➳april’s fool ♡

in which fred weasley is in love with y/n l/n, the girl he happens to tease and insult profusely for her attention. 

fred weasley x gryffindor!fem!reader 

word count: ±4.3k 

tw: food, fireworks, pranking, fred being a bully, tad bits of swearing

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my masterlist:D

ft. minnie, dumbledore and severus

yeah, your grandmama probably know me 

get more bottles, these bottles are lonely

it's a moment when I show up, got 'em sayin', "wow"

april’s fool 

“tomorrow is april fools,” dumbledore sighs. 

“you know what that means...?” mcgonagall asks, her voice on edge.

“the twins,” snape replies quickly, not even bothered one bit as he sips his dark coffee.

“and their pranks,” dumbledore dramatically rolls over in his armchair.

“okay and?” 

“they’re a hazard, severus!” mcgonagall replies.

“that doesn’t stop them.”

“what will stop them?” dumbledore ponders, eyes faint with interest. 

“you still have those weird buzzy fireworks right?” snape asks. 

“of course.”

“and minnie, you have the cake mix your grandmother gave you?”

“still in my cupboard next to the biscuits.”

“excellent.”

y/n l/n listens from the other side of the door, grinning. she’s been called to mcgonagall’s lavish office for some business she hopes isn’t trouble, but the conversation the three are deeply invested in piques her interest. 

she likes fun. the type of continuous laughter and uncontrollable fits of giggles at noon. that’s why she enjoys the pranks the twins play. they’re bold, sharp and reckless and have the undoubtable trademark of fred and george on them.

one too a many times she’s been on the receiving end of them. one time the twins had charmed the library so that she and other studious students could not find any books that they wanted or needed for a whole week. 

another time, her hair had been dyed bright pink. she wasn’t a fan of it, but tried her best to rock it. it worked. y/n had received many compliments on her bubblegum pink locks. 

she laughed it off a lot. whenever something quite embarrassing happened, it was usually funny. 

even the snide remarks the older twin always cast her way.

including the time he called her a blackhead. well, multiple times. 

“oi, l/n, looking like a blackhead.”

george had rolled his eyes at his brother before adding kindly, “at least you have nice hair. your tie’s always shiny too.”

she had just laughed, “at least i’ve got the blackhead looks to pull pink hair off, weasley, you can’t even pull off ginger hair, and thanks, georgie. love ya.”

fred had looked taken aback, but y/n still scowls at the memory. she gets she isn’t pretty, but there is a line you don’t cross when trying to insult someone.

he always calls her the most awful nicknames too; body parts that align with her name and random pieces of rubbish she isn’t bothered to remember.

she shakes herself of her thoughts and draws herself up, knocking thrice on the door lightly.

“come in,” mcgonagall’s calm tone beckons.

“good afternoon professors!” she chirps, smiling at all three.

they smile back. even snape. they’re big fans of the girl, who’s studious but mischievous. albus dumbledore has always thought that y/n’s eyes always look like all she’s seen is a beautiful sunset. 

“now you must wonder why i called you here,” mcgonagall starts.

“you see, how have you punished the weasley twins when they play all those pranks on you?” dumbledore eagerly asks. 

y/n gives a light laugh, “i just prank them back. i won’t get detention for this, right?” she jokes.

they laugh, “of course you will,” snape jokes back and for a second y/n is surprised that severus snape, the ever so cold potions professor, is cracking jokes. especially to her. 

“well then, i guess i can’t tell you how i prank them back then,” she drawls dramatically.

“no, no, do tell, we’re, what do you young people say?” mcgonagall pauses, “ahh yes! we’re all ears!”

y/n bursts out laughing, “okay, i usually do something that’s subtle enough but still very noticeable. they need to be anonymous too, or that’ll start prank wars and i’m only looking for short term pleasure really. one time, i dumped a whole bunch of polyjuice potion in both their little goblets. fred became george and george became fred. they were so confused.”

mcgonagall is impressed. 

“can you bake?” dumbledore asks and y/n shakes her head for a long time. 

“can’t bake for my sanity.”

“awesome. that is what i thought too,” dumbledore answers and y/n smiles. 

a single knock sounds. it’s proper and formal. 

“come in!” mcgonagall yells.

draco malfoy in all his glory steps into the room, eyes alight with concern, ever so indifferent. 

y/n knows him from quidditch. they’ve become relatively good friends, though she thinks he is very busy with his home life. she also knows that there’s more to him than the facade he has.

“afternoon,” he nods and gives a charming smile. 

“now, draco, i understand your mother had enrolled you in baking classes,” snape says. 

draco nods. 

“you must bake a cake,” mcgonagall hands him the cake mix.

she hands y/n the box of fireworks and winks. 

“good day professors! make sure to be at breakfast tomorrow!” y/n shouts, dragging draco with her to the kitchens. 

soon draco is laughing with y/n, at her atrocious puns and lightly placed jokes, finding himself very much happy. he’s not interested in her romantically, he simply enjoys her company. he’s even sharing some funny stories of his own too.

“...and i told him, to precisely fuck off.”

“so that’s how you deal with him!”

“oh no, he didn’t stop. he kept bugging me.”

“what did you do then?”

“i cast a muffliato charm on him.”

y/n bursts into laughter as they pass the gryffindor common room, quickly hiding the box of fireworks in her cloak as she spots two red heads quietly snickering by the fat lady. 

they notice the unlikely pair scurrying down the stairs. 

“hey, google eyes!” fred shouts. 

y/n doesn’t know fred well enough to decide if that greeting is dedicated to herself, so she continues upon her way. 

“weasley,” draco states. 

“huh?” y/n fakes oblivion. 

draco jerks his head in the way of the twins, where fred is smirking handsomely, leaning against the wall in a model-like fashion. 

george is shaking his head in dismay. 

“i said googly eyes!” fred shouts again.

y/n won’t lie, she thinks fred has undoubtedly good looks and his ginger hair is cute. he’s just a terrible person. to her, at least. she knows she’s biased, she’s often seen fred comforting ginny after a bad fight with a boyfriend, and from what she’s heard from alicia and angelina and katie, he’s funny too. 

she whips out her glasses and stares deadpan at him, before rolling her eyes and running with draco down the stairs, laughing like madmen.

they finish baking late at night, and waving her wand smartly over the cake, y/n produces a charm that will make the fireworks activate as soon as the cake is cut open. 

draco smiles as he pipes purple and orange roses, writing a ‘happy bday fred and george’ in chocolate letters. 

they add lots of sprinkles, hoping to seem like avid admirers of the twins. 

“does miss l/n and misters malfoy need any assistance?” a house elf asks.

draco just about opens his mouth to snap a ‘no’ when y/n gives him a silencing look.

“thank you rosemarie, but that is not needed, you are welcome to watch and talk with us though,” y/n politely answers, giving her a grin. 

the house elf sniffles, “miss l/n is too nice! rosemarie will make some hot chocolate for her! pretty hair!”

y/n laughs, “thank you very much, rosemarie. i think mister malfoy would also like some hot chocolate, with a tiny bit of firewhiskey, if that’s alright with you,” she winks at draco who just scoffs in reply. 

when they’re finished with the cake and the hot chocolate, y/n enters the gryffindor common room. angelina takes the cake and wraps it up in a box and nice wrapping paper. she sends it flying to the twins’ usual spot on the gryffindor table. 

