

“This is the Way.” Luke says wryly into his empty, echoing room, before sighing and rolling off his bed to throw on some clothes. *

Humidity builds across Luke’s forehead well before he makes it outside.

He can feel Grogu still sleeping when he passes by the youngling's room, so Luke tells Artoo to keep an eye on him before heading for the temple’s wide entrance.

After a childhood spent in the desert’s cracking heat he’s come to appreciate the wet weight of Yavin’s air as it settles heavy in his lungs. He likes it best of all in these early hours, when he can find a spot to meditate among the rustling leaves and the flitting insects before the sun turns the air into a thick, sludgy soup and the work of the day really begins.

Luke is still deciding where he should go when he sees that Din has, in fact, never left.

Worry prickles behind his ears, but the tendril of Force that Luke sends into the Mudhorn doesn’t find Din hurt or unconscious or any number of terrible things that Luke can bring to mind.

He just feels tired.

So Luke is more curious than anything when he holds out his hand to send some of his power into the ship to disengage the ramp. It lowers without a single creak or groan, and Luke is pretty smug about that. The work they’d done to the Mudhorn hadn’t been easy, but it had been satisfying to be elbow-deep in ship repairs by Din’s side. Drifting tools into his hand before he so much as asked. Grinning at Din’s wide eyes when he realized that Luke could rewire the internal port cables by touch alone, thank you very much—I’m not just a pretty face, Din—and laughing as Din chased Grogu away from the russet hull paint the kid so desperately wanted to taste.

Luke finds Din in the cockpit, sitting in the pilot’s seat. He doesn’t look up from where he’s staring at the helmet in his lap, too lost in whatever it is that is etching a frown across his forehead. Luke maneuvers around the narrow space until he can run his thumb against the warmth of Din’s temple and trace the contours of his face with a delicate touch.

“What are you doing?” Luke asks quietly. Carefully. Din only sighs, weariness clinging to the lines near his eyes, and he turns his face so that he can wordlessly press his lips against the mudhorn signet on Luke’s bracer. “I thought you had to be out before daybreak?”

“Change of plans.”

“Oh yeah? What happened?” Luke leans a hip against the console, mindful not to knock any of the controls when he does.

“Nothing."

Luke blinks, waiting for more, but Din has gone silent.

Din and his silences. They could last until the last star burned from the sky if Luke weren't around to pester him out of them. This one feels different, though, so Luke lets him have it until he’s ready to speak again.

"I didn’t want to leave," Din confesses at last.

“So. Wait,” Luke shakes his head, trying to follow the pathways of Din’s thoughts and for once finding the way blocked. He’s not consciously keeping Luke out, more like Din isn’t sure of what he’s thinking, himself. “Where have you been this whole time?”

“Here. Just sitting here.”

“Huh.” Well, that's… different. Unexpected, really. Especially from Din, whose sense of duty is so finely honed that Luke’s personally seen him take bolts of blaster fire on more than one occasion when he thought it would get him to his meeting with Mandalore’s new senators faster.

"What?"

"Nothing," Luke says, crossing his arms and propping a foot on Din’s seat beside his hip. "I'm thinking."

It's pretty funny how impatient Din is for the silence to end now that he’s facing a pensive Luke for a change, but Luke needs to get his thoughts in order on this one. It's too important—Din is too important—to kriff things up by charging ahead blindly.

"Maybe,” Luke hesitates, though it needs to be said. “Maybe it's just time?"

“What are you talking about?”

“Mandalore is about as stable as you can hope to make it, all things considered. Maybe you should go ahead and get your ass kicked by Bo-Katan. Let her take the darksaber, and all of the responsibilities that go with it. You've done enough.” Luke turns his foot so that it can tap Din’s hip, cajoling and fond. “You've done more than enough.”

Din leans back in his seat, closing his eyes for too long to be mistaken for a blink but not long enough to register as defeat. “But there's still more to do.”

“There will always be more to do, but you're not alone. Not anymore. You don’t have to hold it all together by yourself.”

There are some silences that Din falls into where it doesn’t matter whether he’s wearing a helmet or not, his face is just as unreadable either way. This is one of them. Luke wants to touch him in that moment so badly but he knows that whatever Din is thinking is too important for distractions.

“Anyway,” Luke says lightly after a time. “You don’t have to decide all that right now. I think maybe for today you just need a break. Like, what are you supposed to be doing on Mandalore today?”

“We’re signing treaties all week.”

“Are they important treaties?”

“I don't even know anymore.”

There’s something bleak that hovers in the pinched grooves of Din’s mouth and Luke fights to keep the worry out of his voice. “So that doesn’t sound like something you need to be there to do. Be a king. Pull rank. Comm Bo-Katan and tell her you won't be coming and if there’s anything that needs your attention she can bring them over here herself. She certainly knows where to find you,” Luke grins, remembering the last time she’d been dragged on a side trip to the Jedi temple because Din had found out Grogu had a fever that Luke had no other strategy for dealing with but to keep him in a healing trance until it finally faded away.

“I won’t abandon Mandalore,” Din says, voice a rumble of seriousness, eyes dark with the weight of all he's willing to endure to satisfy his unrelenting code of honor.

“It’s not abdicating to take a break. You’re just going to stay here with me for a bit. Help me keep Grogu from eating all of Yavin’s aquatic life." Luke taps his hip again with his foot, teasing. "Maybe even meditate.”

Din snorts. “Isn’t that just a fancy, Jedi way of taking a nap?”

“Only one way to find out,” Luke grins brightly, not taking offense in the slightest. “Come on. Stay a few days. Let me finally teach you to meditate, you coward.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he relents. “That sounds good.”

Luke leans in to kiss Din’s cheek where it is the smoothest before he takes Din’s helmet from his lax hands and slides it onto his head. When Din makes the call, he’s careful to keep out of holo range, but he does hold Din’s hand the whole time he’s speaking to a clipped-voiced and obviously irritated Bo-Katan.

Oh, yeah. She’d gladly take the opportunity to kick Din’s ass a few rounds if given the chance, Luke notes with a smirk.

When the comm is done, Din snatches his hand back so that he can rip his helmet off. Like he can't stand to be wearing it one click more. His breathing is fast and Luke isn’t sure what’s going on with that, but the good news is Din is staying. They have some time now, and maybe it’ll even be enough to sort through this strange mood that Din is lost to.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

The laugh that sputters from Din comes out like he’s amused despite himself. “Easy for you to say. I noticed you stayed where she couldn’t see you.”

“Oh, well, that was strategic." Luke waves a careless hand in the air, and is glad to see Din's face settle into something approaching normal. "Didn’t want her to get distracted if she saw me, since, you know: Jedi and Mandalorians. We’re mortal enemies and all that.”

“Uh huh.”

“Also, she’s kind of intense. And really good with a blaster.”

“She can’t shoot you through a comm unit.”

“Well, if anyone could do it...” Luke trails off and is rewarded by Din’s laugh—a real one, this time—the kind that sweeps the legs out from under Luke until he’s grinning and helpless against it, too.

“Here,” Luke offers, when it subsides and Din’s looking about as close to happy as he can get when the skin below his eyes is so dark with exhaustion. “Let me help you get a little more comfortable.”

And because he knows it will make that smile on Din’s face stick around a little longer, Luke is sure to name each of the parts of Din’s armor as he takes them off of him. Din’s been trying to get Luke to learn the difference between a vambrace and a pauldron for years now, and this time as he sets Din’s beskar aside one piece at a time, Luke nearly gets it all right.

“There,” Luke says when he’s finally done and Din’s warm body is only covered by soft things.

Once Din’s gloves are peeled off he starts touching Luke and Luke is more than happy to let him. A hand reaches to tilt Luke’s face down so that Din can better see it from where he sits. “What are you smiling about?”

Luke shrugs. “I like what I see."

“And what do you see?” Din asks as he catches Luke by the wrists and pulls him closer.

“What I always see,” he answers truthfully. “A Mandalorian. My riduur. Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.”

“Your accent is terrible,” Din laughs, but there’s a spark to his dark eyes that lets Luke know that his efforts to learn Mando’a haven’t been completely wasted. “Whose been teaching you?”

Boba Fett, actually. The last time Luke went down to Tatooine he'd stopped in to thank him for his help in finding Din, one thing had led to another, and they ended up getting incredibly drunk together. Luke showed him holo after holo of Grogu while Fett taught him phrases in Mando’a.

That had continued—or devolved, as Han grumbled when he’d heard about it—into semi-weekly comms, and who knew Fett had such a thing for poetry?

Luke’s been waiting for the right time to spring this particular surprise on Din, and so he tries a verse out now, knowing full well he’s mangling the language even without feeling the shudder that falls across Din’s body at the first word from Luke’s lips.

“O'r te uur be Ka'ra—”

Din’s eyes widen with horror as he whispers: “Oh, no.”

“—O'r te dral be beskar, o'r te kaab be te akaanir—”

“No,” Din snickers. “Please, no.”

“—o'r te dinui be tal, Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.”

“Quit it. Please, I’m begging you.”

Luke spares him the rest of the poem and instead laughs into the hollows of his lips: “Dinui. My Dinui. My gift.”

Broad palms bracket his face and Luke loses himself to the feel of Din’s mouth as it slots against his, always warm, always perfect, always his.

“You are Mandalorian, with or without your armor. You are Mandalorian with or without your throne,” Luke tells him when they need to come up for air and he might be breathless but it doesn’t make him any less sincere. “Like I would be a Jedi whether I had a lightsaber or not. It’s about who we are, not what we have.”

“Mmm,” Din agrees, and this time their kiss becomes a needy, wanting, seeking thing.

“What are you thinking?” Luke asks when Din pulls away from his mouth so that he can bring their foreheads together.

“I’m thinking,” Din says, humor lining the spaces of his words. “That my riduur is beautiful and wise and far better than I deserve.”

“Good thing your riduur has such terrible taste in men,” Luke teases and Din kisses him across an eyebrow.

“It’s a very good thing.”

Din’s hand drifts between their bodies and he goes a little crazy when he feels Din’s bare fingers work their into his pants to close around his cock. Making a desperate, keening sound, Luke bucks into Din’s grip as he peppers kisses up and down Din’s neck.

“Force, I love you,” Luke says fervently. Wildly. “Tell me what you need from me, Din. Anything. I'll do it.”

From the edges of his vision Luke can see Din’s face crease in a frown, because as much as Luke worries about Din and his kriffing, unyielding, beskar-strong notions of duty, he knows that Din worries about Luke’s whole-hearted impulsivity just as often.

“You know that’s a dangerous promise to make.”

“Not when I make it to you.” Luke slides his fingers into Din’s hair, holding on as he rocks his hips and he can feel Din starting to get hard beneath him. “Anything. I'd do anything for you. I mean it.”

“I know you do, cyar'ika.”

“Tell me what you want. Please,” Luke begs as Din’s hand finds a twist to his downstroke that knocks the breath from his lungs.

“Right now I want impossible things,” Din admits. “But I’d settle for sex. Here. In the cockpit.”

"Oh, Din," he sighs so happily that Din laughs and Luke has to catch that laugh on his tongue, to chase the vibrations of it until they rest in the corners of his own smile. "From the moment you towed me by a cable onto your ship, that’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.” The end! *** Mando'a translations: riduur - spouse Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - I love you dinui - gift cyar'ika - darling, sweet heart And then this absolute masterpiece of a fragmented poem that was written for me by the incandescent, incomparable tessiete who didn't hesitate when I cried at her that I can't write poetry in English, much less Mando'a: O'r te uur be Ka'ra, o'r te dral be beskar, o'r te kaab be te akaanir, o'r te dinui be tal, Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum In the silence of stars, in the burnish of steel, in the din of the fight, in the giving of blood, I love you. Thanks all for following along! Hope you enjoyed the ending. I’ve appreciated your enthusiasm so so very much :-)

#dinluke #dinluke fic #darkisrising fic

[a-libra-writes]

who do you think would prefer an s/o who’s charming, more of a people person, using their words to get what they want vs an s/o who’s more quiet, strategic, and plans and schemes to get what they want? is it a case of opposites attract, or would they want someone to compliment them? 👀

.......so i ended up having a lot of thoughts about this LOL 

okay so i think this depends on the s/o’s morals! like you can be scheming to help others instead of hurting them. so let’s go with that bc i dont wanna brainstorm a low ethics/morality s/o (this makes me think of 7KPP, a fantastic visual novel that’s the only decent Court Drama Simulator vn i’ve come across). Also there’s a loooot of characters so imma just list the ones I have Strong Thoughts on and sort them by region oh lord what have you done my dork is showing

Northbois

So while I feel like Robb and Ned would prefer a more outgoing and charming sort of person ... I really can’t help but ship them with someone whose more cunning and can actually play the game of thrones. Like lord someone help these Starks because their intrigue score is 0 and they need someone protecting them from Tywin, Roose and Walder LOL. I can really see both father and son thinking their s/o is this sweet thing and not having a clue of how much scheming they’re actually doing to protect Winterfell... Ned would probs catch on after a while but Robb would just be blinded by love and devotion haha. 

Sansa would probs want the first ideally, but as she gets older she’d greatly appreciate someone who has that sort of cunning and uses it for good purposes. Also she’d like a calm and steady personality to rely on.

Jory is a straight up honest guy to a fault, kinda like Ned, so he’d also prefer the first type of person and appreciate them more.

OKAY SO you’d think Roose would go for the second type but HEAR ME OUT. I think he’d go for both equally, or a mix of the two. Listen. I have a strong HC that he would be very attracted to someone who is his opposite in many ways - outgoing, charming, sweet and kind. If that person also happens to be cunning as hell and willing to manipulate anyone - even him - to protect what’s their’s, oof. He’s gone. I think he’d really get off on the idea of having an s/o who everyone is shocked he’s involved with bc “omg they’re sooo nice” and only he really knows their “other side”, so to speak. Realtalk I don’t think he’d go for someone just as morally awful as him bc he’d see them more as a threat than a potential partner.

Ramsay is a little shit that would also be attracted to the first kind of person but honestly needs the second type to keep his ass in line. That’s the sort of person who would figure him out and manipulate him accordingly so he isn’t skinning the goddamn neighbors. Also he wouldn’t give a damn about their morals so go off i guess just dont start any revolts in the north

VERY Northbois

Jon really doesn’t care for schemes, even if he acknowledges they’re useful, and he’d be attracted to someone who knows just what to say and is charismatic bc lord knows he’s struggled w that for a bit.  Benjen really loves outgoing, charming and talkative peeps esp when they wiggle their way out of stuff or convince the upper command of the Watch to consider a different plan. He’ll be soooo attracted to that. Edd is kinda meh on both I’d feel? Like he’d prefer a quieter person but not a scheming sort, that’s too troublesome to deal with. I think he could come around to the first one eventually.

Mance super respects the second type, he finds it very attractive actually, especially when they start manipulating him into something and he catches them. Tormund is a dork and prefers outgoing people, totally doesn’t notice when he’s being taken in lol. He rlly hates the second sort of person, sees them as snakes.

Southbois

Edmure would absolutely be drawn to a gregarious and outgoing person! And if they can talk their way into or out of things thank god bc fishboy has a habit of putting his foot in his mouth. I really don’t think it’d work out with a schemer person bc of that Tully honor, and unlike Ned or Robb, Edmure would start to catch on (I don’t buy into the show characterization of Edmure like frack that he’s not an idiot). Brynden has a lot of experience and has seen a lot of BS, so he’d understand the risks and sacrifices his s/o would be making when they’re playing the game, and he’d really wish they wouldn’t!! Like yeah it’s to protect their family and friends but he wishes they didn’t have to do that. He wants to protect them on his own.

Brienne REALLY prefers someone whose honest and can talk their way in and out of things!! Like the Starks she’s very honorable and has no patience for lies and manipulating even if it’s for something good. It’d take a lot for her to trust and be attracted to that kind of person, they’d have to like... be very honest with her about what their plans are and why they’re doing them. 

Kingslanding bois

oh lord Stannis okay so INITIALLY he’d be put off by both personalities for diff reasons - outgoing because socializing and diplomacy is something he just sucks at and the second one because holy hell he hates dishonesty and scheming. Now, he can admire a strategic and collected mind, but as soon as dishonorable plots roll in he starts side-eyeing. I think it would take some time for that latter personality to gain his trust, and if this is like... his wife we’re talking about, she’d probs have to scheme behind his back, even if it’s for his own sake. For an outgoing person, he could eventually befriend or fall for them once some common ground is found. He wouldn’t be able to admit how much he admires their people skills haha.

Davos understands that sometimes manipulating and scheming is needed and can be used for good, but personally he prefers a more diplomatic, out in the open approach. So the first type is def his kinda person. He could still befriend the second type as long as they’re not assholes, though.

Tywin would honestly work with both sides of the spectrum and in between, but ultimately, you’d have to understand who you’re dealing with. There’s no honor or high ground being involved with Tywin Lannister, and the s/o should expect to get dragged into his schemes, esp when he trusts them ... and that’s no easy feat. Ultimately it’s less of how you get what you want and more of ... what are you willing to do to get it. Pesky morals and all that.

Tyrion has had enough of his dad’s bullshit that he’d only be romantically involved with the first type, someone who uses sass and flattery like he does. He can still respect and befriend a more cunning person, though. Jaime also prefers the first type, he thinks it’s just because “oh I like outgoing and forward people” and not...”i’ve spent years dealing with lies and schemes from father and cersei”, yanno that old chestnut. Bronn definitely prefers gregarious and cheeky peeps, schemes go over his head and bore him.

Sandor dislikes both sorts of personalities for different reasons ... He’s offput by someone who would be very talkative and outgoing with him (like why are they talking to him wtf), and he also hates scheming and lying and all that, he’s seen too much of it. The first type has a better chance of befriending and getting close to him, the second not so much. 

Petyr very much respects and admires both but like ... you know he’d prefer someone that he thinks he can outwit and manipulate, so probably more of the first type of personality because they seem less cunning and more of “just” a people person. Given his obsessive/yandere tendencies he probably wouldn’t notice he was being taken in by someone friendly and kind. 

like okay weird thing to think about but just consider this... I really wonder what it’d be like if Robert had an s/o like the first one you mentioned. Not Cersei, certainly not his beloved Lyanna - a third party, a gracious and likeable queen that kinda makes up for his faults and she’s TRYING hard as hell. like idk if they’d ever fall in love but like idk i feel like his depression would be slightly lessened to have a partner that’s very beloved and tries to help him and put him in a good light in his subject’s minds. Am I making sense? She’s not perfect but she wants what’s best for the realm and if she’s gotta do it herself she will. IDK sorry this is a tangent, i think about major change AUs and their political consequences a lot

Heckin south n east bois

Margaery is a Big Gay and you can’t fight me on this, you will lose. She’s super attracted to the first kind of gal bc that’s def how she is herself! So she’d love to play those little word games with them. The second personality type she’d just write off as “eh quiet person” but once she got closer and began to realize their cunning and wittiness she’d def take an interest, esp if she found out about some good things they did. Then it’d be a classic “outgoing babe dating more reserved babe” and yall both would be VERY well-known in court. absolute power couple

Oberyn likes both equally! Especially if your motives are to help others and/or save your friends and family. He loves that kinda loyalty and he really admires someone who has a way with words and schemes in equal measure. Hell he does both himself. He might lean more toward an outgoing person just because that’s how he is too.

idk where to put Beric but he rlly likes the first kind of people!! He’d probs ask you to get supplies or money on the Brotherhood’s behalf, and he actually kinda likes it when he finds himself doing something you wanted cause you asked so nicely or talked him into it ..... Thoros calls him a simp and it’s true ok don’t bully he can’t help it

& lastly Essosssss

So, I think Daenerys would be a lot more drawn to the second kinda person. First of all: Very mysterious, ooh. Secondly, she’d appreciate a cool head that will tell her the truth and is willing to do more unsavory things bc they believe in her so much. Obvs she would need someone with unquestionable loyalty, and once she tests and is reassured of that loyalty, then she could start some kinda romance. She’s def attracted to someone who can get shit done that way.

Jorah is a big opposite in that he’s kinda had to do that unsavory stuff himself and is still ashamed by it, and generally doesn��t trust people like Littlefinger and Varys and Illyrio, etc so he’d prefer someone who is just genuine and talks their way out of things. Also yall know him he can’t resist once he starts liking someone like cmon

Grey Worm is absolutely in the first camp too but for diff reasons! Scheming and all that shit just makes him nervous and he distrusts it, even if it’s for Daenerys’ sake. He just wouldn’t associate with the person ... Someone more outgoing would definitely fluster him more but at least he could feel like he could trust them. Missandei can go either way - she knows the power in both diplomacy and manipulation, and would likely admire and be pulled to someone who uses both to help people. 

sorry i got so wordy and a bit repetitive lol both are like, my fav kinda character archtypes, esp for court settings.