“thanks angie!” y/n smiles, getting up from the cozy spot near the fire in the common room. 

“why are you going? we’re staying up till midnight for the twins’ birthday; wanna join?” angelina asks. 

y/n shakes her head, “i’m not too close with them, it seems like a rather intimate ceremony,” she keeps her words fluffy and light. really, she would join any birthday celebration, but she didn’t think she could handle the constant insults and annoying comments fred always made about her. and this would have been completely acceptable if she had done something to any one of the weasleys, but she hadn’t. she even regards ginny weasley as a little sister and was invited to one of ginny’s infamous slumber parties. okay, she might have a little crush on him for his joke-ish nature, but it’s nothing she can’t get over. he’s out of her league, for sure, she thinks. and terribly rude. she doesn’t understand why she still harbours those feelings for him. maybe because that time adrian pucey was mocking her for her ‘blood purity’ he stood up for her. or that time she hurt herself at quidditch and fred stayed up with her bandaging her wound. he cared when it mattered, she guesses. 

“i’m sure they would love you there.”

“fat chance,” she scoffs, “have a good night!”

she goes to her own dormitory up the stairs. she’s well known in gryffindor house, but for different reasons than the twins may be. although she’s close with angie and alicia, she’s not close with the twins. mainly because she’s always studying, playing quidditch, and doing prefect things. 

being on a quidditch team with fred weasley is bearable. mainly because she’s the captain. 

she’s stopped by a large hand on her shoulder. the owner of the hand swivels and suddenly a grinning fred is revealed. 

“where’re you going?” fred weasley’s annoying voice pronounces. 

“the sahara desert,” she snaps back dryly, “you’re in the way of my world exploration.”

“am i, really?”

“‘course,” she reigns her attitude in, “nice night, isn’t it?”

“for you? never.”

she scowls. fred watches in utter amusement as she takes a deep breath and charmingly smiles. 

“dearest freddie, will you please allow me to get to my dorm so i can have some sleep?”

fred’s heart skips a little at the nickname but shakes his head. 

“what’s the password?”

y/n sighs. “i don’t know. y/n is a blackhead. googly eyes. whatevers.”

fred lets out a loud laugh. y/n finds herself trying hard not to laugh with him. 

she turns around, ready to find her hufflepuff friend that has a spare bed in their dormitory, knowing fred is really stubborn.

“that’s not the password.”

“well, good night.” she walks off, before intensely diving in a style harry potter himself would be proud of, onto the stairs and running up the dorms laughing. 

fred stands at the bottom of the stairs, dumbfounded, his jaw hanging open. 

“close your mouth, flies will be caught,” he heard the giggling voice of y/n.

“close yours and you’ll look better,” he insults back. 

“oh shut up. we know i’m the prettier one. and that’s saying something.”

the next morning, fred and george wake up to presents, a rowdy common room, and a nice cake sitting waiting for them on the gryffindor table. 

for the first time, y/n takes a seat opposite them, her eyes alight with the familiar mischief they always held. she steals glances at the professors, who were beaming down with interest, as if they shared an inside joke. draco malfoy has an odd smirk on his pale face. 

all eyes are on them as they cut open the cake. with a bang, fireworks come flying out of the cake in all directions, sending crumbs and icing flying in the air and leaving soot on the twin’s faces. their ginger hair is covered neatly with white icing and the fireworks continue for a calamitous five minutes. everyone’s too busy laughing and trying to dodge the flying cake to see that y/n l/n and draco malfoy are laughing quietly in a corner together, both with spells like umbrellas. 

fred’s eyes, however, are trained on y/n, who’s rolling over in laughter. he quickly casts a scourgify on himself and george, and strides casually over to her and malfoy, the usual lazy smirk on his face as he hears ‘draco ohmygosh that was the best. your cake decos are on point! d’ya think he’ll ever bully me again?’. that confirms his suspicions. she did play this prank on him. and it makes him feel fuzzy inside.

his face then contorts into a frown. she thinks he bullies her? 

“i wouldn’t say he bullies you, y/n.”

he smiles. never mind.

“but it isss! i can assure you, there is absolutely nothing nice ‘bout being called a frame!”

fred snorts at the time y/n had been gushing adorably over a picture frame that was embellished with gold and bronze flowers to angelina. he had went over and in an attempt to catch her attention, said ‘you’re a frame’.

sure, he was good at flirting, but not to the girls he really really liked. 

“that’s fucking funny,” malfoy laughs. 

“oh shut it draco, your face is funny. but yeah, i should probably ask him to start fresh.”

he decides to interrupt their conversation. 

“ask who to start fresh?” he butts in. 

y/n doesn’t even look surprised, “in fact, you, fred, because i’m not really sure if i’ve done anything wrong to you or anything, and by my memory i don’t think i have and you keep being rude and stuff. if i have, i’m really sorry for it and i’m sorry that i hurt you and all. if we can y’know, start over, and maybe be friends?” she catches the unreadable look in fred’s eyes and hesitates, “or maybe not, that’s okay, we don’t need to!” she gives a small laugh, “er, sorry for ever bringing it up?”

the earnestness of her tone and the wistful look in her eyes makes fred fall a little harder. ever since he saw her nervously fiddling with her robes in first year, he’s been smitten. 

there’s a silence. malfoy has slipped off, the sneaky bastard. 

fred simply takes y/n’s hand, giving her a look as if to ask for permission. 

she swallows and nods. 

they’re in the courtyard, which is sunny and light. flowers are blooming everywhere. 

“can i kiss you?” fred asks.

y/n’s eyebrows go up. “what?”

“can i kiss you?” fred repeats patiently. 

“as in kiss? k-i-s-s?” y/n asks, eyes wide with suspicion and curiosity.

“yep,” he chuckles, “crazy, aren’t i?”

“yeah, you’re crazy.”

“really? can i kiss you?”

“i’ve never really kissed anyone.”

“i guessed that.”

her eyebrows furrowed in hurt, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“i’ll tell you if you let me kiss you.”

“there better be a good reason because i was saving it for someone special.”

“i need a yes, love.”

she huffs, “yes.” she won’t tell him that she has a crush on him, because to be honest, she still isn’t sure if this is a prank or not.

she surprised when fred tilts her head up ever so gently, a smile on his face.

this kiss is short and sweet. he tastes like cinnamon.

when they’ve let go, fred notices the light pink dusted over her cheeks. he smirks. 

“you have to tell me why you thought i’ve never kissed anyone,” she said, eyes flashing in deep thought.

“such a beautiful person as you does not deserve kisses from anyone.”

“...” 

fred took this as a sign to go on. “the reason i’ve always teased you endlessly is because i want your attention. i didn’t think you’d give it to me any other way. if you haven’t noticed, i’m in love with you. i think you’re absolutely beautiful, both ways. i love it when you frown and get annoyed, even if you rarely do, i love it when you study so hard your face makes this really concentrated look. i love it especially when you laugh and smile and joke and play pranks. even if they’re on me.”

“...” she was studying his movements. inside her brain, a frenzy was going on. part of her brain- the ever so optimistic part, was screaming happily, and the logical part was using body language to analyse whether he was lying or not.

eyes? their honey brown colour was glistening with affection and truth, an expression so dainty on his face. 

a quaint little smile was on his lips, a small one, a genuine one. it was different to all the other smiles she’d seen him smile. 

he wasn’t acting, she decided. if he was, he should take up a job in broadway. 

“y/n?”

her brows were furrowed. she’d never been confessed to as genuinely as this before. 

if they started this type of relationship would he still be mean and insult her all the time?

“i-i need time. to figure this out.”

he doesn’t look disappointed, she thinks. instead he looks down at her with... adoration?

“of course, sweetness, anything, i’ll wait for you.”

she smiles, “thank you, freddie.” 

☆

it’s been a few days since fred’s confessed to her. she’s still unsure if he was joking or not. why?

at this moment, she’s watching him giggle with angelina johnson. it seems like he’s forgotten everything and anything. he’s gotten closer to her. maybe he’s lost feelings for y/n? she can’t blame angie, she’s a wonderful girl. if he likes her, that’s fine too. suddenly her feelings for him become very clear. she like-likes him. and it’s a bit too late.

but maybe he doesn’t like angie in that way? maybe he’s still into her? 

y/n knows molly weasley raises her children with patience. she should trust that fred’s waiting for her. 

but then again, she’s never gonna be as special as angie johnson. she’s just a ever so polite and outgoing nerd. someone who’s foolish enough to prank. angie’s smart, confident and funny and terribly patient. and effortlessly beautiful. she’s got the true gryffindor touch. and angie’s been one of fred’s best friends since day one. she’s always gonna be number 1. 

that’s ok. she’ll accept it. she likes angie anyway. it was probably a joke anyway. 

she couldn’t be jealous, just a bit dismayed that it wasn’t genuine. whatever, she thinks. we can just go back to how we were before. or not. 

and it’s relatively easy. they never really saw much of each other anyway. she’ll get over this tiny little liking. 

it’ll just be like normal. none of this happened. none of it. she grimaces bitterly, damning fred for his stupid games. should’ve known this was another of his pranks. but his acting though, certainly very good. 

she smiles to herself.

“knock it off, y/n, you’re here to learn, not to love.”

and that answer, is satisfactory. 

she gets up from her spot on the gryffindor table rather abruptly, saying goodbye to her friends, and makes her way to the kitchens. she knows she won’t be alone, she’ll talk to hansel and gretel, the twins that cook with the house elves every dinner.

they’re cleaning up as she walks in, book in hand. 

“hi hans, g!” she calls, as she rolls up the sleeves of her sweater to help them with the dishes. 

“y/n!” gretel gives her a hug with soapy arms and y/n giggles.

“how are both of you?” y/n asks. 

“good, good, potions though...” hansel trails off and they all laugh.

“potions is always like that,” y/n agrees, “it’s supposed to be really hard for newts, so you can’t really blame the subject.”

“i’m thinking of dropping divination,” gretel says.

“yeah, that’s wise, gretel buns,” hansel teases and gretel scowls. 

“divination is an easy subject, gretel, you just need to make random stuff up. i saw this weird bear thing in polly’s tea leaves, it wasn’t in the textbook. i told trelawney it was a symbol that a stranger would come and whip polly off her feet, with a whip the colour of the rarest german emeralds, leaving her absolutely smitten. i got full marks,” y/n laughs. 

they laugh too, and soon a light flowing conversation is shared over cups of hot chocolate. 

this is repeated for quite a few days and y/n even invites polly, marla and lenox, her best friends, to join. it’s a delicate, nice kind of week, one that suits her current struggles. 

when the weekends roll around, hansel and gretel suggest that they all sit at the hufflepuff table. they share jokes and quips over the food, y/n reading a book as she bites happily into apple pie.

“pfft,” her lips upturn ever so slightly at the quote that the character makes. 

fred watches her from the gryffindor table, utterly confused. y/n’s been avoiding him. he sees the flashes of hurt that run through her eyes whenever she sees him, and the quick grin that’s far too fake that follows. she’s been reading a lot more and he never sees her anymore. 

he wonders what he’s doing wrong. so as he sees her walking with her friends to hogsmeade, he calls for her. 

“y/n!”

her friends giggle as they see him, but she gives him a fleeting glance and raises her eyebrows at them, shaking her head, before profusely apologising to each one of them.

she approaches him warily, with all practicality in mind. she leads with her heart, but her head protects her. 

fool me once, shame on you.

fool me twice, shame on me.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he states.

“what would you expect?” she snaps, “isn’t this all a good laugh for you anyway?”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you know what i mean, this was all a joke, wasn’t it? fooling my poor little heart which you know has a crush on you. my head simply won’t allow it. admit it, and we can both move on with our lives,” her tone is sharp and cold, her eyes burning with fury and hurt, “i may seem gullible, and i am,” she gave a short laugh, “but when i notice, don’t even try to lie.”

“this wasn’t a joke, love.”

“don’t call me that, and you and i both know it is. your acting though, absolutely superb!” 

“what makes you think this was a prank, y/n? you were the one who asked for time.”

“yes, and the time made me realise that i had feelings for you despite all the teasing AND the fact you couldn’t possibly be genuine!” y/n says exasperatedly, her fury dissolving quickly, “you looked so in place with angie and everyone that it’s so obviously some sort of fun thing you did to try to get back at me!”

“angie?”

“a-and everyone else.”

“angie?” fred’s eyes were amused.

“you know, angelina, as in johnson.”

“angie?”

y/n shrugs, “you did bring her to the yule ball last year.”

“angie??!!!” fred was full on smirking now, as if trying to receive a real response. 

“i think you like her, okay?! are we done here? i’d very much like a good book from f&b,” y/n sighs. 

“i’ll accompany you to flourish and botts. why would you think i like her? didn’t i just confess to you?”

“yeah but it seemed kinda...” y/n trails off, not wanting her insecurities to come off as compliment fishing, “kinda far-fetched.”

“meaning?” fred knows exactly what she means.

“you know!” 

“oh but i don’t,” he smiles innocently.

“well, you’re you!” 

“is that supposed to be an insult?” he asks, faking a look of hurt rather well as y/n looks alarmed. 

“no, no, as in, you’re nice to look at, and you’ve always insulted me and been so nice and cool to everyone. are you for real?”

“nice to look at?” a cocky grin is on his face now, much more noticeable than the slight blush that was creeping up his face.

“is that the only thing you could pick up?” 

“nice to look at? what’s up with me repeating myself today?”

y/n lets out an agitated sigh. he doesn’t know, he’s blunt and straightforward. she likes cushioning her words.

“y’know, handsome? good looking?”

“my middle names.” another smirk to conceal the blushing. 

y/n smiles. “of course, everyone knows it.”

it makes fred uncomfortable. her light tone is a bit menacing too. 

“only joking.”

“i’m sure everyone does know it, darling.”

y/n is too busy looking at the dog that passes by to hear him, rambling quietly to herself over the cute scottish terrier.

“sorry, what was that?”

“aren’t i cuter than the dog?”

“nup.”

“really?” fred casually slings an arm over y/n’s shoulders, having to stoop a little lower to reach her.

“i think so.”

“well i’ll tell you something love, i think you’re absolutely stunning.”