#libra says #libra says A LOT OF SHIT LOL oops #yall can send in stuff like this anytime idgaf its interesting #libra headcanons #got x reader #got imagines #game of thrones x reader

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

#if you ask I will write a whole goddamn essay on Boromir #and why his death means more to us as we get older *whispers* babe I want the essay

Why must you always enable me I love it never stop. So. Wow. Where to even start. I rant through my tears about how much I love Boromir every time I watch Lord of the Rings, which I do about once a year with @captainofthefallen. Every time I watch it, his death means more to me, hits me harder, and I think that’s because the older we get, the more we identify with Boromir.

Here’s the thing. In all honesty, as a kid (I first read LotR when I was eleven, first watched the films at that age as well), I wasn’t too fond of Boromir. Oh I liked him all right, he was fine I suppose, but I didn’t connect with him. I was angry when he tried to take the One Ring from Frodo, and I cried a little at his death because death is sad and I was a kid, but it didn’t devastate me.

Because as a kid? I wanted to be Aragorn. The reluctant king who rises up and does the right thing, always. The guy who gets the amazing (be still my bi heart) Arwen, the Evenstar, fairest of the elves. The guy who literally kicks ass. The man who is noble, honorable, thoughtful, good with his words, humble, knows the burdens of leadership, who stands up and says there will be a day when the courage of men fails, but this is not that day.

I wanted to be the hero.

I noticed this trend among my peers growing up. We all loved Aragorn and wanted to be him. Boromir was sort of dismissed.

But then a funny thing happened, called getting older.

I got older, and I fucked up.

I got older, and depression hit.

I got older, and the weight of societal expectations, of being an older sibling, of adult responsibilities, of legacy, of family secrets, of family history, all settled on my shoulders.

I got older, and I learned that men are not always honorable, or kind, or humble, or the leaders they should be. And I learned how hard and desperate it is to continue to believe in the strength of men.

I got older, and I learned how temptation comes for us all, in different forms, and how we hurt people without meaning to, and how sometimes for all our regret and tears and apologies, we cannot mend what we broke.

I got older, and I leaned what it is to be forced into a role I didn’t want, to feel I’d hit a dead end, to struggle against those who had different views, to feel like people could look into my heart and see the anger and fear that I tried so hard to hide.

I got older, and I realized: I’m Boromir.

We’re all Boromir.

Tolkien was very deliberate with his characters. They aren’t just characters, flawed and wonderful though they might be. They also each represent something very specific. Aragorn represents the Ideal. The hero that we all can be, the hero that we should strive to be, the vision of mankind as we are supposed to be, if only we can let ourselves shed our hubris and our doubts. Aragorn represents who we should be.

Boromir represents who we are.

Flawed, frustrated, burdened, tempted, struggling, setback, good intentioned, afraid, angry, kindhearted, noble, loyal, and painfully, beautifully human.

Boromir went to the Council of Elrond reluctantly. He shouldn’t have gone. Boromir is a war leader, as we learn after his death. He successfully fought for and defended Gondor from Mordor for years. That’s where he belongs. Faramir is the quiet one, the diplomat, the “wizard’s pupil,” the soft-spoken and patient one. Note that even in the film version, which shows a differently characterized Faramir than in the books (Tolkien heavily based Faramir on himself), Faramir only wants the One Ring in order to give it to his father and win his father’s pride and affection–he doesn’t want it for himself.

If Faramir had been at the Council and Boromir had stayed in Gondor, everything would have gone differently, and possibly for the better.

But the Steward of Fuckwits aka Boromir and Faramir’s father decides he wants Boromir to go, to represent their family, because Boromir is the son he values and is the “face” of Gondor. So Boromir sets aside what he wants, and he goes. And the whole time he feels out of place, feels like a fish out of water, feels second to Aragorn, feels lost, feels terrified his city will fall while he is gone, feels like the race of Men is being mocked and looked down on as weak.

How many of us as we grow up are stuck like that? We can’t fix our family (although we try), we can’t fix our broken country (although we try), we can’t get rid of the doubts and fears that whisper to us (although we try), and we can’t stop feeling like we’re constantly second best, constantly failing, looked down on, especially the millennial generation.

(Given what’s happening in the world right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tolkien found himself surprisingly similar in outlook and feeling to our generation. But that’s another topic.)

And of course that’s the key. Boromir–darling, frustrated, stuck, fatally flawed Boromir–is so very relatable because he tries. He tries to teach Merry and Pippin to protect themselves and then tries to save them and dies for it. He tries to convince Aragorn (who at that point is more elf than man in his outlook) that there is no reason to give up on his people, their people–and he succeeds in that, although he dies before he gets to see it. He tries to make his father proud. He tries to apologize when he fucks up. He tries and he fails, and he tries and he succeeds. And the most important things he does, the biggest seeds he plants, he never sees them flower.

Like my God, the man’s last words are I failed. I failed you, I failed Frodo, I tried to take the Ring. I’m sorry, I failed. That hits me so goddamn hard in my mid20s and it’ll hit me even harder when I’m older, I’m sure. How many times have we said that to people? “I tried to help him.” “I tried to reach out.” “I tried to apologize.” “I tried to stop them.” “I tried so hard.” I tried, I tried, I tried. For the job, for the friend, for everything, I tried.

And I failed.

I have a laundry list of things I tried and failed at, and God, do they hurt. Sometimes it was something out of my control, sometimes it was my own behavior. And that scene with Boromir, the flawed man, staring up at Aragorn, the ideal hero, and begging him, begging him, “save them, they took the little ones, find Frodo,” begging him for forgiveness, apologizing for his failures?

Talk about a fucking metaphor.

We make our ideals in literature so that we have something to look up to and strive for, for others to strive for. Boromir falls prey to the ring, but Aragorn does not. You did what I could not. Of course Aragorn did. He’s the ideal. And we beg our ideals to be better so they can show us the way and hopefully, maybe, someday, we can be like them.

I had so many heroes growing up, real and literary. Sara from A Little Princess. Aragorn. Lucy from Narnia. Nancy Drew. Harry Potter. And so many times I would look at myself in the mirror and cry because I knew, I knew if I stood in front of them they would be disappointed in me. I knew I wasn’t being the person I could be. I tried, I failed, I tried, I failed, but my God I swear, I tried.

As a kid or even a teenager, we still see mainly who we want to be. Our ideal. And I hope that we never lose sight of that. I love Aragorn and my God am I going to keep trying to be like him, and like all of my other literary heroes. We need those heroes, we need them so badly, and the darker the world gets the brighter we have to make them shine.

As an adult, though–as an adult, we start to see not only who we want to be, but who we are, and who we could’ve been, and how we failed to be, and the paths not taken and the paths that were lost. And that’s important too. Because Boromir died convinced he was a failure. Convinced he was, truly, the weakness we find in men.

And he was… but he wasn’t.

Without Boromir, Aragorn wouldn’t know what happened to Merry and Pippin or where they went. Without Boromir, Aragorn would’ve had no hope in the race of men. Without Boromir, who would have carried the hobbits up the cold mountain, or taught them how to fight, or said give them a moment, for pity’s sake! Who would have defended Gondor for so long, or loved his brother with a ferocity that Denethor’s abuse couldn’t knock loose, and inspired that brother to keep fighting even as the light faded and the night grew cold and long?

Aragorn carries Boromir’s bracers throughout the rest of the trilogy, right up to his coronation, where he is still wearing them as he is made King. Because Boromir might not have seen it–we might not see it–but we tried and we failed but we didn’t fail at everything. Lives are made brighter for our presence. The world is better for our gifts and our convictions. And no fight, even a fight lost, is done in vain.

The remains of the Fellowship ride to Gondor not just because it’s the Right Thing to Do, but because it is the city of their fallen brother, it’s Boromir’s home, the home that above all he gave everything to defend. Boromir doesn’t want the Ring for power, he wants it so his home will be safe, his family will be safe, and God who can’t relate to that, as we grow older and we see our families and friends attacked and scarred, as we have children and want them out of harm’s way. Who wouldn’t be tempted to seize the chance to keep them safe?

I see so much of myself in Boromir. And I take hope. I take inspiration. I cheer through my tears as he is hit again and again with arrows and each time he gets back up on his feet and grits his teeth and you can see him thinking not today. As a child I thought Boromir was selfish but as an adult I hear him use his last breath to apologize to Aragorn and call him his brother and his king and I see he’s more selfless than he ever gave himself credit for being. Boromir sees only his faults, but we can see what he doesn’t, we see his positive impact and we see his virtues, too.

Because as an adult I’ve failed, and I want to believe that like Boromir, I’ve also succeeded, I’ve also been more than just my faults–even if I can’t see that yet.

Aragorn is who we should be. But Boromir is who we are.

And my God, we should be proud of that. Because Boromir is a damn good person to be.

#mads answers things #Lord of the Rings #LotR Meta #Boromir #Boromir meta #I cried just thinking about Boromir while writing this #Boromir is a goddamn hero #a tragic one but a hero all the same #and I will hear no different #extasiswings #I'M A FUCKING IDIOT WHO SAID MORIA INSTEAD OF MORDER #FUCKING FUCK #I FUCKED UP I FUCKED UP

[vampiresuns]

Manmarziyan | Haider x Anatole

✴︎ 5.3k words. The Earth has no option but to orbit the Sun, and Sun has no choice but to shine on Earth — only it is a choice, one that Haider and Anatole cannot keep pretending they do not make.

Haider belongs to @atypicalacademic. CWs: contains mentions of 🍋, though it’s not 🍋

Translations, courtesy of Kani: Priyo - darling, Amar shona - my love, Amar Jibon - love of my life.

Title song: Manmarziyan - from the Lootera OST.

Anatole had been learning about the different religions and belief systems of the world since he was little. From mythologies to now-a-days-religions, he found the subject fascinating, even if he didn’t have a personal sense of religious faith. He had done so with Amparo’s and her grandparents, with Milenko, his mothers and his uncle Blasio, and he had done so with his great grandfather’s one. 

The belief system Valerian had been raised in had common motifs with others, but it was a little different to what Anatole was used to. He didn’t quite understand this Death of theirs very much, even though Valerian had told him neither did he when he was his age. However, it made up for being the most confusing with having the best stories around it, in Anatole’s opinion. 

One of Anatole’s favourites was the story of the Sun and the Earth.

The Earth had become enchanted with how beautiful the Sun was. Though it understood the Sun could not always be around —that the object of its affections being gone was necessary so green could grow on Earth, for the Rain too was a blessing— being apart from it was unbearable. 

Thus, the Earth came up with a way to always be close to the Sun. The Earth shook itself and roared until from its flats it created mountain ranges all over the world, each of them competing with each other to see which one would be the tallest, and the closest to the Sun. The Mountains were divine and magnificent, beautiful and awe inspiring, commanders of great respect. 

And just like the Earth had aimed for, some of them had grown so high they could pierce the clouds. 

So the Earth told the Sun: “I did this so we could be together.”

To which the Sun told the Earth: “My foolish beloved! Doing all of this when I shine on you so we can be together. I nurture your plants and I shine on your oceans so I can be with you, and you with me. I have never left you.”

The Earth didn’t understand. It thought the Sun had not liked it’s gift. When the Earth said as much, the Sun laughed.

It told the Earth: “I do love your gift. Not loving your gift would mean I do not love you.”

The Sun cradled the Earth in its hands and with a kiss it said: “And you’ll find not loving you is something impossible to me.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

His knock on the door was answered with a distracted ‘come in’ from the other side. His uncle was barefoot, curled up in one of his sofas, reading a book, his reading glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. Anatole called for his attention, and he lifted his index. 

“I am almost done with this chapter, Aelius.” 

Anatole waited, trying not to fidget too much — his uncle always noticed his fidgeting. Other people could take it as talking with his hands, thinking, or impatience, but not Valeriy. Fooling his uncle was as difficult as his uncle fooling him. Instead, he occupied his hands looking at the volumes in his personal parlour’s library, until he heard Valerius close the book and fold his glasses away. 

“Sorry, Aelius, I did not want to lose my track, and this book is very interesting.” 

“Is it the one about the art smugglers you told me about last week?” 

“Very much so. I finally had time to put my hands on it again — wine, dear nephew? I want to see what your coffee-ruined taste buds have to say about my first experimental batch.” 

Anatole indulged him. When he was his private self, Anatole had a very hard time denying his uncle. Especially now that their relationship had improved significantly after it’s mishaps, and he was ever so eager to have his opinion on things. Like he did when he was young, and prepared to fight every Prakran and Balkovian political office to have his nephew working with him. 

“What is it?” He asked as he poured some wine into a glass. “We’ve both established I cannot lie to you, because you notice, and you cannot lie to me, because I notice. So better get out with it instead you pretend it’s nothing.” 

“I need a favour.” 

“Who in the Court do I need to have a chat with?” 

Anatole laughed, accepting the glass of wine when he was sure he wouldn’t spill it. “Nothing like that, this is personal.” 

“Go on. Don’t clam up now, sit with me and give me something I can tease you about.” 

He hesitated for a moment, exhaling slowly, biding his time to make up the courage to just say it. His uncle raised an eyebrow at him. “Out with it. Unless you poisoned someone, nothing you say can be worse than something I’ve done, so do go on.” 

“Val.” 

“Tsk, don’t worry about me, and don’t ‘Val’ me. What is it?” 

Right, better get on with it. “I wanted to know if you could help me find a painting by Thasveer Wazim.”

His uncle looked clearly surprised, putting his glass down, and curling his fingers against his own lips. “Wanting to start your own collection?” 

“It’s a gift for someone else.” 

“Why haven’t I met him? Or them?” 

Anatole made a non-committal gesture and Valerius actually laughed. 

“You began going out with your someone, who must either have a streak for Zadithi painters or is actually related to Wazim, and you didn’t plan to take it this far, but now you’re scarily fond of them”. 

Anatole tapped the side of his nose. “Like a fool.” 

“You’re a lot of things, but not a fool. Who is it then? I will spare myself the comments about his suitability for you, but I will not spare myself the remarks. If we’re going on a little hunt on auction houses and private collectors, at the very least tell me his or their name.” 

“His,” Anatole paused. “It’s his son.” 

“You fell in love with the line of an overthrown aristocrat,” Valerius laughed again, and Anatole threw a small cushion at him, which he caught. 

“How charming of you,” the comment made Anatole roll his eyes. “What’s his occupation now?” 

“He owns a restaurant.” 

“From riches to rags, but well, my great grandmother was a smuggler.” 

“And your grandmother, a partisan.” 

Valerius winced. “Don’t remind me.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole had known Haider Wazim for around a year, they'd been sleeping together for 11 months, and they still hadn’t made anything official, even if they both had agreed that in a month, they’d do something for the year mark. Haider wanted to take Anatole to his studio in the Catclaw desert. Anatole has been in love with Haider Wazim for around 9 months and three weeks, and he still hasn’t told him.

He was already aware how much of a bad idea it was continuing to keep it to himself, as he was aware his ‘casual’ arrangement had absolutely backfired, and given how Haider was, it was questionable if it was ever meant to work. He knew. He lived with that knowledge every day, every time they touched with a little more meaning, every time the sentiments and intentions in Haider’s words drew past his barriers. Because yes, Anatole could use his magic to check on Haider’s feelings, but he felt like it would be an intromision. If Haider wanted him in any other way than sexual, with the added benefit of the pleasure of his company, he would’ve said something, right? 

What Anatole didn’t need right now was his friends and cousins questioning his logic. He knew. 

“My guy, listen,” Leonore said, clicking his mouth, “you are the smartest person I know but I also think you’re being purposefully daft, like proper, massive stupid.”

“I hate to agree with him—”

“Aw. Asra, you warm my heart.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, I know Haider, and I think there’s a chance you’re both acting the same way because no one has said anything. Anatole I’m not going to tell you what to do, but don’t you think it would be better to just say it?”

“He might not, but I will,” Amparo said, “so I compel you to say something. You both are pining, he is acting like your official date, and you’re the Consul. Don’t you think it’s better to clear that up?”

“There’s nothing to clear up, it’s not like I’m madly in love with him or whatever.”

“You know, you are amazing at redirecting topics when you don’t want to answer something, and you might be good at doing the Diplomatic vague statements at work,” Medea said, tenderness in her voice, tenderness that shifted into an accusation as she poked her finger at his chest, “but you suck at doing it with yourself.”

One of the Palazzo’s staff cleared their throat, telling Anatole Haider was looking for him. 

“I asked if there was anything I could do for him, and he asked about you, sir.”

“Right, right, I’ll be right back, I’ll find him, thank you.” 

Once he and his friends were alone again, he was met with no nonsense stares from all Leonore, Medea, Asra, Amparo and Milenko. The latter snorted. 

“I don’t remember your non-official affairs, the non presented to the public, the ‘oh, I’m doing this one for me’ deals to have the power to summon you through your staff. How was it Amparo?”

Amparo’s impression of Anatole had always been good. She cleared her throat. “‘Wait until everyone is gone, and then we’ll attend to each other, does that work for you?’”

“Oh, fuck off. Fine, fine, fine, I’ll tell him soon enough okay? Gods, you’re all terrible.”

“We love you, and we don’t want you to be hurt, or sad, especially by your own hand when there’s no reason.”

“You don’t know that, Amparo, I don’t know that.”

“May the moon hold me tenderly in the face of stubborn asses,” she said, “what happened to the brutally hopeful man I knew in my cousin?”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t hope, I said I didn’t know.”

“Smartass.”

“Oh, my, it might be that we are related, Amparo Elira.”

She stuck out her tongue at him as he straightened his clothes from imaginary wrinkles, finding a mirror to freshen himself up some, evaluating his look. 

“I can feel you all looking at me, and no, this isn’t because I’m about to see Haider.”

“Stop lying,” Leonore said, walking in circles and extending the final g. “I already have enough of your betrayals with you picking up his pronunciation on rasgullas.”

After Anatole was gone, they all stayed behind a bit longer. Amparo was the first to break the silence, asking if they all wanted to bet that Anatole would not actually have the conversation with Haider. As bets came and went, Milenko remained quiet. He disagreed: Anatole would have the conversation with Haider, because he was terrible at lying to himself. He was fairly sure Haider felt the same way about him, too.

However, they would have the conversation at the worst possible time. “Trust the Earth to be as stubborn as the Sun,” he said with a sarcastic snort.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

In his defence, Anatole did try to have the conversation with Haider. He didn’t try very hard, but he tried. It just so happened that he hated to admit it, because it meant he would have to deal with feelings he didn’t precisely want to deal with outside of himself — the possibility of being rejected if he wanted something more, twisted him up too much. He had tried battling with it, reasoning with it, and just letting it past and taking assertive action and it still loomed over him. 

His friends were aware, his family was aware. Haider had met his parents last November, for Anatole’s birthday. They both had mentioned how happy they were for Anatole, that he had found someone who loved him so transparently. When their son told them this wasn’t that kind of relationship, if it was a relationship at all, they both exchanged concerned looks.

His mother had said: “Oh, honey,” and gave him a pat on the cheek.

Anatole never introduced people he was ‘just sleeping with’ to his family. Ever. He didn’t let those people become part of his routine, he didn’t let them take care of him, he very specifically never subbed for them in sex, because while he did enjoy it from time to time, it required him to feel safe in order to even consider the possibility. Haider had done all of that without even being his boyfriend yet.

They were celebrating anniversaries without being boyfriends yet. Maybe he was a fool. 

In his defence, he had tried. He had tried during said not-anniversary trip and failed catastrophically. He had planned to say ‘Haider, I believe we need to talk’. He had said: “Haider, I want you” instead. When Haider grabbed him, lifting him by putting his hands under his thighs, Anatole had wrapped his legs around his waist instead of stopping any of them to have the dreaded conversation. 

In his defence, Haider was a very good kisser. In his defence, it was very hard not to be tangled in each other. They had begun seeing each other merely because they thought they were hot and flirting was nice and came easy between them. Anatole had a mental catalogue of looks he found positively indecent that Haider had thrown him — categorised alphabetically, by situation, and by date — and he knew he had thrown Haider some which were equally disrespectful.

He had also said Haider had an ass like those very thick and fluffy pancakes, and given a dreamy whistle about other bits of Haider more than once. Like his arms, or his lips. Or his dick if he was going to be honest. 

The first morning of their not-anniversary Catclaw trip, Haider had made him breakfast, Anatole had asked why he was always so good to him, Haider replied “Oh, you know why”. Anatole had gotten him a variety of art supplies and a couple of sketching notebooks as a present, when Haider asked, his reply was the same. It’s what they always said when any of them wanted to say ‘because I love you’ but back tracked on it. Both of them blissfully unaware they were doing the exact same thing. 