“some love potion you’re on.”

“uh huh, the love potion is called love, sweetness.”

“so you’re for real?”

“as real as you and me.”

“you’re cheesy. this isn’t a prank right?”

“not at all, i love you.”

“i-i don’t think i love you just yet, but i think it’s possible,” y/n bites her lip, anxiously awaiting his response.

she tilts her head to look at him. 

he’s beaming. he looks more handsome than ever, a sweet smile etched on his face as he looks down at her in utter adoration.

“you have a crush on me!” he pulls her into a hug and giggles like a little girl, kissing the top of her head.

she’s engulfed by the smell of burning wood and cinnamon and immediately feels safe in his strong arms. 

“how’d you say we go on a date? so i can show how sorry i am for all the times i called you googly eyes and played pranks on you.”

“i’ll check to see if the girls are okay with it,” y/n replies, turning her head to see her friends. they’re gone. 

“they are. i asked them to shoo off before i approached you. is that a yes?”

y/n nods, “of course, freddie.”

“i love you.”

she laughs, “you really are april’s fool.”

“i’m your april’s fool.” 

he buries his nose in the crook of her neck to stop her from seeing his blushing red face. 

Into The Thick of It (2)

Loki x Female Reader

Chapter 2: The God

Series Summary: Her work as an agriculturist nearly takes the readers life is not for a stranger (and his weird looking dog) who later turns out to be the God of Mischief. Thrown into a completely different realm, you want to figure out a way home while trying to stay out of the way of this literal God. But fate has its own plans for the two of you.

Written for @tarithenurse and her #Taris1Kchallenge

Warnings: sexist remarks

Word Count: My jaw is selectively pounding now that my wisdom tooth is out and the stitches are in place. It feels so weird because its not like you can simply scratch an itch or around the itch in some way.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"How does this look?" Zaira is holding up a green dress that goes down to your toes in length. You give the deep shade a once over and turn back to your laptop. "Meh." Zaira tsks. "I mean-" you breathe and give your attention to your friend- "it's okay. For you. For me?" You shake your head and shrug before trying to discreetly get back to the screen. "Bullshit. You look amazing in green." You try to find the mouse on the screen. "Are you sure?" The question is bland. "Of course! No one can carry this like you! And for the sake of all things holy, stop looking at your death again and again!" Your brows furrow at the statement, turning back to Zaira, who still stands there with the green dress, except for one thing- the usual workspace of white and grey is now replaced with an eerily familiar dark forest with trees trying to touch the sky. "What?" It is nothing more than a whisper, this word erupting from your lips at the change in scenery. Your mind is at the edge of a realisation waiting to erupt when your hand feels an unwelcoming heat. The immediate reaction is to get your arm away from the laptop, or at least that is what you think you are doing considering the last saved spot of this occurrence in your memory. But there is no laptop. No chairs or tables.  Just a bonfire in front of you and your hands covered in blood and tied in ropes tearing through your flesh. And beyond that fire are figures in the dark chanting verses that are alien to your ears. But just as the chanting grows louder, you can feel a cloud of dread begin to loom of your heart; growing bigger by the second. Zaira! You are screaming her name but your voice isn't audible and you cannot see her anywhere either. Zaira!! You call out for her again when the figures seem to be getting closer to you, the anxiety in your chest beginning to hurt even more.  ZAIRA!!!