He had spent the weekend doing some short hikes and looking at the stars with him — or looking at his hand while Haider pointed at things. When they weren’t acting like a couple, Anatole was too busy putting Haider to his knees. So, once again, in his defence, he was distracted. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole rolled around the bed finding a cold spot to put his feet against, bundling himself up in sheets that weren’t his own. He was still too asleep to register the hour, or the lack of Haider at the other side of the bed, let alone the smells or sounds coming from the kitchen. 

He almost registered it but sleep won, his mind going to his private, faraway dreamland as he slept naked in Haider’s bed, even if mornings like this were on themselves a dream. 

He would only fully open his eyes a quarter to ten, half complaining about Haider kneeling by the bed and giving him small, light kisses, and fully complaining when Haider tried to move again, dragging him back to the bed with him. 

“You’re my prisoner now,” he mumbled, groggy. 

“What about your willing captive?” 

Haider’s fingers had begun tracing figures over his spine. 

“Hm, you can’t say things like that so early in the morning, or I’ll end up saying very compromising things.” 

Haider chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of Anatole’s head. “Why?” 

“You know why.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

When he returned to work on Tuesday, Medea raised an eyebrow at him.

“I promise I will talk with him, alright?”

After that she dropped the topic, more interested in knowing if her friend had had a good trip rather than telling him what to do.

Anatole had always danced around people he wanted until he knew he could make a strategic move without stepping on false, prone to collapsing ground. Furthermore, this wasn’t the first time Medea has seen him do this dance where feelings were reciprocated but no one did anything. It had happened with Leonore’s older brother, Navneet, it had happened with Julian Devorak. Medea has known Anatole for 10 years. The preliminary dance wasn’t surprising. 

However, both those instances had their reasons not to prosper, finding friendship in the two men instead of a romantic relationship, and they didn’t last as long as the Haider dance was lasting. Granted, one could argue the Navneet one had lasted a couple of years, but once Anatole had become aware of it, it burned and crashed in three months, both parties moving on with their lives. 

This was an abnormally long dance. 

During the two months after their getaway, Anatole’s job got in the way. It seemed more busy than usual, giving him little respite for anything outside of it. When he did get some of those blissful moments, he preferred winding down rather than having emotionally charged and stressful conversations. He loved his job, but it was requiring a lot of his attention, and Anatole wasn’t sure if he would be able to be at his best capacity if everything went wrong with Haider now. 

Something inside him asked about the possibility it went right. Then, Anatole thought, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he would prefer to gamble with the scenario when he wasn’t about to leave on a diplomatic trip.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Along the same time Anatole was supposed to be on his diplomatic trip, Haider would be visiting his family for three weeks. Anatole would be close enough to make a detour and see Haider, if he wanted to; given both their travelling schedules, if Anatole took a week after his work trip was done, he could return to Vesuvia with Haider. 

He wanted Haider to want him to be a part of his life to that point, he wanted what they already had but without the weight of yearning and the domesticity between them. He wanted to hear stories from his childhood from his grandparents, and he wanted to have the option to wear one of his scarves or shirts to work, because they shared a room, because they shared all of them with each other. His issue was he had no excuse to shimmy himself into it, nor he felt he had a right to meet Haider’s family, even if he would love to. 

He’d do anything for Haider. He didn’t know how it made him feel.

Around two weeks before he left, Haider and him were standing close to each other, Haider hugging Anatole from behind, both of them swaying to imaginary music. Haider’s thumbs went back and forth over Anatole’s sides, making him want to feel them over his naked skin. 

When Haider began asking about his work trip, he didn’t expect him to ask what he himself had not dared to suggest, the words echoing in Anatole’s head and his heart on his throat. 

“If you wanted, you could make a detour and stay with us. I know it’s not wise, and out of place for me to ask, but I’d love you to meet—”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll go. I’d love to go.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Nadia’s green light was both a relief and a nightmare. The former because he would hate to make Haider hope for something and then take it back. Anatole wasn’t someone who took, he was someone who delivered and was proud of it. The latter because he would meet Haider’s family despite them being formally nothing. 

Natiqa didn’t miss a chance to tease him as soon as she was informed she would be delivering a written report on Anatole’s behalf to her sister. Also involved in the trip as a diplomatic envoy, Anatole’s old acquaintance took more than one chance to remind Anatole of the Vesuvian saying about Consuls and their spouses. 

“Don’t you say that ‘good Counts make their Consul their friend, while good Consuls keep a happy marriage in their beds’?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anatole said without looking up from the report he was writing. 

“Given that began with your family one would think you do.” 

“We’re not together, Tiqa.”

“Nana, you’re meeting his family.” 

“I know.” 

Though she made a few more jokes at his stake — which was fair, Anatole thought — all she said on the matter was she was there if he wanted to talk. “Even if I haven’t forgiven you for preferring the Vesuvian Court to working with me, but we are still friends, Radošević, because I’m gracious like that.”

Out of time crunches, they didn’t quite get around that chat but Anatole appreciated it all the same. Soon came the time they had to depart, Anatole handing her the full volume of his preliminary Diplomatic report to Nadia before hugging Natiqa good-bye. 

“You’re adorable, Radošević, I’ve never met anyone with more worries, and Nadia’s my sister.”

“I don’t know how to take that.”

“As a compliment.” 

As Natiqa embarked herself in a Vesuvian-bound ship, she turned away to yell at him: “You’re a great catch, Radošević, anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot!”

Her cat-like, dastardly grin was all the confirmation he needed to know she had done that on purpose.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The trip towards Haider and his family was uneventful. Anatole occupied most of his time reading for leisure, or finding things to occupy the passing hours with. It was an 8 hours ride, the distance too short to merit taking a ship there. He arrived past sunset but before the night fully settled in.

Haider was waiting for him, wearing a sky blue scarf that contrasted with his mahogany eyes and his black hair. Anatole didn’t think of it twice, running towards Haider on impulse. He caught him in his arms and spun them around while they hugged. He didn’t let Anatole go when they stopped spinning. 

“Can I kiss you hello?” 

“After not having seen you in so many weeks, I surely would hope you did.” 

Haider, as always, indulged him.

He offered to help carry his things inside, Anatole joking about how he should be thankful he was only carrying two trunks. His third one along with the rest of his things — except for his sword — had gone back to Vesuvia with Natiqa. Anatole accepted the offer, but not before taking a piece of chalk out of his bag and writing a series of glyphs over his luggage. He took a deep breath before putting his hands over each inscription and releasing, the words shimmering and disappearing into the material of the trunks, imbuing themselves in it. Haider couldn’t help staring, marvelling at this facet of  Anatole.

When they both lifted the trunks, they were almost weightless. 

“Comes in handy, doesn’t it?” 

Haider and him exchanged talk about their specific journeys, what the former had been up to with his family, and how Anatole’s work trip had gone, as well as his trip there. 

The closer they got to the house, the more nervous he got. 

“They will love you, I’m sure.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You always frown in the same way when you’re nervous.” 

“And how’s that?”

“As if someone had put some really atrocious ensemble together but you were obliged by politeness to not say anything. Something that’s awful in a non-charming way.” 

“That’s certainly one way of putting it. It’s just— it’s just I haven’t met anyone’s parents in a very long time, that’s all.” 

What he didn’t say was: What will be the use of them loving me, if there’s a possibility you might not. Not how I’d like. 

They were inside now; it was too late to turn back. 

“Everyone, this is Aelius Anatole, my— I mean, the Consul of Vesuvia.” 

“Hi,” Anatole said, with his most confident smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

That might have become the most delightful week of Anatole’s life and he still hadn’t had the conversation with Haider, his excuse now being it was a terrible idea to have such a discussion during a trip. 

Haider’s family was lovely. Lively and colourful, a myriad of humbled aristocrats and bohemians who had preferred a life lived with others, for others and for art in its many forms, than a life of privilege. In so many ways it reminded him of his own, with its mismatched ends and its stories that seemed almost like legends of their own. 

There was also Haider. So much of him, under the sun and under the moonlight, clothed and unclothed, in the privacy of their bedroom and in furtive looks stolen when they thought no one else could see. There was Haider and the water, Haider and the kites, Haider and his hands on him, and his lips on his own.

There was him on the veranda, trying to do mehendi on Anatole’s hands and there was them ruining it on accident, too overtaken by craving each other. Most of the paste had ended up on Haider’s skin, but some had on his kurta too. No one had come to retrieve them, so they had no reason to stop. Wasn’t it always like that anyway? Once they began, they couldn’t stop, too much unsaid between them as always, too many things to act on?

Anatole did not regret missing dinner. He was too busy riding Haider in the veranda. He didn’t even mind when, later that night, they both were having dinner in the kitchen, wrapped around each other and looking like a mess of disheveled clothes and henna stains when Haider’s grandfather walked in. Haider had felt compelled to explain themselves, which ended up being more embarrassing than anything else, since Asghar clearly did not buy into Haider’s ‘I was showing him around and Anatole tripped’ excuse. 

His cousin Shaan had walked into the kitchen to get some water right when Haider was explaining, though he stayed until Asghar was gone to make any comments. 

He took a look at them, and gave them a sly, cheeky look. “Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty to see.”

Haider’s blush intensified, but Anatole raised an eyebrow at him, a cat-like grin on his face. “I don’t know,” he said, nonchalant as could be, throwing a look at Haider’s chest, “I’ve seen that before, so not really.”

Shaan laughed, stating he liked Anatole and asking if they could keep him. Anatole didn’t say how, if Haider wanted to, he’d stay forever.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole should’ve known his incapacity to say anything to Haider would come back to bite him on the ass. He had slept in — courtesy of not having had a vacation in a while and staying up until a little too late with Haider. Their pillow-talk had drawn out to the point of becoming another round, so they didn’t go to bed until two am. Haider was gone with Shaan and some of the others in the morning, having left a note and breakfast for him, telling him to enjoy a lay in as much as he wanted. 

Haider came back around lunchtime, walking into the kitchen to find Anatole helping prepare it, looking worried in the way he always did when he tried to pretend whatever which troubled him wasn’t important. He looked that way all over lunch, and he continued to do so when Anatole pulled him away into their shared bedroom to ask him if he was okay.

“I’m just tired, priyo, that’s all.”

“Seriously? You’re going to hit me with the I’m tired line?

“I thought you didn’t do the language magic thing with me,” Haider said, trying to joke.

Anatole pursed his lips. “You’re evading the topic. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’m here for you, if you do want to talk.”

Haider sat down on the bed, he sat up again, turning over himself to look at anywhere but at Anatole, until he was looking only at him. “Nana, why did you come?”

“What?”

“You took a purposeful deviation from a work trip. You skipped personally informing the Countess of a serious enough diplomatic trip to send her Consul to.”

“I don’t think Nadia minds me taking a couple of weeks off, since I’m always working, and I sent a full written report with Natiqa, so I don’t see where your question is going.”

“But you always say you don’t do those things.”

“Haider, I can’t even remember the last time I said such a thing. I’m here, isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, but why, Nana?”

“Oh, Haider, you know why.”

“What if I don’t?”

If someone would’ve had access to Anatole’s mind in that moment, he would’ve heard high pitched screaming. A note so high it was only audible to dogs, never mind Anatole’s voice register wasn’t nearly as high as such a thing suggested. Dreads settled in his gut as they started one of the most stupid circular arguments Anatole has ever witnessed or been part of. It was like there was a duplicate of himself watching them fight, shaking his head at him, saying ‘I told you so’  while he realised that if this was it, if for some reason this was how it ended, as dramatic as it sounded, he didn’t know if he’d ever fully come back from it. 

The argument was too stupid for Anatole to let it fester any further. 

“How can you not know that I love you, Haider? How can you not realise that I’m in love with you?” 

Well, he said it. It was out. The only way to get out of this conversation was there was no way to get out of that conversation now. Unless, of course Anatole climbed out of the window without breaking a leg in the process. 

“Iloveyoutoo,” Haider blurted out without missing a beat. A somehow candid and terrified look on his face, which went away when he repeated the words, more slowly, more surely. “I love you too, amar shona.” 

The certainty in his words made Anatole forget how to breathe. “You— you love me too?”

“I do. More than anything.” 

Anatole barely let him finish that sentence. He made his way across the room in a flash, walking over the bed (thank the Gods he was barefoot) to close the distance between them as fast as he could. He climbed on Haider, pulling him into a kiss, and Haider caught him in his arms — Haider would always catch him, Haider would always be there, and he was a fool not to realise it sooner. 

“I love you,” Anatole said against his lips, “I’m so sorry I didn’t say it sooner.” 

Haider kissed him back, wrapping his arms around him like Anatole could evaporate in front of him at any moment. All his family had told him not to let him go, and now, now that he knew himself loved and Anatole knew he loved him, he would hold onto him until he had a chance to say it for all the months he wanted and didn’t. 

“I love you too,” he said between kisses. “Amar shona, Amar Jibon.” 

Anatole knew the language. He didn’t need Haider to translate to know he just called him both ‘my love’ and ‘love of my life’. Haider repeated it in every space between kisses where he could fit the words, over and over again.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

When he was around ten and Valerian had told him the story of the Earth and the Sun for the hundredth time, he said he wished someone loved him like that one day. 

Valerian had kissed his forehead. “You will find your Earth, I’m sure of it.”

Now that he was lying on top of Haider, spent and happier than he had ever been, he knew he had. 

#the arcana #the arcana oc #oc x oc #IT IS DONE #anyway HAND IN MARRIAGE WHEN #haidelius #kani's ocs #my writing #aelius anatole #haider wazim #they miss dinner again and someone finds them passed out - covered but obviously naked - and let's them be #leonore #medea #asra #valerius #beautiful powerful and stubborn as a ram #amparo cassano #milenko #valerian cassano

[lukecastellandeservedbetter]

17. Me and Mine, You and Yours

a/n: this one hurt. Shoutout to @theartofimaginaryfriends for letting me bounce ideas off of her at random times during the day. 

Read the others!: Masterlist

Luke was sipping his coffee and trying to relax a little. He had been up since before dawn, after being plagued by nightmares all night. No matter how hard he tried to recall them however, he couldn’t pull the images forward in his mind. 

One thing was certain though. 

He had a really bad feeling about Kansas. 

He remembered being in Kansas when he was younger, before he met Thalia or Annabeth. It wasn’t kind to young demigods. He spent his time fighting karpoi, running around looking for some kind of shelter and avoiding authorities when the monsters got a little overzealous trying to eat him. 

But this feeling wasn’t like it was back then. It was darker, twisting his stomach in knots, and shot pain behind his eyes whenever he thought too hard about it. Every nerve in his body tensed for battle, every muscle coiling in anticipation to run. A cold draft he couldn’t escape sent shivers down his spine and caused goosebumps to rise up and down his arms. 

He got the funny feeling Piper wasn’t sharing everything about what she saw in her blade. 

As he watched the sunrise, the other demigods slowly got up. Jason was first, closely followed by Hazel and Frank. He figured it was a Roman thing. Next was Annabeth, then Leo, and then Percy. Finally, they arrived in the drop off spot, and Leo went to grab Piper so they could dish out roles. 

“I need to finish repairing the ship,” Leo told the group. “And Annabeth, I’d love it if you stuck around, since you’re the only one who kinda understands how this works.” 

Annabeth looked at Percy apologetically. 

“I’ll come back to you,” Percy promised quietly. “Promise.” 

Annabeth nodded and kissed his cheek and turned to Luke as Leo and Frank went at it. “You’ll be with them, right?” 

Luke shrugged. “Yeah, I can tag along. You can never have too many guys with swords.” He offered a small smile, ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of his head, telling him something was off about this whole stop. 

The four of them- Jason, Percy, Piper and Luke -made their way through the fields after Leo dropped them off, walking all the way to the highway. “We should get off the ground,” Piper commented, sounding just as anxious as Luke felt. 

“I’ll get us a ride,” Percy grinned. 

“No, I got it.” Jason told him. 

Jason whistled, and Percy closed his eyes, concentrating. Luke raised his eyebrow watching them, glancing at Piper. “Who do you got?” He mumbled. 

Piper looked up at him and shrugged. “Who is Percy, uh, calling?” 

Luke shrugged and looked back at the boy. Suddenly, the temperature dropped a little as a horse made of clouds burst down from the sky. Not far behind, a familiar black pegasus followed suit. 

“Blackjack,” Luke said, surprised, looking at Percy. “He’s still around?” 

Percy looked at Luke just as surprised. “You remember him?” 

“Well yeah, he was my horse,” He frowned. “It was a pain in the ass trying to keep all the monsters away from him.” 

Percy regarded Luke curiously and looked at Blackjack, who seemed nervous, and aggressive, around Jason’s horse. “Hey buddy, it’s okay, they’re friends.” Percy told him, petting him carefully. “Feel like taking me and Luke for a ride?” 

Blackjack glanced at Luke. “He’s on our side,” Percy told him. “It’s okay.” 

Luke couldn’t hear what Blackjack was thinking like Percy could, but he seemed relatively okay with the idea of taking Luke. He just hoped it wasn’t because Blackjack was planning to buck him off. 

They headed out, Percy and Luke in the air on Blackjack, Piper and Jason on the ground on Tempest, until they found the 32 mile marker. They touched down and dismounted. “You’re right, no sign of the wine dude,” Percy said to Blackjack, looking around. 

“Excuse me?” A voice called out. 

Luke recognized the god, not by his looks, but by how he carried himself. 

Bacchus or Dionysus, the guy was an asshole. 

Luke tried to focus on the conversation, but he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Piper tried to charm Bacchus, Percy was running his mouth, and Jason was trying to remain diplomatic. He could see them talking, and hear the sounds of their voices, but the actual words seemed muffled, like the world was slipping away from him. 

Panic seized his brain. His blood ran cold, his breathing turning ragged as the almost familiar feeling started taking over his limbs. He would have cried out if his voice hadn’t tightened around the lump in his throat, as if someone was slowly crushing his windpipe, letting him breathe just enough to survive. 

“-a trap.” Bacchus’ voice broke through the barrier in his ears, and with that the god was gone. 

Luke felt like he was drowning. He watched Percy and Jason draw their swords, and he could faintly hear a woman telling Piper to choose between the two boys. When she refused, the boys turned on each other and started fighting. 

‘Watch, Luke Castellan,’ The same woman’s voice chimed in his head, clearer now. ‘Watch as I take those you care about away from you, destroy them just as you destroyed my son.’ 

Luke tried to fight harder, but Gaia and her spirits were stronger, more ancient than Kronos. Kronos had allowed him to regain his body at different points, so he could regain more strength. 

Gaia was in no such position. 

Luke watched his own hands reach for the Imperial Gold blade in his sheath, pulling it free, out of his control. ‘And once they reach their demise, you will receive yours.’ 

For a horrified moment, his eyes found his reflection in the blade. They were solid gold, and he was sent into a deeper spiral, his mind spinning faster. He banged harder on the cage in his mind, begging for a crack, for a weakness, anything. But the panic was too strong, and he wondered foolishly if he would somehow suffocate himself before the gold blade could even touch his skin. 

He watched helplessly as Piper panicked, looking between the three demigods, trying to figure out who to save, how to save them, and as Percy and Jason fought each other, equally matched in skill, all of it a muffled blur. He stood there, unable to move his legs as if they were stuck in the ground, and were trying to pull him beneath it, his hand raised, the tip of his sword ready to plunge into his Achilles Heel under his arm. 

Jason hit the ground. Percy got up, raising his sword. 

“Eidolon, stop.” 

Piper’s voice rang clearly through the haze and for a moment, Luke’s limbs felt lighter, connected to his body again. The ocean he was drowning in receded, if just for a second, and he felt like gasping for air. He managed to regain enough control to drop the sword before his hands when rigid again, the spirit taking over once more. 

“You’re spirits from the Underworld, and you’re possessing Percy Jackson and Luke Castellan, is that it?” 

“We will live again,” Luke found a voice that wasn’t his own, joining Percy’s in unison. 

Piper seemed to be focusing on Percy more, her voice drifting away as Luke’s mind once again fell underneath the waves of control. 

Smack. 

A stinging sensation on his cheek seemed to pull Luke out of it entirely. His body was exhausted, and his knees buckled as he crumpled to the ground. A pair of warm hands grasped his bicep, steadying him from completely face planting. 

“Luke? Luke, answer me,” Piper said softly, concern laced in her tone. 

“I’m-” His throat closed around the word ‘fine’ and he choked up. 

He could feel the hot pressure of tears pressing against his eyes and he shook his head, his body shaking. 

“I know it’s scary,” Piper cooed, and Luke couldn’t even be bothered to resist the Charmspeak Piper was laying on him. “But I need you to get up, and walk with me and Blackjack, okay? He can’t carry you, Percy and Jason at the same time, and I’m not leaving you behind.” 

“Are they okay?” He whispered, his heart hammering, avoiding looking at her. 

“They’re alive.” Piper assured him, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “C’mon, you can sit down when we get back to the Argo II. I don’t want to stick around if they decide to come back.” 

Luke nodded and let Piper help him to Blackjack who seemed to understand Luke was barely holding on. He offered his neck for Luke to hold onto, and between him and Piper, they managed to get the three boys back to the ship. 

#Luke Castellan's Second Chance #luke castellan #percy jackson #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #jason grace #Piper McLean #pjo #Heroes of Olympus #hoo

[goldenraeofsun]

in my defense, I have none

A redo of the first installment of this verse!

Castiel scrawls his name on a nametag and offers Becky at the makeshift welcome desk a hesitant smile.

She beams back. “Hope you enjoy the reunion!”

Castiel strides down the familiar halls of Edlund High School and does his best not to regress to his teenage self, dodging glances and hunching his shoulders to make himself smaller. It’s been ten goddamn years; he has changed. 

He passes a couple of his old classmates - he doesn’t recognize them - pointing at a poster with old pictures, excitedly naming names.

“Look at Dean Winchester, oh my god, I haven’t thought about him in years! I had the worst crush on him, you know?”

Her companion snorts. “You and everyone else.”

Castiel snorts. Everyone else, indeed.

He walks deliberately on, following the music to the gym. The bass thumps in a vaguely-familiar rhythm, but Castiel can't name the song or singer for the life of him. In high school, he didn’t listen to much contemporary music. His mother preferred the classical stations at home, and Dean, of course, only played his version of the classics in his car.

“Music stopped being good after the mid-80s,” Dean said as they drove down the dark highway, no headlights, only them. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.”

Castiel doesn’t remember what he said in return, but he remembers the way Dean laughed, how his eyes crinkled, how he tapped his fingers along the steering wheel, how he looked, looking back at Cas.

Castiel steps into the reunion. The gym has been festooned with what looks like old prom decorations. Streamers hang off the walls in Edlund’s school colors, and bunches of mostly-inflated balloons are taped along the collapsed bleachers spelling out their graduating year. A slideshow of old yearbook photos flashes against the far wall of the gym.

Castiel stares out at a room full of strangers.

Inwardly, he sighs. He was hardly a social butterfly in high school. The exact opposite, actually. He can’t name a single person - except one - that would be able to put a name to his face. 

“Clarence!”

Make that two. 

Castiel spins around at the familiar voice. “Meg?”

He should have known. But if Castiel has learned anything over the past few years, it’s Meg Masters defies all expectations. He’d been surprised enough when she marched right up to him at his old school - Morning Star Academy - and asked him out to lunch.

After listening to him awkwardly explain that he was gay, Meg rolled her eyes and told him she just wanted to catch up. They had gone to the same high school, she said.

She didn’t seem very bothered when he said he didn’t remember her. All she did was make him pay for that first lunch, and that was the extent of his punishment for forgetting. 

When Castiel took his current job at Carver Preparatory in their hometown school district, they started meeting up for drinks instead of lunch.

Meg smirks. “I didn’t think you were going to this little shindig.”

“It didn’t come up,” Castiel says distractedly as he scans the gym.

“Yet here you are, skulking the old hallways.”

“I didn’t skulk.” Castiel turns to her, offended.

“Unlike some people, my memory of high school is impeccable,” Meg says loftily, “You skulked in that coat with all those books in front of your face. I was always surprised you didn’t mow down more unsuspecting freshmen.”

“I -” Castiel breaks off, unable to deny any of her accusations. It’s true he wore his old trenchcoat nearly every day (in his more poetic moments, he saw it as a foil to Dean’s everpresent leather jacket) and he tried to shut everyone out by reading while walking from class to class.

“Don’t worry about it,” Meg says with an easy pat to his shoulder. “Teenagers are the worst. I thought I was so cool back then, with the boots and the bleached hair.” She shudders at the memory.

“I’m sure you were very cool,” Castiel says diplomatically.

Meg snorts. “You bet your ass I was not cool.” She tips her head over to where a group of well-dressed alums stand below the basketball hoops. “They were cool. And now look at them.” She sighs. “I would still set their extensions on fire if I could. Oh well, some things never change. Look at Victor. Talk about aging like fine wine.”

Castiel vaguely recognizes some of them from the poster outside the gym. But for the life of him, he can’t identify which one is Victor.

Meg smiles at his clueless expression. “You seriously didn’t pay attention to anything but your books?”

“I - ” Castiel breaks off, the faintest twinges of embarrassment curling in his gut. He paid attention to exactly one thing outside of his studies in high school.

Meg eyes him critically. “You’re usually chattier than this. I think you need a drink.” She steers him towards the makeshift bar on a folding table.

With newly acquired drinks, they retreat to the far end of the gym. Meg makes a game out of forcing Cas to try to name people from their class.

“I want to say, Jeremy?” Castiel guesses as Meg not-so-subtly points out a man at the end of the drinks line.

“Close,” Meg says with a smirk. “That’s Gordon Walker. He was captain of the football team.” She subtly points to a very pretty woman scrolling through her phone near Gordon.

“She looks like a Mina to me,” Castiel says critically.

Meg throws him an incredulous look. “How did nobody know you were gay in high school?”

“I’m guessing her name isn’t Mina.”

“Bela Talbot,” Meg corrects. “You don’t remember her English accent? Pretentious as fuck. Just like Principal Crowley - not that you have to deal with him any more, since you’re over at Carver, you lucky bastard.”

Crowley was one of the main reasons Castiel left Morning Star. In tightening the budget, he cracked down on students’ late lunch bills among other unacceptable measures. Crowley was not pleased when he found out Castiel regularly squirrelled away peanut butter and a loaf of bread in his desk for emergencies. 

Castiel tried to explain it was for his lunch emergencies, but Crowley wasn’t hearing any of it. Castiel was fired, and, after a harrowing year of substitute teaching, he used his family connection to get his current job at Carver Preparatory. 

“Eliot,” Castiel tries next.

“There isn’t a single Eliot in our class,” Meg says, laughing. “How can you not remember Lee Webb? He wore that stupid cowboy hat all sophomore year.”

It continues. The only person Castiel gets right is Tessa, and that’s because they had gone to the same church.

“You have to remember him,” Meg says as waves over a newcomer entering the gym.

Castiel’s mouth goes dry. Yes, he does recognize Dean Winchester. How could he forget?

Castiel might have been a friendless loner in high school with only his books for company, but he wasn’t dead. He knew who Dean Winchester was, with his leather jacket, muscle car, and stunning green eyes that would make a romantic portrait artist weep.

Castiel can recall with perfect clarity the moment he found out he’d been assigned to tutor Dean in Latin in the beginning of their senior year. A mixture of elation and dread filled his stomach before Ms. Siege had even finished speaking. He’d get to see Dean. He’d have to spend time, probably alone, with Dean Winchester. And, most terrifyingly, he’d have to open his mouth and actually say words in front of him.

When Castiel looks at Dean for the first time in ten years, he doesn’t think about when Dean would do his damndest to distract Castiel from tutoring and tease him to lighten up. Instead, Castiel remembers Dean’s flushed cheeks and grasping fingers the first time Cas made him come, and the way the Impala’s windows had fogged up, just like in the movies.

* * *

Castiel can tell the exact moment Dean spots him because he nearly trips over his feet.

“I - I need to go,” Castiel says to Meg, sheer panic flooding his veins.

“What?” she asks. “Already?”

“Bathroom,” Castiel blurts before he can think of a better excuse.

“That time of the month?” Meg asks with a faux-sympathetic frown.

Castiel doesn’t bother dignifying her question with an answer. Instead, he spins on his heel and makes for the second gym exit, the one that leads to the locker rooms instead of the rest of the school.

He breathes deep as the door closes behind him. Shivering from nerves with the close call, he takes a moment to get his bearings. Are his legs shaking?

At one of the sinks in the boy’s bathroom, he turns on the tap and pats his heated face down with a damp paper towel.

He’s such a mess, and he hasn’t even spoken to Dean yet.

What a goddamn joke. He hasn’t changed in a decade. Still running away from Dean like a coward.

Castiel has been - well, he wouldn’t say looking forward to this reunion - but he’s been mentally gearing himself up for it. Castiel promised himself, ever since he heard Dean took a teaching position at their old high school, to go to their next reunion and formally apologize.

He splashes more water on his face, grimacing as dark spots dot his tie. Somehow it’s already gotten turned around. Castiel halfheartedly fiddles with it, trying to get it to lie straight.

The door opens behind him. Castiel freezes, but it’s not Dean.

The stranger shoots him a weird look before slipping into one of the stalls.

The man’s belt unbuckles, and Castiel inwardly sighs. He can’t hide in here forever. He leaves just as the sounds of a clearly painful bowel movement start up behind him. 

Right outside the gym, he steels himself. He owes this to Dean; the worst Dean can do is make a scene, and it’s not like Castiel has any plans to ever set foot in Edlund High again, anyway. He teaches at their rival school, after all.

He’s here for Dean. He can do this and go home.

Back inside, he spots Meg without difficulty. She’s alone and tapping away on her phone.

Castiel approaches her, already bracing for a wave of uncomfortable questions. “Hello, Meg.”

“Hey,” Meg says distractedly. She squints up at him. “What was with the Houdini act?”

Castiel shifts his weight to the other foot. “Where did Dean go?”

Meg jerks her head to where their ‘popular’ classmates congregate, now with one added Dean Winchester. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

Meg places both hands on her hips. “I think you forget that as a fellow educator, I have a stellar bullshit radar.”

“It’s personal.”

“Come on, Clarence,” Meg says, the faintest note of pleading in her voice, “This reunion is boring as hell. Nobody’s gone into porn or killed anyone since we graduated. I’ve been robbed. You have to tell me, what did Dean Winchester do to you way back when?” Her eyebrows raise as she takes in his conflicted expression. “Or should I say, what did you do to him?”

Castiel sighs. He frowns at the floor. “In senior year we were… involved.”

“Involved how?” Meg asks, her eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me he broke your heart.”

Castiel slowly shakes his head. “The other way around.”

“Holy shit,” Meg breathes, her eyes as round as the balloons festooning the walls. She sneaks a peek over at Dean, still standing with his group of old school friends. “You’re serious.”

“I never pegged you as a gossip, Meg,” Castiel says dispassionately.

“Call me desperate,” Meg says, waving his criticism away with an idle hand. “It’s either ten-year-old gossip or watch that fucking slideshow for the fifth time in a row. If you have anything else you’d rather talk about, I’m all ears.”

Castiel jumps at the opening. “I have been wondering,” he starts, “how other schools have been integrating the state board’s recommen-”

Meg interrupts him loudly, “Anything except work.” 

Castiel snaps his mouth shut with a glare.

“Come on,” Meg wheedles, “You got the class loner act locked down, but it’s not like I particularly want to see any of these people ever again.” She gestures around the gym.

“Then why come at all?” Castiel asks, honestly baffled.

Meg smirks. “Did you not hear my comment about the porn and murder?”

“If anyone did, I hardly think they’d advertise it at their class reunion.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She shoots him a pointed look. “But we’re getting off topic. You and Dean Winchester. Spill, Novak.”

Castiel sighs. “I was assigned to tutor him in Latin at the beginning of senior year.”

“Ohh,” Meg croons, “Somebody got hot for teacher?”

Castiel grimaces at the crude reduction of Dean’s feelings. “You could say that,” he says cagily.

Meg turns to look out across the gym, her dark eyes zeroing in on Dean. “I imagine your little heart wasn’t made of stone either.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Meg claps her hands delightedly. “What happened?”

“I ended things,” Castiel says hollowly. “We were about to graduate, and I had plans to go to college.”

“And he did not,” Meg surmises.

Castiel shakes his head. “He was considering community college.”

To set a good example for Sam, Dean had said. He didn’t particularly care for higher education one way or another, not like Castiel, who saw college as his one way out of their hometown, out of his family, out of everything he hated about his first 18 years of life.

But somehow Dean wound up getting his degree anyway - he must have, or he wouldn’t be teaching English at their old high school.

Castiel has so many questions, but the likelihood of getting answers from Dean dwindles smaller and smaller the longer he puts off doing the very thing he came here to do.

When Dean breaks off from the group to grab another drink, Castiel seizes his chance.

Meg lets him go with a half-mocking, half-supportive, “Go get ‘im, champ!”

Castiel flips up his middle finger over his shoulder as he takes off after Dean.

He shoves his tingling hands in his pockets, finds walking with his hands in his pockets awkward and removes them, and somehow doesn't bolt in the opposite direction. By the time he catches up to Dean, it’s hard to think through his cloud of anxiety.

He just needs to tell Dean he is sorry; Dean was right; Castiel should never have ended things between them like he did.

Dean always did like being right - that can’t have changed much over the past ten years.

Castiel waits for Dean to see him, staring hard at the side of Dean’s head until he’s noticed.

Dean’s eyes go round, and he almost drops his cup of beer. “Christ,” he says, staggering off to the side of the bar table. “Someone should put a bell on you.”

“My apologies,” Castiel says gruffly.

This is not how he would have liked to start his first conversation with Dean Winchester in ten years. Not that Castiel had expected much better - if he learned anything from their tutoring sessions and later hookups, Dean always had at least one surprise up his sleeve.

Dean inhales a deep breath. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

* * * 

Castiel swallows nervously. All that preparation at home and in the bathroom, and not a single word comes to mind.

“How, uh, how’ve you been?” Dean asks first. He takes a quick sip of his beer.

“I’ve been well,” Castiel says stiffly. “And you?”

“Can’t complain.”

The conversation is almost unbearably awkward, even for him. How in the world did Castiel get stuck making smalltalk with Dean Winchester? So much for best laid plans. 

 “I heard you teach here now,” Castiel says.

“I do,” Dean says, his eyes wandering around the gym. “English. Started this year. You?”

“Latin and French at Carver Preparatory.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. “No shit,” he says, a bitter note to his voice. “You’re teaching those elitist assholes?”

Castiel blinks. True, he didn’t expect Dean to exactly welcome him after everything, but the deliberate antagonism is a surprise. “I wouldn’t - they’re not all assholes,” he stutters. He can’t bring himself to deny the elitism. He’s loyal, not blind.

“Hm,” Dean grunts, not giving an inch. “I hope you’re not here to sabotage anything.”

“Between Carver and Edlund?” Cas asks, baffled. “This is high school, not Soviet Russia.”

Dean tips back his beer and takes a large gulp. “Tell that to the seniors who got sued over a prank.”

“They stole five hundred dollars’ worth of Carver uniforms,” Castiel says incredulously, “for an internet fad.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “I think you mean a meme. And it was hilarious.”

“A what?”

Dean snorts. “Never mind.” His expression closes off again. “And the seniors only borrowed them. All the uniforms were returned - no harm, no foul.”

Castiel has to put a sincere effort into not letting his disgust show on his face. The whole fiasco did not endear Castiel to anyone at Carver who called for the legal case. Even if they did not make up the majority of the faculty or parents, they had the numbers (and the money) to push it farther than it should have gone.

“The parents who paid for those uniforms definitely didn’t see it that way,” Castiel says to Dean.

“Sucks to be them,” Dean smirks, “If their biggest worry is leftover sweat from an Edlunder, better not tell them how bowling shoes or vintage clothing works.”

From Castiel’s parent-teacher conferences, he’d be surprised if any Carver parent had ever stepped foot in a bowling alley. He’s positive the Naomis and Bartholomews that make up the PTA would sooner give up their second homes than voluntarily wear a pair of bowling shoes.

Dean tosses back his drink. “Anyway, it’s not like they can’t afford to get the douchey uniforms dry cleaned.”

“I didn’t say they were right,” Castiel says carefully, “In fact, I think Carver’s reaction was completely overblown, but you probably don’t want to hear about our administration politics behind the decision.”

“Nope,” Dean says, lips popping.

After a beat, Castiel asks, “How do you like teaching here?”

“Can’t complain,” Dean says as he eyes the dregs of his beer. “Bobby - Principal Singer - retired last year, but he put in a good word for me with Principal Mills.”

“I’ve heard good things about her ideas for Edlund.”

“She’s all about finally bringing us into the digital age. She’s been talking with Charlie - do you remember her?” Dean explains, “She was in our history class junior and senior year.”

The name rings no bells for Castiel. He shakes his head.

“Really?” Dean pauses. “Red hair? Queen of the Nerds?”

Castiel gives another headshake, eyes narrowing.

Dean tries again, “You gotta remember her novelty tee shirts.”

Castiel says dryly, “I think you’re vastly overestimating how much attention I paid to our classmates.”

“But-”

“Dean,” Castiel says impatiently, “You are the only person I remember from high school.”

Dean balks for a moment, his cheeks flushing. “No way,” he says flatly. “You can’t seriously - I saw you talking to Meg Masters a while ago.”

Castiel eyes the mostly-depleted drink in Dean’s hands enviously. He doesn’t have enough alcohol to discuss his social deficiencies as an adult - or as a teenager. “We worked together briefly,” he admits, “at Morning Star.”

Dean whistles. “Well, I guess Carver is a step up from that.”

“Indeed,” Castiel agrees wryly. “I was only there a year. The administration at Carver is a nightmare, but at least they’re not sadists.”

“I haven’t heard great stuff about Morning Star,” Dean admits.

“There isn’t much good that goes on in that school,” Castiel says wearily. “Principal Crowley - well, the less said about him the better. Meg hates him. The students, though,” he swallows, “they deserve better.”

Dean’s expression hardens. “They always do.”

“Anyway,” Castiel says quickly because going down that road always makes him want to smite something - preferably Crowley’s smirking face, “I didn’t remember Meg either until she told me we went to school together.”

Dean lets out a surprised laugh. “I guess you always did have your nose in a book.” He makes a face and gestures around the gym. “Then why come to this snoozefest? The whole point is to catch up with old friends.”

“According to Meg, the point is to discover who went into pornography or to prison over the past ten years.”

Dean chuckles. “You can mark me down for ‘no’ on both counts.”

“I - I had thought so,” Castiel says awkwardly.

“Oh, so…” Dean drifts off, for once at a loss for words.

As the silence ticks on, Castiel’s reason for coming to the reunion crowds at the tip of his tongue. But he can’t make the words come out.

Dean drains his beer. He lets his gaze drift away from Castiel, lingering on someone or something over Castiel’s left shoulder. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Cas, I’ll see you ar-”

“I came here to apologize to you,” Castiel blurts.

Dean’s eyes snap to Castiel’s face. “What?”

Castiel swallows nervously. “For high school.”

“Okay,” Dean crosses his arms across his chest. “A lot of things happened in high school. Specifics would help.”

Castiel inhales a deep breath. “I’m sorry for how I handled our… relationship.”

Dean’s mouth twists, his expression darkening. “I wouldn’t call what we did a relationship.”

“Right,” Castiel says, biting his lip. “Our arrangement, then. What I did - what I did to you - it’s one of the biggest regrets of my life.”

Dean purses his lips. “What would’ve you done differently?”

“Excuse me?”

“Humor me,” Dean asks, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion. “If you could go back. Get a do-over. What would you do?” His eyes narrow. “Would you have come out? Or maybe stopped me before we got down and dirty in the Impala in the first place? ‘Cause I’ve played this game a few times, and I know which one I would’ve gone for.”

Castiel thinks it over. “Rationally,” he says,slowly, sounding the word out as he tries to put the rest of his thoughts into words, “I should have kept our interactions to our tutoring sessions.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He nods.

Castiel can’t tell if his explanation is hurting Dean further. He feels like he’s been dumped out at sea while only knowing how to doggy paddle. Mouth dry, he barrels on, “But realistically, there’s no way that could have happened, so I probably should have asked you to wait for me.”

Dean blinks in surprise, his hardened exterior cracking the tiniest fraction. “Wait?” he echoes faintly.

“I couldn’t come out in high school,” Castiel says dully. What he wouldn’t give for another drink. “If my mother got wind of my sexuality, she would have put conditions on my college tuition without another thought, or forced me to take a gap year to do churchwork or something equally horrendous.”

Dean’s tense shoulders sag. “I didn’t know that.”

“I was ashamed,” Castiel drops his gaze to the floor, “You clearly loved your family, and your father… well, even with his flaws, he seemed to accept you. My situation was nothing like that.”

“Dad didn’t know about me either,” Dean mutters. 

“Sorry?” Castiel asks, raising his head.

“Dad didn’t know I went for dudes and chicks,” Dean explains. “But he was hardly around, so if I didn’t tell him and Sammy didn’t tell him, odds were he’d never find out.” He bites his lip as he meets Castiel’s stare head-on. “How long?”