The loudness of her name in your conscience jerks you awake with the dread transported straight out of your hallucination. Still breathless and sweating from the nightmare, your head pounds at the sudden jump to the reality of finding yourself lying under a fur skin as heavy as you inside what seemed like a tent. From where you lay, the roof is a muddy beige colour dense enough to block sun or rain. Turning your head to your right, you can see a side table housing a copper goblet along with a copper jug. I hope to the Gods that water. I don't care if it's laced with poison at this moment. Turning to your left you are taken a little back to see familiar golden eyes staring from the copper jug back at you, so close that that saliva ridden tongue could lick you if it wanted. "Hi," you greet the familiar creature from the night of your nightmare, your heart still trying to dilute, resting by your side. The creature tilts its neck a little before you can see its tail rise up and swing from side to side. Such a doggo. You try to get up- with much effort, thanks to this animal duvet weighing just as much or maybe more than you- and breathe the cold air around you. Even though the anxiety of this recent incident is still looming around you in the corners you don't want to look at, it is a relief to feel the quiet around you. And the weird doggo looking at you seems to make those corners lighter, convincing your heart that it all ended not so bad at some point. Moving the fur duvet off you to get to the water on your side, you suddenly find yourself quickly putting the fur back on at the momentary realisation of something major amiss, bringing back all that anxiety that was watching you from the corners. "Where the fuck are my clothes?" you whisper right at the doggo despite knowing that poor thing can only swing its tail whenever you look at it. "They were tattered beyond repair." The voice immediately brings your duvet up to your chin before your eyes dart towards the entrance in front of you. No fucki-oh. A woman with skin paler than the pale described for Bella from Twilight stands at the entrance of the tent with a bunch of warm clothing. Her eyes carry a hint of grey and muddy green in them. She takes it upon herself to have already gotten permission to walk towards your side and place the clothes she has got in front of you before going back to secure the entrance. "You were fortunate to be alive in those deadly woods of the dark," she mentions while taking a thermos out of her dress and pouring the contents in the bowl kept on the makeshift table; all the while with her back towards you. You, still cautious of the eyes around you, slowly snuck the clothes inside the duvet to put them on. Only when putting them on, you realise the lack of a bra or panties; just a loose cotton camisole in their stead. ...okay. Maybe they didn't know my size. You look back at the woman busying herself around the tent. All you can see is the huge- and seemingly heavy- overcoat made out of an animal. Or maybe they...don't have the resources? Great, Y/N. Go be a judgmental b for the people who saved your life. The gown is a deep blue shade that neatly wraps around your shape and is put in place with the hooks, the last step being securing it all with the one string tied in what only you would call a bow. "So, it was you who saved me last night?" The woman brought you a bowl with steaming hot stew, bursting out in laughter on hearing your question. You stand there watching her immediately suppress the laughter as if she had been caught red-handed for a grave crime. "My apologies for what you just saw. It was not me who saved you." And before you can ask who it was, the woman gathers a wide bowl filled with water, a couple of hand towels and two bowls of what looked like homemade ointments, and walks out of the tent. You are about to go thinking about the materials that woman just took away when the only being you are familiar with, gets up from the bed, jumps down and struts out of the tent. "Wait...don't leave me," you whimper in a low tone, gathering a bit of strength to walk out right behind him. . The clearing in the forest has been turned into a camp with soldiers bustling in any direction you look. Swords, bows and arrows are being used for practice in one corner and the same are being mended in the other. Helmets akin to the ones Vikings wore can be seen on top of many heads. So can the undercut and braids. "Is this a cosplay fair?" you ask the one guy who passes by close to you. He is nearly the same height as you, but with a lush red beard and hazel eyes.  He- and his two friends- observes you from head to toe, almost making you realise how out of place you already look. "This is a war camp, missy. One where you have no reason staying." You mock a laugh at the audacity of this person. "I will decide the reason for my stay myself...boy." You start to walk away, trying to find any familiar figure in this quite realistic cosplay village. But last you remembered, there has been no such fair going on in the vicinity of that cursed town. A heated hand captures your arm and forces you to turn around. A wince comes out of you and flashes of that gory incident move before your eyes. Especially the face of that man. The Viking guy takes a step towards you, not letting go of your hand in the first wank. "Sigmund! Who is this wench with a quick mouth?" Sigmund, the taller of the three men, with bulky features and a sharp nose huffed. "Someone who needs to learn her place, Kare." "Aye," the last of the three speaks, "she does not look like help. Not in that silk she wears." Kare smirks through that unruly beard of his. "Why, are you that prince's mistress then, lassy? Is that why you came out from those royal tents, eh?" Kare turns towards his lads to laugh, who had slowly gathered now to watch the show, giving you something new to be anxious about. Agni, on the other hand, makes his way through this crowd to come and stand next to you, observing the situation. "Fucking dogs," you whisper under your breath- which you are trying your best to stop from trembling- and begin to walk away again but Kare is already hopping in your path. "Why in such a hurry, my lady?" He bows and turns towards his lads to let his words be heard by everyone "Give us unworthy lads a chance to find out how well you warm the royal beds, eh?" But the 'lads' seem to be having a sudden seizure. Either that or the joke did not seem to register. A sudden movement behind you and all the eyes staring past you assure you in your heart that it is the former one. "Your lads do not seem to find that funny, Kare." A voice not too deep but certainly somewhere right under the surface with a weight that can be felt in your bones, speaks from right behind you, freezing you where you stand. It takes some time for you to turn around and look at the source of the voice. And once you do, you realise how tall this man stands. His pale skin is radiant and his features sharp. You could draw straight lines just by referencing his cheekbones. His black hair- perhaps the only one with black hair in this cosplay fair- is neatly braided in braids at each side and the rest of the hair left open. What shampoo does he use? "I pity your mother and sister," this man continues, "for meeting your lads in an alley someday and being asked the same question." He does not stir his gaze from Kare, constantly piercing through that man's existence without so much as a smile.  "Apologies, your grace." Your grace?  You turn to watch Kare and his buddies drop their heads down and then it hits you. Your grace?!!! Your head whips around with the air of surprise as you watch this man in a new light. I mean, yeah, he kinda looks like a...'your grace'. "It is not me you should be apologising to." He doesn't even blink. He is as stoic as a boulder and everyone here revolves around him. "Apologies...my lady." The words bring you out of the trance that this man's face has created for you and you turn to watch Kare bow to you along with his 'lads'. "Ansa!" the man calls out for someone, finally turning to look at you. You have to catch your breath when those green eyes bore into you, the stare not too piercing and neither too soft. Just balanced. But damn the skies for it is making you lose your balance somewhere inside you. "Yes, my lord," the familiar lady comes out of the crowd to stand before him with her head low. "How is the weather today?" He simply puts the question. Within seconds you realise what the question really is about. You try your best to stand still in this chilly weather despite the sun high in the sky but it is as if he can smell the chill off you. "It's cold my l-" she realises it too, running to the nearest tent to grab a fur coat just like her Lord's and put it gently on your shoulders. "My apologies, my lady. Apologies, my lord." "Are the armies ready for the west front, Aren?" "Yes, your grace. Two battalions are ready to march to the mountains. They wait for my signal." Aren, a tall ginger with soft features gives a warm smile when you look in his direction. "Very well. Go for it then." And with that command, Aren walks to the space vacating in front of you, spreads his arms and transforms into an eagle to fly up and away beyond the nearest mountain. You are left with your jaw unhinged as you try to make sense of what just happened, turning towards the man in charge here; all the while pointing at the sky. "H-how?" "Walk with me..." that commanding voice a couple of minutes ago has transformed into a soft tone that captures a completely different personality of this man. "Y/N." "Y/N," he repeats the name as if to memorise it, and lets his arm gesture you towards the direction you are asked to walk. "I am Loki, of Asgard. Pleased to make your acquaintance." "Asgard?" you wonder the name out loud, confusion visibly dripping from your face. "There is no place by the name Asgard on the maps? Is this further north in the Alps? Wait...are we still in Norway or did we change countries?" The guards by the biggest tent make way for Loki and you to enter. Unlike the place you woke up in, this one houses everything fit for a king. From the bed to the cutlery. And everything has a colour theme going on for some reason. A real deep shade of green. Even Loki's fur coat carries blues and greens as if they had been specially plunged from the deepest corners of the oceans on earth. "Y/N-" he gestures you to sit down on the settee by the foot of the bed while he pours you wine in a goblet- "I have to tell you something. Be kind enough to hear me out before jumping to conclusions." You take the glass from his hand and sit down on the settee. Oh! cold hands! Is he okay? It's really chilly out there. "What?" You wait for him to start. Loki stands by the conference table and faces you, his hands working with each other as he looks at them before finally letting his gaze meet yours. "You are no longer on earth. You were transported to Asgard last night during the Pagan ritual, where you were conveniently made a sacrifice, and would have died if not for Agni hearing your prayers and tearing that scum apart." Silence. Loki’s features show no emotions when he narrates the reality to you. In fact, he waits for a reaction from your end, carefully studying those y/e/c eyes as they blink at him in unadulterated innocence, turn away to look at Agni and then come back to him. Ultimately, you take a sip from the goblet, letting the wine go down your throat, the involuntary reflex of tasting something not to your liking naturally coming over your face. Waiting for a few seconds, you bring the goblet back to your lips, this time gulping down the contents within a breath. "Okay." Loki looks at you with a focused glare before tilting his head a little. "Okay?" You nod. "Are you-" Loki pauses to come and sit down in the chair right in front of you but at a respectable distance- "okay with everything that I just told you? All the parts of it that do not make sense to a human?" You breathe in a lungful. "Oh, Gods! No. I am overwhelmed at this point. To even consider the fact that I am not currently on earth and that I was about to be raped by an eighteen-year-old cultist if not for your wonderful doggo and you, I am considering. Because now that I look at you I completely put you in the silhouette I saw last night. And I thought this was some adult dress-up show going on until a legit person just turned into an eagle and fucking flew away right in front of my eyes. I mean...it would take a good amount of CGI to actually make that happen just in the movies, forget real life. And if I am not on earth, the thought of getting out of doing mindless labour because your boss is an asshole is very appealing, mind you. Even though that means I have been thrown straight into a pit of testosterone-filled sexist Vikings who look like they will pounce on me the first chance they get. So...yeah. I am...I...uhh...have decided to shut my brain down till-" you simply shrug before breaking into nervous laughter and bringing the empty goblet back to your lips, raising it as far as it could go before it decided to release a drop into your desperate mouth. Loki blinks at you before breaking into a smirk that he hides from your eyes. It feels like he has watched you slowly crumble a little within the last few moments when all you did was talk. He has noticed those shaking hand movements and those trembling lips that force a smile to show they are doing absolutely fine. He has observed that shift of your fingers to scratch an itch on your exposed neck and that movement of turning that sole ring made out of iron in your index finger; hiding your anxieties in the rotations of that little circle. And now he watches you trying to dissolve the incoming anxious winds in alcohol. He knows this look too well. The look of fear; fear of the unknown. Loki raises his hand to you. "Allow me to refill that. With something better." You watch his hands and make a mental note of those long pale fingers and how good they would seem wrapped around anything. "Something better? I don't think Asgard could provide me with a Long Island Iced Tea or a Jeager Bomb. Or a Zombie." Loki simply chuckles and you find yourself stuck on that toothed smile of his. Is he the same guy who was dragging his soldiers in the mud like anything? Taking the goblet from you, he gets up and walks towards a little cabinet that opens up like a medieval bar.  "I sympathise with you being so far away from home. But I can assure you these...Vikings will not touch you or even think about pouncing on you ever." You furrow your brows and let your arms rest on each side while you tilt your head a little in question. "They know it better than to even think about what I claim as mine." You feel little chills go up your spine at his words, your legs going one over the other as you wiggle away certain scenarios from your mind. Damn! He should write dialogues for the entertainment industry. "Excuse me, sir," you press while raising your brow, "I may have fallen on your royal highness' land but that ain't making me anyone's property...considering this is your property." You cannot see it from where you sit, but the God chuckles at your audacity of raising your voice at him. He comes back to you with your drink. You notice that this time it is not the familiar red wine waiting for you in the goblet but something relatively darker and comparatively with a more medicinal odour. "No one will harm you. Agni will make sure of it. Isn't that right, beast?" You turn to watch Agni sitting right next to your feet, immediately wagging his tail at the mention of his name, contently growling as assurance. You notice how familiar this creature look to the Pitbulls back on earth. Give them pits some pointed skeleton for their backbone, a pair of horns and huge canines and these two breeds will be a copy of each other. "And we will find you a safe passage home once we reach back to the city." Home. unfortunately for you, the first thing at the mention of 'home' is the rush of crude flashbacks from last night of that horrid nameless town. No matter how hard you try to breathe in, the scenes keep on coming. Both Loki and Agni seem to sense the uneasiness creeping onto you. Your racing heartbeat and uneasiness of breath can be heard by them as clear as you can. "I hope you were not too attached to your clothes. I had to tear them apart to treat your wounds," Loki announces, gulps his herbal drink and walks towards the entrance of the tent. "Yeah, no problem. They were just clo-wait what? WHAT? You-" you get up and lower your voice for the fear of any third person hearing it- "you tore my clothes?" He nods with the most neutral expression you wanted to punch. "Yes. As you mentioned, they were just clothes. And nothing I haven't seen before. Now come on." You wonder whether to be relieved or angry with this one. Putting that thought on the back burner to simmer for a while, you gulp down the goblet without breaking any eye contact with him.  "Where are we going?" "To get you out of your clothes again," he states without skipping a beat and you have to question all the good you have thought about him till now. Son of a bitch! What an ass- "You stink. About time you took a bath."