“How long?” Castiel repeats, confused.

“How long would you have asked me to wait?” Dean asks, a hard edge to his words.

Castiel hesitates, wrong-footed at their backtracking conversation. “Until I had started my first semester at college.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “What?”

Castiel frowns. “I had no plans to be in the closet after I moved away. My mother has too many connections here, with the junior league, the civics board, HOA, and who knows what else. But in my college town, she knew no one. I could finally be myself.”

Dean splutters nonsensically before he says, “You didn’t think to ask me to wait one measly summer for you to get your head out of your ass?”

“But I wasn’t just asking for ‘one summer’,” Castiel protests.

Dean’s outrage falters at Castiel’s air quotes.

“It would have been one summer and four years of long distance. I knew you had… feelings,” Castiel doesn’t pause at Dean’s wince at the word, “for me, but I had already taken so much from you. Are you saying you would have waited?”

“I don’t know!” Dean says, sounding slightly manic. He runs a hand through his hair distractedly, muttering to himself under his breath. 

Castiel inhales a deep breath to calm himself down. He forces himself to look Dean straight in the eye. “A part of me was looking forward to a completely fresh start, too. But, of course, I was the same as ever,” Castiel chuckles without a trace of humor, “friendless, caught up in the details, narrow-minded. It didn’t take long to realize I was only ever a different person when I was with you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, staring right back, “I had no idea.”

Castiel shrugs. “I never told you.”

“You should’ve,” Dean says shortly.

“I should have,” Castiel agrees.

Dean bites his lip, looking conflicted. His gaze flits around the gym, behind Castiel, where undoubtedly more of their classmates vie for his attention. And, that’s good, because Castiel finally said his piece. He can go home, and never think about Edlund High School or Dean Winchester again.

(Because that worked so well when he left Dean the first time.)

Castiel takes a step backwards. Personal space, he remembers. Stiffly, Castiel says, “Anyway, that’s why I came to the reunion. To see you. To tell you that. I shouldn’t keep you any long-”

“Are you single?” Dean interrupts.

Castiel’s brain takes an embarrassingly long moment to understand the question. “Yes?”

“Do you want to get out of here?” Dean asks, a strange glint in his eye.

“I do,” Castiel says truthfully. “I don’t like social engagements.”

“Some things never change,” Dean says with a small grin. He gestures to the door. “What do you say to a drive?”

Castiel blinks.

“For old time’s sake,” Dean says, with a fucking wink.

Castiel’s mouth falls open. “I - is this a joke?” His brow furrows. “Retribution for refusing to see you outside of our… trysts?”

Dean’s face goes through a multitude of expressions Castiel can barely hope to read - shock, guilt, perhaps cautious optimism? “God no,” Dean says quickly. He coughs and shifts his weight to his other foot. “Shit, I was trying to make a joke. Sorry. Not there yet.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“Look,” Dean starts, “since we’re apparently crap at asking for what we want - we’re both single,” Castiel’s eyebrows rise because this is news to him, “and this reunion is boring as hell, so I’m asking if you want to do something else instead.”

“With you?” Castiel asks because it sounds implied to him, but he can never be too sure when it comes to Dean Winchester.

Dean glares. “Yes, with me, Cas.”

Castiel chews on his lip as he tries to figure out why Dean would initiate an activity with him, apart from the obvious. As Castiel fails to come up with any sensible reason, and Dean’s foot tapping becomes audible in its intensity and speed, Castiel has to ask, “Are you asking me on a date?”

Dean throws both hands in the air. “I swear, you’re being dense on purpose. Since you need everything spelled out for you: will you go out with me, Castiel Novak?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean tacks on, “Jesus Christ, high school really never does end.” 

But he doesn’t really seem all that mad. So Castiel tells him, “Yes, I’d like to go on a date with you.”

Dean grins. He jerks his head towards the door. “Wanna go?”

“But,” Castiel waves one hand in the direction of the multitude of people behind them, “aren’t there people you’d rather talk to first?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not right now, no.”

* * *

Dean takes the steps down to the parking lot at a bit of a jog. He makes a beeline to the very familiar hulking beast, parked at least three spaces away from any other car. 

A frisson of anticipation thrums up Castiel’s spine at the sight, a dormant instinct he’d thought ten years dead. Castiel pauses outside the passenger side of the Impala and tries not to fidget as he waits for Dean to notice him. 

“Everything okay?” Dean asks as he yanks open the car door.

Castiel asks bluntly, “Does this mean you forgive me?”

Dean braces both elbows on the Impala’s roof, his face serious. “You were seventeen.”

That’s not an agreement. It’s an excuse.

“I was old enough to know what I was doing to you was wrong,” Castiel counters.

“Come on,” Dean rolls his eyes. “If there’s anything I learned from teaching, it’s that teenagers are morons. Uncle Sam allows them to go to war and vote, but I sure as shit don’t. Kids are idiots.” His mouth lifts into a tentative smile. “Even the ones with a 4.0 GPA and perfect attendance.” 

Dean taps his fingers on Impala’s roof, but he doesn’t seem impatient, more pensive. It’s a look Castiel never saw on teenage Dean. “I’m sure you were doing the best you could’ve under the circumstances. I might not have got it then, but I get it now.”

“It wasn’t perfect,” Castiel mutters as he gets in the Impala.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Dean says sardonically as he slams the door behind him and starts the engine. “It’s not like I can’t hack the old attendance records and see for myself.”

“That seems like a lot of work to make a point.”

“If you think I wouldn’t do it, you don’t know me at all,” Dean says gravely, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you’d do it,” Castiel says, “You broke into Principal Singer’s office to steal back the switchblade that you brought to school for some unfathomable reason.”

“You remember that?” Dean asks, surprised.

“Your detention derailed an entire week’s worth of tutoring,” Castiel says dryly. “We couldn’t finish Cicero in time for your exam.”

Dean chuckles. “Figures you remember that part.”

“I had also recently fingered you for the first time,” Castiel reminds him, “I was very put out about waiting a whole week to do it again.”

Dean chokes on air as they come to an abrupt stop at a red light.

“I forget very little when it comes to you,” Castiel finishes placidly.

Dean shakes his head as the light turns green. “Christ,” he says, his eyes flitting briefly to Castiel’s face before settling back on the road. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks. It seems they got into this whole mess precisely because Castiel refused to say exactly what he thought about Dean Winchester.

Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. A ruddy flush crawls up his neck and face, just visible in the darkened car interior.

Castiel runs a disbelieving hand over the dash, reading the minute grooves and divots like he’s rediscovering his favorite book. “I never thought I’d be in the Impala again.” 

“You were the one who wanted to wait,” Dean rolls his eyes, “I think ten goddamn years is long enough.”

#destiel fanfic #fanfic #destiel #profoundnet #teacher castiel #teacher dean #high school reunion #human au #the story of us verse #can i joss my own fic #if so thats whats happened to the first version of this #rae writes fic

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Set All Trappings Aside [8/9]

Rating: T Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Pairing: f!Adaar/Josephine Montilyet Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Class Differences Word Count: 5000 (this chapter) Summary: After months of flirtation, a contract on Josephine’s life brings Adaar’s feelings for her closer to the surface than ever. It highlights, too, all of their differences, all of the reasons a relationship between them would not last. But Adaar is a hopeful woman at heart; if Josephine can set all trappings aside, then so can she. Also on AO3. Notes: While the context for this story is the Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune questline, some of the conversations within it didn’t quite fit for this Inquisitor. The resulting fic is a twist on the canon romance. This Adaar and Josephine have featured in other fics, so you may miss a little context if you haven’t read Promising or Truth-Telling, which both come before this one. Chapter-specific note:  All of the remaining chapters are up on AO3; they’ll be posted more slowly here on tumblr so as not to clog your dashboards.

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

"She's late," Bull said.

Dorian rolled his eyes. "You don't say."

Cassandra, ignoring them both, continued to look toward the village through her spyglass. Josephine watched her, hands clammy. They were all awfully comfortable with the idea that something had already gone wrong. Perhaps from long practice. 

Josephine, unfortunately, wasn't practiced at all.

Cassandra lowered the spyglass. "That's the last of them."

"Really," Bull said, doubtfully. "All of 'em in the tavern?"

"Or standing around outside it." She tucked the spyglass into her belt. "Ten, all told. A few in older gear, but otherwise well-equipped."

"I'd've left some men out in the field. They have enough to spare for that. Catch us off-guard when we're in the middle of cracking heads."

"I believe they hope that if they are all in one place, you can be prevented from doing that," Dorian said dryly.

"We'll see how that works out for them."

"No change to the plan, then," Josephine broke in.

They all looked to her, as if they'd forgotten she was there. Fair enough. She wasn't usually here when they did this kind of thing. And after this experience, she hoped she never would be again.

"If she wasn't fast enough to observe without being made, none of us are," Bull said. "So either she's injured or worse, and we need to ride to the rescue sooner rather than later—"

"Bull," Dorian said, not exasperated now, but sharp. Maybe Josephine's face had given away something of how she felt about this hypothetical scenario.

"—or she's just tied up, and we might as well get on with it," Bull went on, perfectly even. "We're not going to figure out more about these people by standing out here with our thumbs up our asses."

Dorian glared at Bull. "If they've gone to the trouble of luring her here, she's probably the picture of—"

"She'd rather know the score than listen to me lie," Bull interrupted.

"We don't gain anything by waiting," Cassandra said, taking over. "She is very good with those daggers, but not good enough to handle a dozen opponents at once."

"She lacks the reach," Bull agreed.

Josephine looked to Cassandra again, who looked back at her, frowning. "They're not Red Templars," she said, not reassuring—that was not Cassandra's forte—but simply conveying facts. "I'm certain of that much. Well-outfitted, but no identifying regalia."

"Professionals, then," Bull said. "Not hungry folk."

"I just imagined I would know more about them than that when I walked into this negotiation," Josephine said.

"We always knew that we would have limited information," Cassandra pointed out. "Besides, you have worked miracles before. I have watched you change the mood at many a meeting in a single blink."

"To you, it may certainly seem that way. There is a lot of groundwork before we reach that point." Josephine took a deep breath. "And the stakes here are higher."

"Nah," Bull said. "Just think—usually we have to do this part without you."

Dorian looked torn between outrage and amusement. "You are creating more and more problems for future Adaar, you know."

"She can handle it," Bull said easily, and winked at Josephine. Well, maybe he just blinked. It was hard to tell.

"Very well," Josephine said, ignoring all of this regardless. "Let's waste no more time."

They took the wagon-rutted road on foot, leaving the horses tied at the turnstile that marked the highway. Josephine took the opportunity, as they walked, to unwind the chain of office that had been packed carefully away in her saddlebags and don it again.

"If they are as well-researched as they seem," she said, to Cassandra's questioning look, "then best they know who they're dealing with from the outset."

Cassandra's mouth twitched toward a smile. "They may be so distracted by the idea of all the money they don't know that we don't have that it will all be over before opening remarks."

"You would like that," Josephine said mildly. "Given your distaste for wasting time."

"Mmm," Cassandra said, noncommittal, but still she smiled. She hadn't drawn her sword, but her hand rested on the pommel; she watched the fields, eyes seeking any sign of movement.

Josephine spoke more quietly this time. "Do you think she really could be injured?"

Cassandra's gaze flicked to her, just for a moment. She hesitated before answering. "Yes. Anything is possible. If this is a hopeful grab for money, though, they would be stupid to seriously wound her." She let out a barely-audible sigh. "As long as she keeps her mouth shut. But if these people know her...if they wish to harm her because of some personal vendetta...well, she is resilient. She will recover."

Adaar had once told Josephine a story too terrible to be false. Now she had a hard time forgetting it, the images it had evoked: the close cellar, the tortured sawing of blade against horn, the just-in-time arrival of the Valo-kas.

She'd promised Adaar that no one would do that to her, ever again. She hoped that she was not too late. 

"And if it's worse?" Josephine asked, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"She would fight," Cassandra said easily. "To her dying breath. We would already have heard the ruckus." She paused, considering. "And if she got the opportunity, she would run."

Josephine held onto that through the long walk down into the valley, where the light from the Dancing Star still gleamed, brighter and brighter, resolving clearly now into firelight, not a star at all. The others didn't talk much, either, all preparing in their own way: Cassandra, steadily alert; Bull, whistling a low tune; Dorian, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his staff; and Josephine, combing over the possibilities, trying to think of what she'd missed, trying to guess at every angle this adversary might arrive from.

Five mercenaries stood just outside the tavern building, bright with nervous energy. They perked up when they saw the group. "Nice of you to finally join us," one of them—a lean woman with her hair braided tightly out of the way—called out. "No funny business means no mages." She pointed at Dorian. "Give up your staff."

"Of course, good woman." Without any apparent hesitation, Dorian threw the stick at her, maybe a touch harder than necessary. She fumbled the catch a little.

"Boss wants to talk to someone agreeable," she said. She leaned the staff against the wall behind her. "Amenable, like. Just one."

Some might call the diplomats, merchants, and nobles Josephine dealt with mercenary, but she had rarely dealt with actual mercenaries. Still, they were just people, in the end. People she wanted something from, who wanted something from her.

So she had gotten through many moments like this. She had just not been bargaining for her heart, then.

But her head took over. Like Adaar's long years of practice with a blade, Josephine had honed her craft until it was muscle memory, until it was second nature. She did not hesitate.

"Lady Josephine Montilyet," she said, stepping forward. She did not curtsy. "Chief Diplomat of the Inquisition. I believe that I will serve." Before they could get halfway through their uneasy looks to one another—maybe they hadn't bargained on quite so high an officer—she pressed ruthlessly on. "I must insist, however, that I bring some protection to the table. Cassandra will accompany me."

This was important; they would have a hard time inside, at the crucial moment, if only Adaar and Josephine were on hand to deal with the number Cassandra had marked going into the tavern—or, worse, if Adaar wasn't in there at all.

The woman said, "Boss said just one."

Josephine smiled, unthreatening, polite. "Two is not so different than one. We come in good faith; our mage has already surrendered his weapon; this is the nature of compromise."

With a scowl, the woman flung open the door to the tavern. Josephine heard the murmur of conversation through the thin walls. She listened with half an ear in case the words became discernible while she observed the others.

One of the men, standing a few feet to the right of the tavern door, had paled. His eyes flicked from Josephine's chain of office to the tall, tall points of Bull's horns. His armor was older than the rest, not as well-fitted or well-maintained. The mercenary standing beside him wore a similar outfit, but his jaw was set. He did not look at their group at all.

The woman reappeared, a sour twist to her mouth. "You two, go in." She gestured to Josephine and Cassandra. "You two, stay put." She pointed at Bull and Dorian. Bull made a display of scratching his belly and yawning.

"Thank you," Josephine said pleasantly, and led the way into the tavern.

It had been mostly cleared. There were a handful of small tables in front of the hearth, where three of the mercenaries stood; one of them broke off, following Josephine and Cassandra to the table that stood apart from the rest, where one man sat.

Adaar was on the ground behind him.

She still catalogued the rest of the room, took in all the information she could: a third mercenary near the hearth with lopsided leather armor; the old man behind the bar on the wall opposite, shoulders hunched, watching the room from beneath a furrowed brow; the man at the table, tossing one of Adaar's daggers idly as he watched them approach.

But she spared a heartbeat for Adaar, to feel the relief that she was alive, even if she couldn't allow it to show on her face.

Adaar knelt on the tavern floor, a mercenary to either side of her, their weapons already drawn, guarding. The neutral expression on her face spoke to how deeply annoyed she really was; Josephine had seen it now and then, when a visitor to Skyhold got too pushy with their demands. But her dark eyes met Josephine's, and they were steady, unafraid. There was a suspicious red shininess around one of her eyes, but she appeared otherwise unharmed.

They'd bound her hands behind her back, a problem she was likely already working on, especially now that the mercenaries were distracted by newcomers. Josephine would need to buy her time.

"Ah," Adaar said, breaking the silence. "The cavalry."

"Shut up," the man at the table said, eyeing Cassandra. "Moiraine failed to mention that your bodyguard is the bloody Hero of Orlais."

"I assure you," Cassandra said, in a tone that no one would have believed, "tales of my exploits have been greatly exaggerated."

It would be best to remove attention from her, immediately. "I don't think it's unreasonable to enlist such a chaperone," Josephine said, "considering the number of soldiers you have in this room."

Six, by her count. Just one more than Cassandra had marked. Bull and Dorian would have their hands full outside once it all began, and in these quarters, she would have a hard time keeping out of the way. It was several feet to the bar counter; she wondered if she would be fast enough to dive behind it before the mercenary standing behind her could act.

She sat. The man at the table still held one of Adaar's daggers, though he'd stopped tossing it. The other lay on the table in front of him like a trophy. She heard the mercenary behind her settle into position—no weapon drawn, and within reach of Cassandra, but the casual threat was clear.

"I assume your lieutenant already introduced me," she said. The man across from her glanced at her chain of office, as if in acknowledgment. "Who do I have the pleasure of dealing with?"

He sneered. "Ellis Koster," he replied. "Of Koster's Carvers."

The company name didn't give Josephine much confidence, but she pressed on. "I wish we'd made this acquaintance under more pleasant circumstances, but we must make the best of what we have." She folded her hands on the table in front of her. "So, to business: what do you want?"

He pulled a folded slip of paper from his breastplate, placed it on the table, and slid it across to Josephine under the point of his forefinger. There was a smug look about his face, every movement slow and exaggerated, as if he'd always dreamed of doing it—holding all the power, dictating to others.

She had been afraid, waiting for Adaar's return, realizing she wasn't coming. But now—now, seeing this foul man put a price on the head of the woman she loved, seeing him crush it beneath his insignificant finger, she was angry. She was furious.

She took the paper, unfolded it, and read the sum with a carefully schooled expression. Even had she been seriously considering the ransom, it was a preposterous amount. No one could be under any illusions that the Inquisition had such deep coffers.

She adjusted her understanding of his intelligence.

"What offense has the Inquisitor made against you to make such an amount appropriate?" she asked, looking up again.

A little surprise tugged at his features. "Against me, personally? None."

"Then I find it hard to believe that you demand this payment seriously," Josephine said, setting the folded paper delicately on the table.

"This ain't a court, Ambassador. I've got something you want; you've got something I want. I baited a trap, and this is the tax you pay to get out of it."

"I see," Josephine said. "Well, then I think you know that this is far too much to demand for one person."

A little of the lurid anticipation fell from his face. "That so."

She did not elaborate; she simply waited, keeping all eyes on her. She had learned early in her career that silence was a powerful weapon. Even now, she saw it doing its insidious work: sowing doubt, planting second thoughts—not just in Koster, but in his thugs.

One, in particular. The woman by the hearth with the ill-fitting armor. The rest of them showed discomfort in other ways, in a hardening of the brow, a shifting of weight, but this one had panic in the twist of her mouth, in the nervous flex of her fingers.

The barkeep, by contrast, had stilled. He glared—not at Koster, Josephine, or Adaar, but at the nervous woman across the room.

Interesting.

"Because it seems to me," Koster said, breaking the silence, "that there's not much of an Inquisition without an Inquisitor."

Josephine felt the flush of a minor victory. He hadn't been able to outlast her, and now, whether he understood it or not, she had reclaimed some of the power he had tried to hold over her.

"The Rift is closed," Josephine said, choosing her tone carefully. Bored, relaying outdated facts. Her attention already turned to other, more serious things. "The days of paying off common thugs so that we can retain the Inquisitor's services are past. There is the matter of Corypheus, certainly, but we will be able to make do, I believe. After all," she gestured to Cassandra, "we are among esteemed company."

She sat back, physically signalling her disengagement, ignoring the discomfort of putting herself any nearer to the thug behind her. Adaar was no longer looking at her, she saw; she was instead focused on the mercenary by the hearth, the woman the barkeep was glaring at. She avoided Adaar's eyes. Her hands had curled into fists.

The barkeep knew this woman, Josephine realized. And so did Adaar.

"That's too bad," Koster said, drawing her attention back to him. "Too bad for you, I mean."

Josephine tilted her head to the side, as if vaguely curious. "Oh? How so?"

He put the dagger down on the table and leaned forward. "You can't imagine I'll let you leave, Ambassador, if you don't give me what I want. The next person to sit in that chair might be more interested in playing ball if we have half your war table in our cellars."

Josephine allowed a beat of silence, and then she brought a hand to her mouth to cover an amused laugh.

"By all means, Messere," she said, twisting the honorific into a taunt. "Show us to our accommodations. We will see who decides to negotiate with you next. For your sake, I do hope Nightingale does not take an interest."

Finally, he betrayed a twitch of unease. She'd guessed correctly; his mercenaries had recognized her, and he had recognized Cassandra. Not a small leap to imagine he'd heard of Leliana—and some of her less savory methods of doing business.

Sometimes it was good to have questionable friends.

"Perhaps it's time for us to move on, then," Koster said, staring Josephine down. "We'll take what we need from these fine people and make ourselves scarce." He had an ugly, unkind grin. "Wouldn't do to leave anyone to tattle on us, though, would it?"

"You said no one would get hurt!" a new, shaking voice broke in.

Josephine judged it acceptable to look toward the woman. She'd taken a step forward from the hearth; the other mercenary, a few feet away from her, put his hand on the pommel of his sword, frowning.

"Vilya," Adaar said, her voice low, "don't—"

"I told you to shut up," Koster snapped over his shoulder. He pointed at Vilya. "And you—"

The situation was rapidly escalating out of her control, but Josephine had bought enough time. Adaar's gaze swept the room, cataloguing and assessing, muscles tensed on the verge of movement. She was ready.

Josephine caught Cassandra's eye and gave the tiniest of nods, one that Koster, distracted by a room of unraveling threads, wouldn't notice. Cassandra's sword made a magnificent, ominous sound as she pulled it from the sheath. All eyes went to her.

In that moment, Adaar was meant to act. Josephine was meant to dive for cover. 

But Josephine wanted more than to cower in a corner while others took care of this creature. He had made it necessary to say untrue things, words that had left such a sour taste in her mouth. She would play a small part more in his demise.

She snatched up Adaar's daggers.

"Catch!" she called, and threw the blades to Adaar.

Adaar was already moving. She had one foot planted on the floor beneath her; her hands, trailing snapped rope, reached up to pluck the clumsily-thrown daggers from midair. Her rise was graceful, effortless, and as she straightened to a height taller than either mercenary flanking her, she left a dagger in each of their chests. She never took her eyes from Josephine.

"Duck," she replied.

The room erupted. Josephine scrambled under the negotiation table. She heard the whistle of a near miss above her; the mercenary standing guard over her had acted, but too late. Only a second later, his body thudded to the ground behind her. Cassandra's sword had found an opening.

Three down, she thought, pulling her knees tight to her chest, so as to present the smallest possible target.

From her vantage point, she couldn't see much. She saw Koster's boots and Adaar's bare feet, moving, in and out, back and forth; she heard the snarls of his rage and Adaar's eerie silence. When she dared glance over to her right, she saw Cassandra's greaves, the occasional flash as the firelight reflected off her sword—and her opponent's. She kept him crowded near the hearth, blocking his path to his commander.

Vilya's was the only face Josephine could see. She'd backed into the far corner, huddled on the ground behind the tables and chairs.

Josephine returned her attention to the fight in front of her. She stared at the light way Adaar's feet moved across the dirty floorboards. Her footing was so sure, so graceful. Koster lunged and hacked, and Adaar, without the benefit of armor or boots, moved fluidly out of his way—and yet, at the same time, closer. Trying to get inside the reach of his weapon. There was a yelp—she'd made contact—and then an angry bellow; her points made, Adaar slipped out of reach.

But Koster was not ready to give up. Josephine had hoped that the blood now dotting the floor would slow him down; instead, he stopped swinging so wildly, waited, focused. She heard him give a mean, breathless laugh, and her blood ran cold.

"I've heard tales of your skill," he said. "Glad you measured up to the challenge. But someone got the better of you once. Maybe I'll take the other horn, as a trophy."

Adaar didn't rise to the bait. Josephine had seen her temper, secret, boiling. But she directed it as she liked; it did not direct her.

Josephine could hear the smile in her voice. "I've been saying for years that I'm just not symmetrical anymore."

The battle rejoined. Their feet moved faster now, the movements so quick they left Josephine breathless. She clenched her fists and watched, not daring to blink.

Now and then, she saw the length of Koster's sword, just barely sweeping into view. It was after one such upswing that she heard a dull, sickening thud.

Adaar had frozen in place, her stance unbalanced, wobbling. Koster gave another nasty laugh. Josephine tossed a panicked look toward Cassandra, but she was still occupied with the other mercenary.

She cast around frantically for a weapon, found her guard's fallen sword, and snatched it up. Then she crawled toward the fight, the scene coming into view as she peered out from beneath the table.

Koster's sword was stuck in Adaar's horn. Josephine's heart seized, but Adaar was smirking, and after a second's panic, Josephine understood why: the sword was truly stuck, about a third of the blade's width trapped in the horn. Koster pulled and pulled at it, the look on his face transforming from triumph to concern, and Adaar only turned her head in a way that made pulling it free harder.

"Sorry, is the angle bad?" Adaar asked, all innocence.

The next time he pulled, she pulled too, away from his sword. The sudden release of the blade threw him off-balance; he caught himself on the backfoot, but not fast enough. Adaar had used the moment to move in, lightning-quick, daggers extended. She crashed into him, toppling them both to the floor.

For a long, terrifying moment, they both lay still. Josephine could not move, could not breathe— 

Then Adaar, with a hard exhale, rolled off Koster's body. The hilts of her two daggers stuck up from his torso. One had left his breastplate askew, no longer protecting his ribs; Adaar must have cut the leather fasteners that held front to back, at his sides, on an earlier pass.

The other, she'd left in his neck. Blood was still pumping from that wound, though sluggishly. Josephine's stomach turned, but she ignored it. She scrambled out from beneath the table, around Koster's body, and to Adaar, who still lay on her back, breathing heavily, mouth twisted in a grimace of pain.

Closer now, without a sword in the way, Josephine saw why. Koster's sword had clipped the pointed tip of Adaar's ear in its doomed arc toward her horn; the wound was still bleeding.

"I don't think he understood symmetry," Adaar said, fumbling to feel at her ear. She smiled at Josephine. "Were you going to duel him?"

Josephine stared at her, uncomprehending, then remembered the sword in her hand; with a noise of disgust, she tossed it away with a clatter. She caught Adaar's hand instead, pulling it away from the wound.

Footsteps approached from behind, and Josephine tensed, but then Cassandra asked, "Are you well?"

"Fine," Adaar said. "Thanks for the rescue."

Cassandra snorted. "What will we do with this one?"

Josephine turned. Cassandra held Vilya by the shoulder. The woman stared at the ground. The other mercenary lay dead on the floor beside the hearth.

"Herah," a reedy voice said—the barkeep, shuffling toward them with the aid of a walking stick. "I mean, Your Worship—"

"Don't start with the holiness stuff, Hammond." Adaar sat up with a grunt, holding fast to Josephine's hand. "Please."

"Well." Hammond cleared his throat. "You're not going to hurt her, are you? She's been awfully stupid, but...she didn't fight."

Adaar looked at Vilya and sighed. "I don't want to. But I do want to know what's going on. What happened, Vilya?"

For a moment, Josephine was sure that Vilya would keep quiet—but then she spoke, low and fast, not looking up from the ground. "Trade's been bad. Crops didn't do well this year. Everybody says the war's coming this way, if we don't starve to death first, and when Koster came along, he said he could help us. Get the Inquisition to protect us."

"You knew he was going to lure me here," Adaar said.

"He made it sound so easy! Made it sound like you'd just pay up and be on your way. He said you wouldn't miss it. And the Inquisition wouldn't leave us vulnerable again, after that." Her voice was thick with tears. Josephine felt a pang of sympathy. Here were their desperate folk, driven to desperate things.

"Who else?" Adaar asked.

"Just Cossus and Herbert. I swear."

"They came in one night with those Carvers," Hammond said, "leading the way. No one in town's spoken to them since. They've been sleeping here." He shot a look at Vilya. "Not by my choice."

Adaar rubbed her unbloodied hand over her forehead. "Well, Vilya," she said, "you—and Cossus and Herbert, assuming they were smart enough to surrender—have two options, the way I see it. You can beg your families' forgiveness, work off your guilt here. Or, if you really want the protection of the Inquisition, you can work for it."

Vilya finally looked up. She swiped at her eyes with a fist. "Can we...can we think about it?"

"Think fast. I'm not staying long." Adaar nodded to Cassandra. "See if Bull and Dorian need help. And keep an eye on her and her friends until someone else can."

"Come," Cassandra said to Vilya, pushing at her shoulder.

"Herah," Vilya said, still tearful. Now that she'd looked up, her eyes were fixed on the blood streaking down Adaar's cheek, down her neck. "I'm—"

Adaar waved her off. "Don't say it til you mean it."

Cassandra prodded Vilya along to the door. When it opened, noise poured in: Bull in the midst of a lecture on company ethics; fire crackling beneath the occasional yelp. The door swung shut again, muffling the sound.

Adaar let out another deep, bone-weary sigh. "Sorry about the mess, Hammond."

The barkeep scoffed. "We'll set Vilya and her friends to scrubbing. The blood'll be out in no time, or we'll have them laying a new floor. I'll get you a rag for that bleeding."

"My bag—"

"They took it downstairs. I'll fetch that, too."

Hammond shuffled off behind the bar. Josephine waited until his footsteps had faded, and then she asked, quietly, "Are you all right?"

"Could have been better," Adaar said. "Could have been worse."

"That does not answer my question."

Adaar met her gaze. "I don't think I can leave this place unguarded. There are other Kosters out there." She shook her head. "And other Vilyas. I'm sorry. I know we're stretched thin."

Josephine brought her other hand to cover Adaar's and squeezed. "We will make do."

Adaar's lips quirked up on one side in a tiny, crooked smile. "You know, when you say that, no matter how impossible the task seems, I believe you. Especially after that display." Her eyes danced. "It's a pleasure to watch you work."

"Oh, that man was insufferable," Josephine said darkly. "I could have carried on for another quarter-hour and still found more ego to chip away at!"

Adaar laughed. The sound, bright and joyful, was infectious; Josephine found herself laughing, too, on the verge of hysteria, all her relief pouring out in a flood.

"That business with the little piece of paper," Adaar choked out, between gasps, "can you believe…"

"You didn't see his face," Josephine said, wiping at her eyes. "He was so sure—"

"You showed him."

"No, my dear, I think you showed him, in the end."

Adaar pulled her hand free from Josephine's grasp, but only to reach out, to sweep Josephine fully against her as their laughter died down to chuckles and hiccups. Josephine wound her arms around Adaar in return, pressing close to her welcome, living warmth, savoring it.

"You shouldn't have grabbed the daggers," Adaar admonished. 

"You shouldn't have gotten caught!"

Adaar let out another chuckle. The sound rumbled pleasantly beneath Josephine's cheek. "Fine. We're even."

Adaar pulled back, just enough to look down at her. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind Josephine's ear.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Josephine's heart leapt. Gone were her old doubts; she recognized the intent in that look, the affection, and leaned a little closer— 

"We can put you all up in some of the rooms, Herah," Hammond said, and they both jumped. He hoisted Adaar's pack up onto the bar counter and brandished a wet rag. "You'd better get that wound seen to."

"Right," Adaar said, and with a rueful smile at Josephine, she gently pulled away and got to her feet. She offered a hand to help Josephine up. "Getting blood everywhere."

"You ought to stay," Hammond continued. "For a few days, at least. People'll be happy to see you. You take your sweet time between visits."

"Yes, I was a little preoccupied with the giant hole in the sky for a while—"

"You been Inquisitor for ten years?" Hammond interrupted.

Adaar stared for a moment, then shook her head. "No, messere," she said, much more meekly.

"I thought not. Now, you get yourself cleaned up, and we'll have a proper homecoming." He made for the front door of the tavern. As the door swung shut, Josephine heard him barking names.

"You hear that old codger?" Adaar asked wonderingly. "I lose a piece of my ear, and he wants to have a party."

Josephine tried very hard not to burst out laughing again. She almost succeeded.

#josephine montilyet #inquisitor adaar #f!adaar x josephine #f!adaar/josephine #dragon age #inquisition #friends to lovers #class differences #mutual pining #developing relationship #universe writes

[buckthegrump]

Enchanted

Summary: Balls bore you half to death. And the suitors that come from across the lands seeking your hand in marriage all seem to have forgotten about human decency. Until one day it doesn’t seem so bleak. Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings: legit pure fluff, swearing but what else is new

Word Count: 2029

A/n: I wrote this au a million years ago and now @sunmoonandbucky​ demanded that i post it rude so here it is.

The only thing you hated about being royalty were balls. Well, not the only thing, but they were at the top of the shortlist. They were always the same old thing. You were forced to dance with diplomats and princes from all different lands, some of them cute, but all of them had the same stick up their ass. Assuming that you would fall head over heels for them because they seemed to forget that you were in line for your own thrown and didn’t need theirs.

So you expected tonight to be the same; only today, your father was insisting that you find someone with whom you could at the very least tolerate. It was your mother’s birthday ball, and the two of them were getting worried because they didn’t think that any one person should rule on their own. They seemed to forget that they had gotten lucky when they found each other and almost instantly fell in love.

A ruler should have someone who knew them better than anyone else, someone who could help them see every aspect of their decision, someone who understood what they were going through. That and it was customary for a kingdom to have two rulers in fear that if only one person ruled, they would become a tyrant.

They had a point, but damn, every one of the “suitable” suitors made you want to volunteer to go dragon hunting. 

“But mama,” you protested as you walked behind her. She was telling you that your father was right and that if you didn’t find someone tonight that you could at least live with, they would choose for you.

“No, Y/n, I have heard the last of your protests.” She stopped walking abruptly and turned towards you. “Now I have invited new kingdoms from even further away. None of the boys coming tonight are in line for their own throne, so you can literally pick any of them.”

“The fact that you called them boys just now makes me apprehensive about this whole thing,” you said, and your mother sighed heavily.

“Fine, none of the MEN coming tonight are in line for their own throne. Now please put your father's mind at ease and just pick one.” She turned and began walking again.

“What if they are all the worst people in the world, and not even papa likes them?” You challenged, and she stopped and turned again this time with slightly more rage.

“Fine, if by some act of the universe every single one of the men,” she stressed that last word for you. “Is no better than that Duke of-”

“Troutdale?” You finished, and your mother audibly gags, a very unqueenly gesture, but no one but yourself was paying attention to her.

“Oh, don’t even say it.” She rolled her eyes. “Then yes, you can put off finding someone until the next ball, but you are running out of time, child.” 

You smiled as she stormed out of the grand hall. The servants were hard at work, rushing around getting everything done in time for the ball. You turned knowing that you can easily convince your father that every suitor that comes tonight was no good. It was your mother that you had to be more mindful of.

/

The ball was in full swing, and your mother looked less than pleased with you. You had turned away every single suitor that had come forward so far, which was somewhere around 10. Your father was still hopeful. He looked like he had a secret that he was hiding from you.

“Y/n, there’s someone I want you to meet,” He said, and you quickly found an excuse to get out of it.

“In a minute papa, I am famished.” You turned and rushed towards the food. You made it to the table and grabbed a goblet of wine and quickly down it. You turned, and from across the room, you see a man with bright blue eyes and even brighter smile who was laughing at something someone was saying.

The two of you locked eyes for a moment, and he gave you a nod to acknowledge he saw you and turned back to the conversation he was having.

“Did someone catch your eye?” You turned to see Taylor, your best friend, smirking at you.

“Oh hush now,” you glared. “He was just laughing, I’ve never seen anyone laugh at a ball before.”

“Well, that’s because you are never looking.” She laughed. “You’re always trying to run off every suitor that comes knocking at your door.”

She paused, and you grabbed another goblet of wine. “Go talk to him.”

You choked, and wine almost came out your nose. “Excuse me?”

“Go speak to him.” She took the goblet and whispered into your ear. “You might miss your chance.”

“Chance at what?”

“Just go,” She ordered as she walked away with your wine.

“Taylor,” you halfheartedly called after her. “That’s my wine.”

When you looked back to where he was standing, he was gone. You sighed, grab some food, and head back to your father to meet the next boy. Your mother had been wrong so far, all of the ‘men’ she promised had turned out to be spoiled boys.

“You are a very hard woman to track down,” Someone said behind you, and you turned to see the blue-eyed man.

“Am I an elk?” Your question seemed to shock him.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you said I was difficult to track down. Are you comparing me to the game that you hunt wherever you’re from?”

“Forgive me, allow me to introduce myself,” He bowed slightly. “Bucky.”

“Y/n.” You curtsied. “So, what brings you here?”

“My father is on business here, trying to get me to take up his trade.” He smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “And you?”

“My mother is trying to marry me off.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of lady who will be married off.”

“Not easily, no, much to her disappointment.” A prideful smile came across your face.

“Would you like to get out of here?” He stepped closer. “Just for a moment?”

You think for a second and glanced over to your parents who are queueing up the next suitors. “Yes.” You breathed.

Bucky offered you his arm, and you took it. He led you through the crowd and out of the hall.

“Where are you going?” Taylor asked you just as you were about to walk out the door. “Should I be concerned?”

“Just cover for me, ok? I’ll be back soon.” You pleaded.

“Fine, but don’t do anything stupid.” She said, letting you go.

/

“So, this is the first time out of your home country?” You asked him as the two of you walked down the moonlit path in the garden.

“Yes, until recently, my family was concerned,” he chose his words carefully. “They thought that if we left, then we would fall ill and never recover. How about you, is this your first time to Rosedale?”

“No, I live here.”

“Would you ever move away?” He looked at you.

“That’s not really an option for me. Would you leave your home?” You took a turn that led you to a swing where you take a seat, and Bucky remained standing.

“Well, I might, but that’s not really up to me either.” He smiled sadly.

“If you could stay, would you?”

“No, I would just like a say in the matter is all.”

“Ok, let’s talk about something else. What is the royal family like where you’re from?”

“Oh well,” he blew out air. “They are very kind for the most part. They have odd quirks about them that not everyone understands. And the King and Queen are rather paranoid, although there’s no real good reason as to why. What about here? What are they like?”

“Oh well, the King and Queen are fair enough. They try their best to make sure that everything is fair and equal, but that’s not always what people think it is.” You looked at him from the side of your eye. “But the princess is something else. She is very stubborn and rather impossible if you ask me or anyone for that matter.”

“That’s not what I heard.” 

You looked at him. Trying to keep your demeanor neutral. “What did you hear?”

“Well, I heard that she is very kind to those whom she trusts and likes. And that she isn’t impossible, she’s just protective of the ones she loves and herself.”

“You’ve been here a very short time to know so much.” You stood. “Shows you’re resourceful.”

“Well, I find that if you ask servants about the people they work for, they are quite honest. If you give them the right amount of money.” In the distance, the bells could be heard ringing marking the start of a new hour. 

“We should be getting back,” You said, he offered you his arm again, and you took it. 

The two of you walked back to the ball, occasionally talking about something or another. When you got back, Bucky dropped your arm and faced you.

“I have thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight. It was enchanting to meet you.” He lightly kissed your hand and disappeared into the crowd.

Taylor rushed up beside you and grabbed your arm. She started ushering you back towards your parents. “They kept asking me where you were, so I told them that you went to tend to a matter in the kitchen. I didn’t come up with the actual situation, so if they ask, that’s up to you. But they have a whole line of men for you to meet. None of them are as nearly as cute or charming as the one you were just with, so put on a brave face and shoot them all down.” She patted your hand. “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks, Taylor,” you deadpanned and walked back to your parents. 

“Ah, there you are Y/n,” your father held out an arm to you, and you walked towards him. “I trust that the situation in the kitchen has been dealt with?”

“Of course, father.” You plastered the fakest smile you can manage. 

“Great, because I have more people I want you to meet.” He gestured over to the line, and you at that moment, wanted to die just a little bit.

/

Your already dwindling patient was vanishing very quickly due to the amount of bullshit that was being said by the suitors your father was introducing, and much to your surprise, your mother, was agreeing with you.

“Truly Travis, the men you have chosen are abominable,” your mother said, not so quietly in between men.

“Well, Gladis, I doubt you could’ve done any better with the selection that we have tonight.” Your father tried to defend himself.

“You invited all of these families. I, however, only invited one, and I’ve known the mother since childhood.” Your mother smiled.

“Oh yes, well, not all of us had outgoing and charming parents,” your father said bitterly.

“Don’t I know it.” You blurt, earning a glare from your parents. “So mother, when is your ‘perfect fit’ going to introduce himself.”

“Soon,” she said with the look of glee still present on her face. “Very soon.”

You went through way too many suitors in the next half hour. Some of them weren’t even eligible, you were pretty sure your father was just grasping at a dream he wasn’t sure he could have any more. 

“Ahh, yes, here they come,” your mother said.

“Your grace, King, and Queen Barnes from Artendale.” 

“Gladis,” Mrs. Barnes said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Hopefully, next time will be in the near future,” You caught your mother winking at her.

“Shall we introduce our son?” The King asked. “James Barnes, Prince of Artendale.”

To your surprise, Bucky came into view, and you were at a loss for words. He smiled at you, and you return it.