what would kissing your close friend, kuroo or bokuto, for the first time be like? i imagined that you've been with him since high school and you only realized your feelings for him in college gahhh please indulge this hopeless romantic >.<

I would love to! This is for all the hopeless romantics out there who love Bokuto.

@janellion ... I hear you like stuff like this?

Downtown

Is it really this fun when you're on my mind? Is it really this cool to be in your life?

Bokuto x Reader, fluff. 2.2 K

Warnings: Nothing major. Suicide mentioned as part of a drink title. A little suggestive at the end.

The automatic doors hiss open as you walk into the humid Osaka night, wincing. The AC inside the 7/11 had made it easy to forget how hot it was. The slurpee you just bought is sweet and takes the edge off, but beyond that, you couldn’t say what the flavor was exactly. You let Bokuto take both of your cups to the machine and make suicides out of every option - “So none of ’em feel left out!” - like you always did. 

He was following you out, eyes gleaming in the fluorescent lights of the signs above you.

"It's good to just hang out like this again. We haven't done this in forever!" He was waving animatedly in your general direction, the drink in his flailing hand getting dangerously close to spilling on your shirt.

"Woah! My bad! Nothing got on you, right?"

You nod. He responds with a thousand watt smile that pushes his eyes closed and makes you want to grab his stupid hair spikes and drag him into a kiss.

You’ve got it so bad for your best friend that it’s almost funny, if it wasn’t also completely pathetic. It's only recently that you realized you liked him as more than a friend- but now that you’re reminiscing with him, the signs were very, very obvious. To you, at least. 

The pair of you are moving from the eye-piercing light of the storefront and over to the far side of the parking lot. The plan? To loiter, just like you did in high school when volleyball practice got out. Usually, you'd have 3 or 4 of his teammates with you, eating garbage snack food and joking around on the curb until the manager would chase you away. 

You can see in your mind how you would gravitate towards Bokuto on those nights, sitting next to him in the parking lot, bumping your foot or your knee into his while you talked. How you laughed at his jokes and would ask for his jacket when it got cold. His presence was magnetic, and you got pulled in deep. It wasn’t until after you both had graduated and started down separate paths that you were able to really see what you had. What you missed so deeply. 

It's just the two of you tonight, Bokuto fresh out of practice and talking excitedly about his teammates' antics, just like he used to. The only things that are different now are the names of the players. He’s telling you a story about his germophobic friend, Sasuke? You think? Bokuto talks so fast sometimes he doesn’t really annunciate well - and you sigh at the familiarity of it all. Maybe this would turn out alright; maybe you had been avoiding meeting up with Bokuto for no reason? 

You had thought that seeing him in person again, not just on a grainy phone screen, would be disastrous. It was hard enough to try and keep your feelings inside over video calls and text messages, but having him in front of you? You knew you’d do something to tip him off on how you felt toward him, and even though you knew he would never stop being your friend, the fear of your love being unrequited held you back. 

He'd been asking for weeks to meet up, and you had been successfully blaming college on your schedules not working - until he offered you to meet him late night on Friday, just like you used to. With no excuse and an irrationally heavy heart, you agreed to meet up.

Perhaps it was just a crush? Maybe you sought him out between classes and waited for hours after school just so see him because you just…. Liked him. And you had halfway convinced yourself that's all it was, until he had smiled at you brightly and reminded you just how dull things were without him in your life. 

He’s sitting now on a parking block with his back against a bollard, slapping the spot next to him invitingly. Bokuto whoops when you drop down next to him, slush flying from his cup as he whips it excitedly. "You gotta see this!"

He scoots closer to you, phone in hand. There's a paused youtube video onscreen: a highlight reel someone had made of his spikes. He hits play as soon as you lean in a little, grinning wildly and giving a play by play commentary as you watch. The outside of his thigh presses into yours warmly.

Here's hoping he can’t somehow feel the heat creeping up your neck.

He beams at you from over the phone, looking at you expectantly as the video ends. “Wasn’t I great?” 

You feel like you’ve run a mile and all he did was press his leg to yours. He’s too great. “Yes, Bokuto, you were amazing.”

He’s really grinning now, eyes crinkling shut. “You’ve gotta come to one of my games and see me in action! I promise, it’s waaaay better in person! You could even,” he pauses for a moment, thinking, “bring one of the guys you’ve been seeing? Watching me win would be an awesome date.”

Oh god, your dates. You had tried going on a few recently, another attempt to distance yourself from your best friend. Nothing serious - just coffee shop conversations, but they easily lost a competition they weren't even aware they were in. None of them could even begin to make you feel the way Bokuto did. And the thought of taking one of them to see your best friend and unrequited crush in his element? There’s no way that wouldn't find a way to blow up in your face.

“That’s a great idea, man,” you lie. “I’m not seeing anyone right now though.” Bokuto’s giving you a spectacular double eyebrow raise above his cup. “Oh ho?”

You flick his arm gently. “Don’t be mean, Bo. I’ll just come to a game and hang out in the stands with your date instead.”

Why did you say that. Why did you say that. Why did you say that. 

The eyebrows come down. He’s smiling, but it’s not quite reaching his eyes, which aren’t meeting your own. “Nah, you can’t do that. We broke up.”

You feel terrible for the little thrill that sends through you.

“Oh, Bokuto, I’m sorry.” You are. He’s your best friend. The cruel joy you feel does not go away. 

His eyes flicker to you momentarily. “Nah, it’s fine. They weren’t the one, you know?”

Who is? You want to ask. What comes out instead is, “How did you know?”

Bokuto hums inquisitively. “Know what?”

“That they weren’t the one. How did you know?”

He’s still not looking at you when he replies, “I just know.”

Silence falls. You use the quiet moment as an excuse to turn away as well. This is really unlike him. Had he changed that much in the time since you last saw him? Nothing else about Bokuto seems different - maybe the issue was just you?

Stop it. Don’t think things like that. 

The silence drags on. You pull the straw of your drink into your mouth and chew, trying to think of something not romance-related to talk about. Nothing is coming to mind - Bokuto has been all you can think about for a solid week, and being next to him is NOT helping. It’s just the two of you, alone together in silence. It’s late enough that there aren’t any pedestrians on walks to distract you, the night quiet and dark outside of the strangely illuminated parking lot. Desperate to think of anything else, you look up at the hazy summer sky.

It’s hard to see stars through the light pollution, but you can make out Vega, you think. Some stars were bright enough to see even in the middle of the city. The straw pops out of your mouth as you point it out loudly, getting Bokuto’s attention.

“Check it out Bo, you can see part of Lyra. That star’s got to be Vega. You remember?”

Bokuto jerks slightly before he turns to face you, looking startled. His gaze follows your finger up, mouth still pursed around the straw in his mouth. His smile returns as he tilts his head to peer up at the sky with you. “You told me about that one once! It’s a summer constellation, right?”

You drop your hand as Bokuto starts pointing out the faint other stars of the summer triangle. It may be hard to see stars in the city, but with Bokuto shining next to you, it’s hard to see anything else at all. The weird fluorescence of the parking lot light should have washed him out, but somehow he was aglow, soft shadows instead of harsh lines shading him lightly. He really was a star, and he burned the brightest out of any that you could see tonight.

You were staring at him again. 

It’s no surprise when he catches you this time, golden eyes meeting yours and matching your gaze. The delight is still present on his face but it’s sobering, turning serious. Your heart is racing as Bokuto continues to stare you down in silence. His eyebrows draw together as he raises his hand slowly, reaching for your face.

A finger grazes your cheek. You might have stopped breathing. He opens his mouth.

“You had some slush on your face.” His finger remains there, rubbing at the stuck on sugar.

...

Okay. Something has to change. There’s only so much your heart can take.

You reach up and cup your hand over his, holding it in place. Bokuto stills at the sudden contact, bewildered. You aren’t sure what you are doing, much less how to say what you want, but you hope that somehow he understands. No sound escapes your mouth as you maintain eye contact and slot your fingers together. Bokuto stares, still uncharacteristically silent - but he’s not just looking anymore. His eyes are searching, gaze sharp and analytical. You couldn’t look away from them if you wanted to.

Bokuto blinks first, eyes flitting over to your joined hands as you press your cheek into the heat of his palm. His thumb drags lightly over to your skin, meeting your bottom lip and tracing along the curve of it. He watches, entranced, as they part slightly from the touch. 

Even if this doesn’t work out. Even then. Just having this moment would be enough. Your eyes close as you huff out the breath you had been holding. The hot coil of anxiety snaking through your stomach makes you hesitant to open them again. When Bokuto’s thumb moves from your mouth to pad at your cheek, you steel yourself and open them again. 

You shouldn't have worried. There’s nothing in his golden eyes but understanding when you finally dare to open them again. Bokuto’s remaining hand is impossibly gentle as he places it on your shoulder, leaning into your space. His shoulders shake minutely with barely contained excitement from the breakthrough he’s just had - you like him, just as much as he likes you. There’s no way he can’t feel the heat in your skin rising now as your pulse skyrockets. 

“Kou…”, you whisper into the shrinking space between you.

Bokuto doesn’t bother with a response. His lips are a little chapped when they capture yours, but they're warm and eager and pressing in with the weight of half a decade of unconfessed feelings.

You know immediately what he meant earlier about knowing ‘the one’. No kiss from any of your dates was ever this electric. None of them made you feel like time was stopping when their lips met yours, or made your heart beat like it was about to fly from your chest. None of them made you feel like you were finally home, held in strong arms and with a familiar hand gently running along your cheek. 

There really was no one like Bokuto, and you were so glad there was no one else for him but you right now. 

You push forward until you chests are touching, desperate for closer contact now that you know you’re allowed to get it. The back of his head is cradled in your free hand, fingers tangling in the short spikes at the nape of his neck. Bokuto hums against your mouth, tongue slipping out to trace where his thumb had been earlier. He starts backward slightly as you meet it with the tip of yours, breaking away with a gasp.

“Woah! Not on the first date!”

“You used tongue first.” Your deadpan expression doesn't faze him. He wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders and pulls you close to his side, laughing. 

Wait a minute.

“Did you say date? Is this a date?”

Bokuto freezes. He glances at you side-eyed and inquires quietly, “Do you... want it to be one?”

It’s much easier to be truthful when you’ve had his tongue in your mouth. “I’d love it to be one.”

Bokuto whoops loudly, the exclamation echoing in the empty lot.

First dates usually sucked. This one, however, was going to stick with you for a long time. You run your tongue over your lips as you bump your head to his shoulder. Who knew slurpees tasted even better on someone else's mouth?

“Y'know, If we don’t leave soon,” you tease, “the manager might chase us away again.”

He hums dismissively and bends to press a kiss to your temple.

“Let’em.”

Secret Agent Bard (Welcome to the Underground!)

Hello everyone! E here with a new chapter of the underground! Woo! I hope you are all doing good and staying safe.

So I actually have more to say today! That's a trip. I’ll have an author’s note under the line. 

So that's it for now. Stay safe, take care of you and your loved ones, stay out of trouble, wash your hands, wear your mask, get vaccinated if you can and push to release the vaccine world wide cuz we're all in this together. Have a great week and thanks for reading. I appreciate it and feel free to tell your friends, reblog, drop likes and feedback i love it all. Bye for now and enjoy!

If you want an easier place to read the story cuz tumblr sucks sometimes here’s a link to the chapter https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/79541746

The First Chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/68094967

and since you made it this far here’s a link to all my stories!

https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/pseuds/MrE42

Byeeeeee!