“Princess,” Bucky said, and it almost sounded like a question.

“Prince James.” You could feel the pride radiating off of your mother. You hated to admit it, but she might have been right.

#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes AU #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine

[hms-chill]

Feeling Deeply

Summary: It’s nearing the seventh anniversary of Henry’s dad’s death, and navigating the succession process only makes that harder, but at least Alex is there to help.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Henry's alarm wakes them both far too early. Alex has essays to write and grants to find and things to do while Henry's in meetings for the day, but getting up for them is the last thing in the world he wants to do. He just wants to stay right where he is, so when Henry starts to move toward getting up, Alex tightens his arms around him and nuzzles into his shoulder. Henry laughs a bit, running a hand through what Alex can already tell is an atrocious bed head, and Alex feels his heart soar. Today is better, then.

"I've got to get up, Love."

"No. Won't let you. Stay here," Alex grumbles, and Henry laughs again, moving away enough to press a kiss to Alex's forehead.

"I love you. And I... I really appreciate what you did for me last night. Thank you."

"I love you." He says it half buried in Henry's neck, but he looks up in time to see the little smile on Henry's face. He runs his hand though Alex's hair again before bringing it down to cup Alex's jaw, and Alex melts.

"I do have to get up. I'm meeting with some donors for breakfast, then with Pez at his favorite brunch place, then Buckingham all afternoon."

"Come back for lunch? I miss you," Alex says, and Henry gives him a smile.

"I'll do my best. I miss you, too."

Henry kisses his forehead, then his nose, and then Alex is smiling into a kiss on the lips. He watches from the bed as Henry goes about the process of getting ready for a day of meetings, building a prince around the core of a young man. It's something Alex has seen a hundred times by now, but it doesn't seem to take as long as it used to. When Henry kisses him goodbye and promises to have the kitchen send up coffee, there's more of Henry in the prince than there's ever been, and Alex is beyond glad.

It's only after Henry is gone that Alex launches into action, getting himself ready for the day. Henry thinks he's just going to be taking it slow and adjusting to the time difference before a fancy state dinner, and that was his initial plan, but after last night, it's been revised a bit. Bea's texted, so he takes his coffee to the music room and finds her on the couch, fiddling with something he thinks is called a thumb harp. She sets it down to come wrap him in a hug as soon as he appears, and he has to be careful not to spill hot coffee down her back.

"Thank you for doing this for him."

"Of course. Thank you for helping. I'll probably ask your mom, too, but I wanted to make sure it was a good idea first, and I thought you might know better than she would."

Bea just nods, and they get to work. She's got to go before too long, her own series of charity meetings and projects to get to, but she promises to send Alex an email with everything he needs to set his plan into motion. He texts Catherine as he makes his way back to Henry's room to work, and she responds quickly, so Alex settles in and gets started on something much, much more important than another project could ever be.

He does finish his essay and start his grant search before he meets Henry for lunch, an honest to god picnic in a secluded part of Kensington Gardens, because it's beautiful out and Henry's been inside all day. And lunch is perfect, all laughter and casual touches and stealing bites of each other's food as they finally, finally get to spend time together after days apart. Henry had come into it looking a little tired and with a hug that begged for a break, but he looks better as they're wrapping up. Alex suggests they walk to Buckingham, because it's a nice day and it's not too far, and the fresh air is clearly doing Henry good. So Henry grabs his hand, and they drop the picnic basket off at Kensington and start toward Henry's next meeting. Alex can feel the tension building as they get closer, as Henry gets ready to go in and see every piece of his family's history that could ever hurt them picked apart and put on full display. Alex just distracts him as best he can, rambling about all sorts of things and keeping a tight hold on his hand.

When they get to Buckingham, Henry gives him a hug, the kind that says he wants Alex to stay close even if he can't. So Alex hugs him as tightly as he can and tells him he's proud of him. He offers to break into the meeting and cause a ruckus to end it, and that makes Henry laugh, and when he pulls out of the hug, he's got his armor back on. Alex stands on his toes to kiss him, and Henry goes, leaving Alex to try not to feel like he's sending his boyfriend into a war zone.

He takes his laptop back to the Waterloo Vase for the afternoon, because of all the places to study, a towering vase that reminds him of how much Henry loves him is probably the best one. Henry finds him there a few hours later and greets him with a hug that just says he's tired, tired of all the questions and the taking and the picking. It's a hug that's begging for cuddles and an episode or two of Bake Off, but it's not one that means Henry's going to fall apart or that he needs a long weekend where they don't see anyone else, so Alex counts it as a win.

They go back to Kensington and facetime June, and she puts David on so Henry can baby talk to him while she and Alex catch up. Then, Alex and Henry curl up on a couch in the music room to watch Parks and Rec with Bea, Henry's head on Alex's shoulder as Alex tries to absorb some of the "too much" that gets to him in times like these.

Their last event of the day is a state dinner, and Henry is tired, but Alex can tell he's enjoying it as much as he ever enjoys events like this. There are interesting people to talk to, and there's good food, and afterward they're free to mingle with whoever they'd like, so in sum, it's far from the worst. Alex gets into a conversation with a Hungarian diplomat about the finer points of Hungary's shift to the Euro, and he sees Henry laugh at something one of the waiters says. He tries not to be too distracted by that laugh, tries not to fall too much in love with the fact that in a room full of diplomats and politicians and activists, Henry has chosen to talk to a member of palace staff.

Eventually, Alex is getting another glass of champagne when Henry comes to give him a hug that asks if they can go. Alex puts the fresh champagne flute down and takes his hand instead, and Henry leads him through a side door and into the kitchen. From the kitchen, they stop in a wine cellar just long enough to grab a bottle before Henry is leading the way back out to Buckingham Gardens. He tucks them away somewhere out of sigh of the palace and lies down on the grass, tugging Alex down to join him before turning his attention to the sky.

"Looking for Orion?" Alex teases, but Henry shakes his head.

"Orion's a winter constellation. I'm not sure what I'm looking for; maybe Leo or Signus."

Alex chuckles, but Henry doesn't say anything, just moves to rest his head on Alex's chest, eyes still turned toward the stars. Alex puts a hand in his hair, but doesn't say anything. Henry's quieter now than he has been for a while, the sort of quiet sadness that Alex knows comes over him sometimes, so rather than try to force him to talk, Alex wraps an arm around his chest and waits.

"We used to do this with my dad," Henry says eventually. "He'd take us out at night, each of us on our own, and he'd show us where the constellations were. It's... my earliest memory with him is waking up late one night, and I was so sleepy, but he wrapped me in a blanket and took me outside to see Orion. He told me that every culture in the world could see a soldier or a hunter or a hero in those stars, and he taught me to see it, too. And I... well, in the Greek myth, Orion's a bit of an ass. More than a bit, if I'm honest. So I decided that my dad was probably a better hero to celebrate, and I told him he was the one the stars made a picture of. I pretended the whole world saw those stars and decided to celebrate my dad. And now, he... well. That's why I look for Orion the way I do. It... it was always sort of our constellation, and I... I like to think, sometimes, that he's connected to it somehow. I know that's a bit daft, but it's nice to imagine."

"I don't think it's daft," Alex says. Henry's quiet, and again, it's the sort of quiet Alex doesn't want to step on.

"This... this is seven years since he died. Seven is... well, I'm not sure how much I buy it, but it's an important number in nearly every religion. So if I'm, you know, especially maudlin or quiet..."

"I understand. I mean, I... I understand as much as I can," Alex says. "And I love you. Even when you're maudlin or quiet. Especially then."

Henry turns his head and kisses Alex's chin. Alex smiles and kisses the side of Henry's head, just above his ear. Henry opens the wine, then points out his first constellation. Alex holds him close, and after a bit, he asks, "H? I know we're supposed to be taking time and relaxing after this week, but would you maybe want to visit your dad while we're on vacation?"

Henry sits up, and Alex is worried for a moment, but then Henry grabs his face and kisses him, and he feels a flood of warmth as he realizes he's said the right thing.

On AO3, Chapter 1

Notes:

@steelrosealchemist and I were talking about Orion a few days ago, and it's my favorite constellation, so I thought it might be nice to work in some backstory about why Henry's looking for it on New Year's, right before he makes a move. So there’s that fun little tidbit for y’all.

#my fic: rwrb #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor x alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb #rwrb fic #red white and royal blue

[imagine-loki]

Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 26 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.     RATING: Mature   NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

The Jotnar were tactical with their interactions with Nigel. They ensured they were never alone in his company and that those who were there as their buffers were not allied to his as personal friends. Thor ensured he was included in the group to assist the Jotnar when he was present.

Ella’s knowledge of Vanaheim assisted the Jotnar in what little talks they had with them. It was not the time for trade agreements, but celebration, though that did not prevent such talks. No sooner did the Vanir realise that Ella had informed her husband of their supplies and their worth, they ceased all pretences and spoke plainly, allowing there to be preliminary discussions and a further date set to address said trade better. Loki thanked his wife for her information, Ella elated to hear she had been of assistance.

The trip to Vanaheim was a successful one, the Jotnar had to agree. It was uncomfortable for them in many respects, the heat was something they had never had to endure before and had Ella not assisted them so diligently with her seidr, it would have been a horrific experience for them, far too hot and humid.

The different customs they learned whilst there were a shock for them also, especially as a lot of them did not make any sense. Loki did note the act of kissing more after Ella pointed it out to him, so too did he point it out to Helbindi, who found himself more intrigued than his brother by the act, even using the fact it was not a Jotnar custom to convince a pretty Light Elf not much older than himself to allow him to learn with her. Loki used the comments Ella made on the Light Elves liking the kiss on the hand to charm a Lord and Lady of Alfheim adequately enough for them to wish to discuss ice for their home with the Jotnar. He realised quickly his wife held information of great value to the realm, even on matters of other realms. He also noted her comments on being a stranger on a new realm rang true. It was harder than he would care to admit, trying to ascertain what was the correct thing to say to not offend, that was the most difficult, more than once Ella had used her seidr to whisper in his ear what would be deemed an impertinence to one realm was a compliment on another and when such was applicable. He also noticed that there was a never-ending stream of people who wished to introduce themselves to him. He never knew who they were, but they knew him and more concerning, they knew a lot about him that he was uncertain how they could know. But again, Ella was in his ear, giving names, titles and realms as they met them, all of them seemingly knowing her, and to his surprise, her knowing details on them, even ones that he would have thought inconsequential. He realised then that her comments on remaining quiet and listening to Thor were solid advice. She rarely said anything on herself, instead, permitting others to speak about themselves, something most seemed more than happy to allow. He watched as she soaked in their information, most of which he knew would never be of any relevance, but nonetheless, she did so. It taught him more of her character as he observed her.

She stood beside him throughout any formal event, the picture of a perfect royal wife in many’s eyes, his own included. He was not blind, he knew she was good at what she had to do, even if their marriage was a complex one. The few nights of sharing a room with her had not been entirely terrible either. She kept to her side of the bed, was quiet and respectful of his space and did not insist on taking over any particular part of the room as he had heard some women were prone to doing. Their shared rooms also had them talk more and in doing so, allowed him to learn more of the woman he was forced to call his wife.

As much as the trip to Vanaheim was good for relations and though they would most certainly be going back in the near future for true agreements and talks, Loki was elated when the day came to go back to Jotunheim. Being gone from his home realm for ten days was incredibly difficult when he had never done so before, it also came with the added strain of being on a new realm that was entirely too hot, the customs were so vastly different, as were the people and to add to his worries, he had a Vanir prince trying to cause issues for them throughout. It was, without doubt, more stressful than even having the Allfather on Jotunheim, at least with that, he was safely at home, here, he was entirely out of his element. Seeing everything be readied for their return to Jotunheim settled his anxiousness substantially. He noted that everything for Ella was readied and boxed before noting something on the top of her luggage. A letter with her name on it in writing he had not seen before. The only reason he had half an inkling whom it was from was because of the large embossed seal on it, showing two ravens and a horned helmet, indicative of Odin's seal. He wondered if the Allfather had truly been ill before the festival or if there was something more to his reasoning for not being there. He knew that the absence of the Aesir royals broke Ella's heart in some manner, she clearly missed her home and family, she confessed even missing Thor some bit through everything so if the Aesir royal had lied if his reasoning for not being there, he knew she would be severely affected by it. The seal had been broken and were he to be so inclined it would be easy for him to read it, but he did not wish to do so. He was trying to build something with her, as Ella had stated, all they had at present was honesty, he would not jeopardise it, not for a letter that he doubted had any importance. Instead, he turned away, thinking of what else he needed to organise for himself.

“Nigel is livid.” He turned to see Ella close by. “Warn everyone.”

“What happened?”  

“King Wilhelm found out he wanted to give us a less than pleasant parting gift.” She informed him.

“What did we ever do to deserve this?” Loki felt himself getting angry. “I understand the anger for the war, but this…”

Ella gave him a sympathetic look before gently putting her hand on his arm. “Some people are just asses.” He looked at her. “There’s nothing we can do about them, we can only deal with us. We do not start anything but ensure they rue the day they think to do this. It’s not fair that it is you but you are strong of mind, I fear if he were to go for one less mentally strong. Perhaps that is the only good thing in this.”

Loki eyed her carefully. For a moment, he thought she was glad to feel Nigel was bothering him, but he could see she was worried for him. Inhaling deeply, he nodded. “We keep composure and we go home, away from this monster.”

“Have you everything packed?” She asked.

“Yes, you?”

“Yes, I just need to burn something.” Loki’s brow furrowed at her comment. He watched as she took the letter with her father’s seal on it and it burst into flames in his hands. For a moment, he was terrified she would burn herself, but the flames did not seem to bother her. “It’s seidr fire, harmless to me.” She assured him on seeing his concerned face. “I burn anything with my father’s seal, if someone were able to place it on a document of note, it would cause terrible issues. That and I do not wish to allow people to see private matters between my parents and myself.”

“That is both wise and your own business,” Loki stated diplomatically. “So long as everything is alright.”

Ella gave him a small smile. “It is fine, thank you. Thor had a letter with him from them, simply explaining that they were sorry to not be here. Father is still getting his legs back under him and Mother is dealing with the realm in his sickness. Thor is good at doing it for short periods, but he is still learning, so they rather he does not see it too much now, he will realise it is not as fun as he thinks it is and would be at risk of abdicating.”

“There are days I feel similar.”

“Though you have your moments, you are far more mature than he could ever wish to be. You are ready to take the throne tomorrow, him….maybe in a millennium, with a lot of work on his behalf.” Loki raised a brow. “My father has not even got that left in him, I think, as does Mother, that he is holding on simply to prevent Thor from getting it too soon.”

“I can see his reasoning.” Was all Loki could reply, not wanting to insult Ella too greatly.

*

Loki felt relief surge through him as the cold winds of Jotunheim blew across his face. Beside him, Ella had removed the spell she had cast to not allow the Jotnar feel as hot as the Vanir temperature would otherwise make them feel while also casting one on herself to allow her deal with the Jotunn climate. Part of her was happy to be back also. With everything she and Loki had learnt of one another from their time off realm, she felt there was so much more could be achieved now they were back on Jotunheim. They all walked to the palace with purpose, Loki keeping in stride with Ella, understanding that her shorter legs made things difficult for her, though she never stated anything regarding it.

They made their way to the palace and to their rooms. Ella’s room was the first one so with an arrangement to meet for dinner, she bade farewell and went into her rooms. Loki walked to his own, not making any mention of the peculiar feeling he had as he did so.

He had barely placed his hand on the door when he noted a shadow to his side. “If you still have the energy to come see me on my return, you have not spent the last week well.” He jested as he turned to smile at his older brother. When Býleistr did not return his smile, he frowned. “What?”

“I need to speak with you Loki, in private.”

Seeing his brother look at him so coyly caused Loki to become even more concerned. “Father?”

“Father is fine.” The cold tone which Býleistr used was easily noted. “He and I had an argument this morning. With the manner in which he tore into me would suggest his health is fine.”

Loki sighed and folded his arms. “What did you do this time? Honestly, you are supposed to be the oldest of us yet you are so often the least mature.”

Býleistr glared at his brother for a moment before he thought about what he had to say again. “You know I love you Brother, don’t you?”

“Leist, cease dancing around whatever it is and just tell me.”

“My mate, my new one.”

“Yes, what of her? I have to say, I am a little hurt you did not introduce her to us before now.” His eyes widened slightly. “She is not some poor young creature barely old enough to even have a heat, is she? Please don’t tell me she is barely ceased being a child, ‘Leist, that is terrible. I cannot stand by you for that.”

“No, she is legal, I swear.”

“Then what, you stole her for another?”

“No, not exactly.”

“In other words, yes.” Loki shook his head. “Only you could get into these sorts of positions, Brother. Who was the man she was supposed to mate with?”

“You.” Býleistr could not look at Loki.

“Me?” Loki scoffed for a moment before he realised what his brother was saying. “You mean....?” He rushed passed his brother to his brother’s rooms, his head shaking at what he was thinking. He entered them to see alma, Býleistr’s first mate there, and beside her, not the least bit concerned, was Angrboða.

Býleistr rushed in after his brother. “Loki, I am sorry, Brother, I know it is an unwritten rule, but…”

“There is no ‘But’ for this. This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“You decided…”

“To tend to the realm over my own happiness, that is what I decided, and this is how my own kin sees to thank my sacrifices for Jotunheim? Swoop in and betray me, like this.” He shook his head. “You are no brother to me, not after this.” His pain blatant as he looked Býleistr in the eye, his agony clear to see as his heart shattered like fragile ice in his chest. Turning to face Angrboða again, she seemed to note his pain too. “You really are the Bringer of Grief.” With that, he turned and left the room.

#loki #other #Submitted fic #submission #chapter 26 #pride and prejudice #wolfpawn

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Internal Disputes ch.3 (baon)

Summary: Something strange is afoot. Edge isn’t sure what, but he can guess he isn’t going to like it.

Notes: Maybe it’s time to see this situation from Stretch’s POV

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

The urge to stay in bed that morning and yank the blanket over his head was just about overwhelming. Not that long ago Stretch would’ve done exactly that and not bothered to face the world until sometime past noon. But the chickens didn't much care if Stretch was having a crisis; they wanted food, food, and maybe a little more food, and it was about that time. If he was getting up to feed them, he may as well stay up.

It was still hard to drag himself upright. His skull was aching and he knew from past experience that his own magic wasn’t about to touch it. Healing magic worked on injuries like skinned knees and broken bones, but some things didn’t respond to it. Like Edge’s migraines, but Stretch didn’t really want to think about that right now.

At least it wasn’t from a hangover, so it’d probably fade out once he got some coffee. Once, he might’ve gotten drunk or stoned in times of existential trauma and he couldn’t lie, it’d been pretty damn tempting; he still had one of the joints that Sans gave him a few weeks back. Fading off to Not Thinking About It used to be his modus operandi.

Not this time; this time he left and gone off to call his therapist directly. He had her emergency line, but never used it and it seemed appropriate somehow that the first time he did was while sitting in the heavy layer of dust in one of the old, empty houses in Old New Home, sobbing like an idiot, and by the time he finally managed to spit out what the problem was, he didn’t need her to tell him that maybe he was kinda being a dick.

He’d had enough therapy by now to know when he was being shitty about the wrong thing, reluctantly learning how to peel back his upset to find the cause underneath it. His brother’s unexpected breakdown messed him up some, he already knew that, hadn’t he already scheduled an extra appointment this week?

Not that he was wrong to be upset about Edge, because fuck that noise. But it didn’t feel like that long ago that he would’ve taken Edge bugging out on their anniversary as a sign that he was finally starting to realize that maybe all the love and affection he lavished on Stretch on a daily basis was a mistake. That he was looking at Stretch and seeing he’d been right the first time because he wasn’t worthy of that love. Not true, but it would’ve taken a week of black depression for Stretch to dig himself out of the mirror funhouse of self-hate.

Much as he hated to admit the therapy thing might actually be helping, now he was able to look at all that love and see the anomaly

(oh he hated that word, hated it)

wasn’t Edge giving him soft kisses and making sure to keep a good supply of lemon bars in the fridge. It was this kind of shit and he could’ve done without the argument to show him the benefits of therapy, but eh, that was always the way his cookies rolled.

At the end of the day, he fucking knew Edge, and this shit wasn’t new. He’d known how important Edge’s work at the Embassy was to him before he’d ever married him, just like he knew Edge wouldn’t have gone if he didn’t believe it was absolutely necessary.

And he damn well knew it didn’t mean Edge didn’t love him. Stretch didn’t doubt that for a hot second.

Okay, maybe for a second. A couple seconds, but no more than that.