Author’s note:  Today’s work will be a little different as there will be singing. The chapter with the bard is gonna have singing? Go figure haha So if you see a sentence in Italics, that means someone is singing. Bold and italics represents various people singing as a group. The song in question is called twiddles. There's different versions of it but the one I chose is from the misbehavin maidens. Great group but all their work ranges from innuendos to straight up not safe for work so listen at your peril. I have now completed my responsible adult duties haha. here’s a link to the chosen song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS1-_fKF5ug

Summary: Oliver has quite the task ahead of him as the group splits to achieve their goals. Leading Sel and Flora, the young bard will have to think quick on his feet to ensure this mission is a success. Luckily he's an old hand at this. Ironically the one person who could distract him may make a surprise appearance tonight.

-----

Oliver stood quietly, arms crossed and his mind thoughtful as the group prepared to go their separate ways. While ideally nothing would go wrong, that was a childish belief: Every person and robotic being here knew safety was not guaranteed in their line of work.

Even the old man knew the risks.

Oliver hated doing nothing. He thrived when he was busy, focused on whatever task required his attention whether it be being a better bard or upholding the Choir’s values. Too many ghosts and regrets lingered on the edges of his mind and he found the best solution was to simply keep occupied.

But that was his coping mechanism, not everyone else. He knew better than to rush his team: The party would last at least another few hours and beside the goal of getting Sel to the third floor, there was nothing else to do. No information to gather, nothing to review. Let them have their moment, it was good for morale.

Terri and Flora were sickeningly adorable: Hands clasped tightly with Terri tearfully asking her girlfriend to not poison everyone. Flora gave a halfhearted promise while as they shared a tender kiss. Terri noticed her less than enthused tone but refused to press the matter further.

Tyrell stood awkwardly to the side, his face twisted in a strange mixture of sick and excited. He fidgeted with something in his pocket, seeking comfort from whatever lay within. Given the shape of the bulge and size, Oliver guessed it was a knife.

Sel stood nearby, motionless in the shadows of the alley. They hadn’t moved in some time though he suspected the automaton was simply waiting for the next phase of the plan.

“Alright” Oliver spoke up, his voice firm yet gentle “Times up. You have your assignments?”

Uneven murmuring responded.

“Let’s go.”

Oliver, Sel and Flora went down one end of the alley, Terri and Tyrell disappearing in the opposite direction.

-----

It didn’t take long for the trio to find the main streets of the Merchant Ward and make their way towards the Brambleoak banking office. The crowds weren’t as thick as they had been during the day but Oliver knew everyone out and about did so with a purpose.

“Bard.” Flora asked without warning, breaking the awkward silence “Question.”

“Answer.” Oliver cheekily replied.

Flora glared.

Oliver coughed “Yes?”

“You are a First Chair Soprano correct?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Yet you are so young. How did you manage that? I thought First Chair ranks were only reserved for experienced or particularly skilled members. You don’t seem to be very magically powerful.”

Oliver paused for a moment, trying to best answer the question.

In a way Flora was correct in her assessment: He wasn’t particularly powerful as a spellcasting bard. Unlike Flora who clearly committed herself fully to nature and thus druidic magic, Oliver had only recently thrown himself into the magical arts.

Unless you were a wizard who studied the secrets of the universe with a very intimate and well versed knowledge of magic, most spellcasters drew their power from sources of existence: Clerics from their gods, Druids from nature, Warlocks from something beyond mortal existence yet not quite a deity, sorcerers because a family member fucked around with pure incomprehensible concepts. Magic was the fabric of the universe and the more you threw yourself into a source of power, the more the source threw itself into you, guiding your hand and your spells.

Of course each, wizards exempt, were limited in their spellcasting options. Clerics were powerful holy/unholy practitioners but couldn’t command plant life to save their lives. Druids were in tune with nature and the weather and all the lovely flora and fauna but ask them to superimpose an image onto something and they’d give you a dumbfounded look. Warlocks kinda just do whatever their sugar patrons felt like lending.

Magic bards drew their power from the arts: Drawing, singing, poetry, even witty and funny satire. Bards were in tune with life, with existence. Art could heal, could hurt, could make you feel happy and sad. It could make you feel like a whole new person or perhaps take you to a time and place you’d forgotten. Bards sung the song of life and Oliver was no exception.

However, Oliver still wasn’t sure what he could do exactly. His magical muscle was average on a good day and he could only cast a few spells before needing a good night’s rest. The basic healing spells and comprehension language he cast earlier today had taken a good chunk of his energy but he relied more on his wit than raw magical strength. He discovered creative and useful ways to cast his spells like amplifying dissonance noises to distract and disorient foes or temporarily place another person’s image over himself. Magic was as much about creativity as it was skill, pushing the limits of what you can do with your particular brand of spells.

“I’m clever.” Oliver answered honestly “The whole magic of the arts is new to me but I’ve been in the Choir for a long time now. I used to be Tenor like Sel here but more fast talking than breaking and entering. I guess they carried over my old position into my new one.”

Flora nodded, satisfied “That answers much. How long have you been a bard?”

“Few years now.” Oliver checked the street sign to ensure they were on the right path “The magic part is going on 3 years.”

“I see.” Flora scratched her chin “I’ve been a druid my whole life so it is a strange concept to be so new to the spellcasting arts yet hold such a high rank.”

Oliver gave a casual shrug “Not sure what you want me to say. We’re here by the way.”

The bank looked as unkempt as Oliver had remembered: Faded, peeling green paint with gaudy gray stone pillars. Two guards in green uniforms stood in front of the massive reddish brown doors that led into the bank.

“Lea’s mercenaries.” Sel pointed out “They are not letting anyone in.”

“Correction.” Oliver brushed off nonexistent dirt from his washed-out outfit “They’re not letting nobodies in. Luckily tonight we’re somebodies. Follow my lead.”

Oliver let out a tense breathe before strolling forward, his mannerism cocky yet unsteady. He reached the top of the steps when two sharp looking blades reached out to stop him.

“Halt” The elvish woman spoke with a hint of irritation “You lost?”

“Not at all!” Oliver beamed with a smile that was too wide to be natural “I’m here for the party. There is a party inside no?”

“No” The human man spat out.

Oliver gave a forgetful grin “Oh? I could’ve sworn Brambleoak was having some sort of charity event tonight. I’d show you my invite but I think I misplaced it.”

The elvish woman sneered “Right. How convenient for you having lost your special one of a kind invite.”

“Pfft.” Oliver scoffed “Special one of a kind invite? Reiner hands them out like candy. Probably find one in a gutter nearby.”

The guards shared an unspoken understanding with one another.

“Well.” The human began “Let’s pretend that is true.”

“It is but go on.”

The human’s eyes narrowed “Why should we let you in? You dress rather poorly for someone claiming to be in Reiner’s usual circles.”

Oliver let out an exaggerated gasp as he puffed out his chest “Do you know who I am?”

“Umm no.”

Oliver growled unhappily, his fist clenched tightly within his pocket “I am rich! I AM POWERFUL! AND I DEMAND ACCESS!”

As quick as lightning, Oliver flung a handful of gold coins towards the pair. The two reeled back in surprised as the money clanked onto the smooth marble floor. A moment hardly passed before the guards were shoving the loose coins into their tunic pockets like hungry dogs. They straightened up, eyes alive with greed.

“Of course sir” The elvish woman bowed her head in apologize “Deeply sorry for that.”

“