Yeah, Edge’d fucked up, but like Stretch didn’t already know Edge would be harder on himself than Stretch ever could be. And he wasn’t gonna be mad at Stretch, too busy blaming himself. Stretch was disappointed, sure, but he’d way overreacted, and now Edge was probably on a plane, feeling shitty and focusing too hard on the job to keep himself from noticing it.

Stretch sighed, rubbing a knuckle between his sockets. His therapist listened to all of his blabber without any more than the occasional sound to let him know she was still there. Let him wind down the looping paths of his thoughts to work through all of it on his own, until he was able to come to the conclusion that she’d probably known from the beginning.

Edge fucked up, Stretch overreacted because he already had a bug up his ass about his brother, and he needed to spend some time thinking about what he was going to do about both those problems.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be pissed off about the fuckup, thanks, but spilling his nonexistent guts took care of a lot of that. He was ready to settle for ‘really annoyed’ and some serious asskissing after his mama bear was done playing mama for everyone else. After all was said and done, he’d confirmed his appointment for later that week and headed back to the house -the empty house-- for a quick shower before falling into bed where he’d slept for, ugh, almost twelve hours. Bawling for an hour might give him a headache the next day, but at least it was good for insomnia.

He rolled over in the tangle of sheets and blankets to snag his phone from the side table. No new messages, not even from a robo-caller trying to steal his credit card info. Not entirely a surprise; he didn’t know exactly when the diplomat crew left the airport or how long the flight was, and Edge wasn’t one for hounding by text message. He probably waiting for Stretch to reply to the one he’d sent last night.

Stretch pulled it up again, a reluctant smile curving his mouth. He’d bet his dirty comic book collection that Edge had no idea what some of those emoticons meant, considering the half dozen eggplants he’d included with the hearts and flowers. But he put his phone back down without replying. He wanted to actually talk to Edge, not try and parcel everything he was feeling into one little text message and that either needed skype or waiting for him to get home.

Plus, it wasn’t going to hurt Edge to feel guilty a little longer. Overreactions aside, he did ditch out on their anniversary and that? It hurt, okay? It hurt.

Welp, that was about all he had in the realm of putting things off. Stretch finally pushed up to his feet with a groan, joints popping, fuck, he was getting old. A glance at the weather showed that it wasn’t too bad out and he wandered into their closet for clean pants and a shirt, and if he grabbed one from Edge’s side of the closet, it wasn’t like there was anyone around who was going to notice his moment of weakness. It didn’t smell like Edge at all, only laundry detergent, but eh, he was pretty damn good at denial when he wanted to be and this was a pretty minor case.

Downstairs, he got the coffee pot going before heading outside. The ladies were already waiting impatiently at the coop door, loudly voicing their opinion on his betrayal at being ten minutes late.

“yeah, yeah, i get it, i’m a dick,” Stretch opened the door, shuffling his feet to keep from stepping on any chickeny toes. “seems like a trend lately.”

He poured the feed into the trough, watching as the ladies swooped in to gobble it up. It was too easy to zone out watching them, idle thoughts turning circles.

Everything else aside, the real problem at hand was that the Embassy depended on Edge a little too much and had pretty much from the beginning. He’d stepped up to make himself indispensable and yeah, Stretch didn’t need any extra therapy to understand why that was.

But the thing about being indispensable was that it was too easy for that to become the norm. There were plenty of Monsters out there who wanted to work, new interns came in all the time. All they needed was training and if Papyrus and Blue could learn how to be Ambassadors for Humans as quickly as they did, Stretch was pretty sure training up a few more Monsters for security detail couldn’t be that damn hard. For Monsters, their magic was part of them, but not all the skills were. Learning past the innate took time and effort, and if healers had a training program, security needed to set one up for higher skills than simply guard.

Preferably someone other than Red.

What it came down to was that Embassy needed to get to where they didn’t damn well depend on Edge so much. Stretch had first dibs on him, thanks.

Yeah, if that was true, why was he hanging out here alone just before his anniversary?

Okay, no. Stretch shoved that thought out of his head. Yeah, it sucked, a lot, but that wasn’t fair and he damn well knew it. Edge showed him daily in a hundred different ways how much he cared. One fuck up didn’t warrant that much doubt. And maybe Stretch was being a little selfish, but he deserved to be a little selfish with Edge’s time, didn’t he?

He loved Edge, Edge loved him, and he believed that. Well, most of the time and when he didn’t, eh, that was what the damn therapist was for. One missed anniversary didn’t change that.

Stretch wasn’t gonna let it.

Once he’d finished laying out some fresh straw, Stretch left the door open to let the chickens wander in the yard for a while. He followed them out, itching for a cigarette, but he’d smoked his last one the day Blue came by. Until he made a trip into Ebott, it was vape or nothing, and shortcutting to his room for the e-cigarette didn’t appeal.

He wandered around the yard instead, Nugget trying her darndest to stay underfoot and it was good he was light on his feet when he tried. It was then that he caught sight of the withering vines and his soul gave a little lurch.

Edge had planted the grapevines before Stretch ever got so much as a kiss from him, way back in the good old bad days. According to him, this was the first year they’d actually done anything fruitwise, the tiny green globes swelling over the summertime and slowly darkening to purple. Edge spent all summer fussing over them, agonizing over organic fertilizers and netting them against birds. A light frost at the beginning of this week sealed their fate, the last stage of ripening, and Edge mentioned a few days ago he’d be picking them this weekend, his mind already laser-focused on homemade grape juice and jam.

Except he was gone and maybe by the time he got back, the grapes would’ve gone bad, rotting on the vines.

Yeah, no, Stretch might be steamy at his baby, but there was no way in hell he was going to let all that hard work go to waste. Not when there were perfectly good fridges out there ready to hold that grapey-goodness; their own, plus Sans and Papyrus’s and his own brother’s. Plenty of people in New New Home would loan him a little fridge space if he asked, especially for a share of the finished goods.

When Edge got back, Stretch was already planning to hardball him into a few days off and if one of them was spent canning and juicing until they were both as purple as rain, he was okay with that.

First, coffee, then he’d get started.

~~*~~

After a quick detour into the caffeine-nation (heh), Stretch gathered all the bowls he could find, carrying out a mismatched menagerie to the backyard. He set the pile on top of the little table out there, the better to keep the chickens from inspecting them for nefarious purposes, and got to work.

Luckily, grapes were pretty easy to pick. The brown stems broke off easily and he gathered bunch after bunch, filling up his bowl in between stealing the occasional grape for himself. They weren’t like any he’d had from a store, briefly sour, then sweet, and his fingers were purple in no time. Good thing his magic was orange, made for a nice contrast.

He was halfway through his second bowl when he heard a voice from behind.

“Hello, Stretch.”

Stretch closed his sockets and for one brief moment, it was like stepping back in time. Standing out in the chilly air, listening to a familiar voice through a door telling knock knock jokes. No one from this Universe reminded him so much of their counterpart as Asgore did, not Alphys, not Undyne, and with nothing more than his voice.

But this wasn’t the friend he knew, the one he’d promised

(and broken that promise. Over and over and over--)

This wasn’t his stranger through the door, this was Asgore, so much like Underswap’s Queen, and his LV was from fallen Human children. Stretch knew it, knew far too much, and he’d never wanted to be a Judge. He’d hated coming of age into the realization that he could see much deeper into souls than anyone around him, hated making Judgments, hated all of it. He’d been more than happy to let Sans keep the job when they got here, he never Looked anymore, not if he could help it, and here was Asgore, dredging all that up for him in a vomit of memory.

And if he had to guess, the King of Monsters hadn’t stopped by to admire the chickens.

Stretch didn’t look up, only broke off the stem on another bunch of grapes. “hey, asshole.”

He could practically feel the sigh Asgore heaved at that. He was a huge guy and a Boss Monster to boot, he practically had his own gravity field. Maybe someday he’d get his own moon. The gate hinges creaked a little as he opened it, and Stretch distantly made a mental note to let Edge know about it. He liked to have things in good working order.

“I’m aware that you don’t like me,” Asgore said, heavily. Like that ‘I carry the weight of the world’ tone was going to work on Stretch? Yeah, whatever, he’d had years to learn how to get over that, thanks, and the voice might be lower but the tone was the same. He’d heard it plenty; apologizing for bringing him to New Home again, apologizing for asking this of him again, and oh, they knew it was difficult for him, they knew, didn’t they, every time he had to Look, every time he Judged, and this would be the last time, they promised, the very last one, the last soul--

Stretch set a bundle of grapes on top of the rest with deliberate care. “yeah? and here i thought i was being too subtle.”

“I came to apologize.”

“spare me.”

Asgore went on, doggedly, “I didn’t even consider the dates until your brother mentioned it. I’d forgotten it was your anniversary.”

“you ain’t the only one,” Stretch muttered. “leave me alone.”

“I understand how you must feel--”

“you don't,” Stretch snarled, and whipped around, glaring at Asgore, who only looked sad, and how dare he, how fucking dare he. “you don’t know shit about me, don’t you tell me you know how i feel!” Cold wetness registered and Stretch looked down to see a wad of crushed grapes in his hand, juice dripping. He grimaced and let it fall to the ground where the chickens could investigate it and wiped his hand on his pants. “if you’re here to tell me edge asked you to keep an eye on me—

He could visibly see Asgore revising his words. Now that he was facing him, Stretch could see he was wearing the same clothes he always did in New New Home, jeans and a bright, flowered shirt, huge hairy arms poking out of the short sleeves. Furry as he was, the cold probably didn’t bother him much, not until the temps dropped below zero. He just stood there, hands tucked into his pockets and sadness in his eyes and Stretch wanted so very much to hate him.

“I’m not and he didn’t. We both know he’d never do that to you,” Asgore said quietly. “I’m here because I am aware of the promise he made to you and I know your feelings on broken promises. If you need to blame someone, blame me, I forced him to go.”

“aww, ain’t you a honey,” Stretch cooed, sickly-sweet. “thanks for stepping up as this week’s martyr.” He couldn’t look at Asgore anymore, snatched up another empty bowl and started stuffing it with grapes. “he’s a grown monster who can make his own choices and i’m getting pretty damn sick of other people butting in on my marriage.”

“Of course, and I’m sure he would have declined if anyone else could have taken his place. He even suggested as much, but with Undyne’s pregnancy—“

“stop. you stop right there. i know better than to fall for this shit.” Stretch closed his sockets, trying to control his breathing, because Edge hadn’t mentioned that when they were arguing, hadn’t said that he had tried to get someone else and Undyne was pregnant, holy shit, “my turn to ask a question. on a scale of one to ten, how pissed off would edge be if he knew you were here right now?”

He couldn’t be less surprised that Asgore didn’t answer him. “I can’t trust Toriel and Frisk to just anyone.”

“great. you’ll protect your family at the expense of mine.” Again, no answer. It was too much, his tangled emotions hitting a plateau and all the anger building in Stretch collapsed, letting out like a punctured balloon. He could taste tears again, hot and sweet on the back of his tongue, “leave me alone. please.”

That whispery little plea did what all the sarcasm Stretch tossed out didn’t. He heard heavy footsteps, the creak of the gate, and when it closed he sank to the ground, holding his aching skull in his hands while he choked back the tears that were trying to fall.

Fucking fantastic. He felt like all the ground he’d gained talking to his therapist last night was lost, and why hadn’t Edge told him that he’d tried to get someone else. Because Undyne was pregnant? Was that...was…

His soul constricted painfully, his vision blurring. “Hey, Stretch...uh...are you okay?”

He jerked, looking up to see Jeff’s concerned face peering over the gate at him. Wonderful, another witness, just what he wanted.

Stretch sighed aloud. It wasn’t even noon yet and this was promising to be a long fucking day.

~~*~~

TBC

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 80

Chapter Summary -   Tom comes to terms with Danielle's leaving.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

The Magdalen is not a happy book, very depressing in that it actually happened a lot in Ireland.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe​ @wolfsmom1​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Tom lay awake in his bed, thinking of the day before. He had slept very little, all that he could think about was the conflict in Danielle's eyes before she put her hand on his chest and gently pressed for him to get off her. He had felt different versions of disappointment before, from not winning awards, from his parents' separation and subsequent divorce, to not getting jobs he wanted but when Danielle declined him, when she said she needed to take time away, he felt a pang of heart-breaking disappointment not like the others and it hurt.

He looked over to the side of the bed she usually took, it smelled of her, her book that she had been reading on the nightstand, she had left it in her rush to leave. He reached over and looked at the cover, "The Magdalen" he didn't know it, so he read the back cover; the last thing it could be accused of being was light reading if the description was anything to go by. He opened it where she had left a scrap of paper as a bookmark, he noticed immediately it was his writing on the paper, he read over it and swallowed. A note, he had scribbled it one afternoon when she was gone out to the shops because Luke had asked him to the office, there was an issue that needed immediate rectifying. But at the end was a quote, one he had taken from something he had read only a day or two before, it reminded him immediately of her "You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love, I love, I LOVE YOU.— Pride & Prejudice". He knew she loved that book, and him writing it to her had clearly meant something to her, she had kept it. In a mixture of sadness and anger, he threw the book off the bed, cursing why he had not had the cop on to tell her more about the interview, or just apologise immediately rather than think little of it.

She had struck a few low blows too with her calling him fame-hungry but it was after she had been hurt and he knew Danielle, he knew if she wanted to be brutal, she could, he witnessed it first hand with everything with Taylor, she was trying to get him to feel a fraction of what she had, successfully enough.

His thoughts went back to her words as she left and he found himself praying that with time apart, she would see that though they had a few things to work through, she would want to continue their relationship. As he turned on his phone, he felt himself become more disappointed as he realised she had not contacted him.

*

Mac panted heavily as they returned from their run, they had been spotted in the park by photographers that were clearly waiting for someone else. They took a photo or two, Taylor's name was something that seemed to be audible in the muffle of words, but overall, they were not overly bothered with him. Thankfully, Tom was becoming less interesting to people once more, he hoped that with time, it would die down again, the magazine interview, which featured more about Taylor than he had planned, had piqued people's interest again, but it would die down, it always did. "That was a good run for today." He scratched Mac's ear as the dog sat waiting for him to remove his collar and lead. "We had better get something to drink." He filled Mac's bowl and placed it down for him, watching as the dog spilt more on the floor than could possibly have gotten into his mouth. "We need to get something for that."

He went and checked his phone, realising that Luke had sent him an email, his agent had sent him two and there was a text. He was going to leave it but he decided to check it, it was from Benedict, simply asking if he had started patching things up. In need of an understanding and somewhat intelligent ear, he pressed the call button.

"Hey, Tom."

"Are you free?"

"Shit, still bad?"

"Better." It was honest at least.

"But not good?"

"No."

"Right, do you want to come round, Sophie is gone to some pregnancy yoga thing, I have no idea what really, they seem to just use it to have others to understand crappy pregnancy stuff more than anything."

"Sure I'll just get Mac settled and head over."

"Wait, the dog is there?"

"Yes."

"So Elle is still there?"

"No."

"But she left Mac, that's a good thing, right?"

"Hopefully."

"Right, get your arse over here, clearly I need to hear everything."

Tom hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen again to a very remorseful looking Mac, who seemed to be trying to use his body to hide his water drinking mess. "What are you doing?" Tom chuckled. Mac lowered his head guilty. Taking out his phone, Tom took a photo, he was about to add it to a text to Danielle but stopped himself. She said she needed space, he wanted to respect that, to show her that he was able to actually listen to her, since his actions the day before made her think he did not. "I'll have to show her when she comes home." He smiles sadly at the dog before putting the phone away again and getting kitchen towel to clean the mess.

*

"Hey." Benedict opened the door. "Kettle's on."

"Good." Tom gave his friend a smile as he walked in the door.

"Right so, a PG-rated version of after the phone call if you don't mind." Ben indicated to Christopher, who was currently "eating" food in the form of smashing it around the bowl.

"There was very little swearing."

"A good sign," Ben interjected.

"She said how it upset her, and that she wanted to hate me but couldn't."

"Ouch."

"And how she needed time to just back away from things, she was feeling as though she could make a mistake that she could regret if she stayed."

"And you think she means that staying with you, working it out is a mistake?"

Tom scoffed. "You think it's not what she meant?"

"She could also mean that she could call it quits and regret that, that she loves you and that she doesn't want to risk losing you."

"A tad far fetched."

"Not really. Did she say specifically that she thought to stay was a mistake?"

"No, she said if she stayed she'd forgive me too easily."

"Not the same." Ben shook his head. "Sounds like she wants to make you realise your mistakes in this too." Tom looked at him sceptically. "How long is she in Ireland?"

"Until next Monday."

"Right, so a week. Use the week to your advantage, take some time, assess yourself, assess what you want and what you need to do to achieve it. Hopefully, she will do the same and you will both arrive at the same place."

"And if we don't?"

"Accept, cherish what was and move on."

"You sound like some sort of self-help guru wannabe."

"I do a lot of mindfulness. You see the world differently when you take the time to step back, it means a lot of self-reflection and critiquing."

"How do you find it?"

"Most of the time, pretty good."

"The rest of the time?"

"Sometimes I realise things about myself that frankly, I don't like, so I see how best to change the things that bother me," Ben answered honestly.

Thank you for the advice."

"Anytime."

"How is Sophie?"

"Good, she went to the spa day that Elle suggested, met a mom there that suggested she go to this yoga class twice a week and honestly, she has been so much more upbeat even on the tiring days now, I think she just needed to feel human and not like a balloon for a few times a week."

"How much longer?"

"Bout a month, so she is looking forward to that, though the idea of another lot of night feeds and a tonne of nappies is not so appealing."

"No," Tom tried to stay smiling as he thought of all of that.

"What's running through your mind?"

"I just thought, you know, maybe it was my turn, that I finally…"

"Okay, you need to stop this, right now. First of all, it is just a fight, all is not lost, Elle will relax when she takes the time to think things through, she loves you, so much it is actually equal parts adorable and nauseating. Clearly, you mean an incredible amount to her, but she is hurt, which is understandable and from what I gather, she, as an only child, is not used to having people around her, even siblings, after a fight, she is just taking time to regroup her thoughts now. I refuse to think she will leave this, she loves you almost as much as you love her I think."

Tom was about to argue when his phone rang. He looked at it and groaned. "Emma, she knows something is going on."

"Well, you can't avoid her forever."

Tom groaned again and pressed the answer button. "Hey, Emma."

"So, have you fixed everything?" Tom tried to think of a diplomatic answer. "You're an idiot." She sounded exasperated. "Seriously mum is going to lose the plot with you when she finds out."

"We are just working through things," Tom explained.

"What did you do?"

"I made a bit of a balls of something, but I am trying to fix it."

"If I lose my friend because you are an ass…"

"If Elle stops talking to you because of me, then that is wrong of her." Benedict nodded at that particular statement.

"Okay, I'll give you that, but you would make things awkward and she might avoid me when you are around."

"Yes, I would be at fault there." Tom conceded. "She is gone home to Ireland for a few days, I will be talking to her, I am working on it, Em."

There was a moment of silence on the phone. "Okay, if she is too much of a bitch, let me know. She needs to be a bit of one to get you to cop on, but too much and I will try and get her to back off."

Tom smiled a little, it was true, Danielle could get vicious and would admit herself she could be a bitch, and yes, he deserved some of it for his actions but knew that if she got too stubborn, she would not forgive him, he needed his sister on his side. "Thanks, Em." The siblings said their goodbyes and Tom hung up the phone, "Sorry."

"Don't be, it sounds like I'm not the only one who wants this to just be a small bump on the road for you guys."

"Poor Em is really in a ‘no man's land’. It would be everything she ever feared."

"Positive thinking Tom, it will be fine, you just need to work through it. Nothing is harder, the first bad fight is hard, fighting for what is worth fighting for is incredibly so."

"You are being annoyingly positive and adult right now."

"Yes and you are being somewhat pig-headed," Ben joked. "Give it all some time."

"And if not?

"There is nothing you can do, if Danielle feels it is better to call it quits, you can only respect that and try and find someone else in time."

Tom sighed. "I didn't think the article would focus that much on Taylor."

"It was the first time you spoke about it, of course, any magazine would jump on that, though I expected more from GQ."

"That's why I said it to them, I thought it would be a paragraph, nothing more, instead it was the most of the piece, pictures and all."

"Nothing you can do about it now."

"It's done." Tom nodded sadly. "That's what Elle's dad used to say, it's done."

"Good mantra to have." Benedict agreed. "Now, what're your plans for the next few days?"

"Milan fashion week."

Ben chuckled, "Because that is so you." He scoffed.

"Gucci made it part of the contract."

"So you wear some gear, enjoy and when you get back, talk to Danielle, she'll be back by then, right?"

"She seemed to indicate she would be, yeah."

"Good stuff. Plan and think through things until then."

#I Hate You I Love You #chapter 80 #wolfpawn #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic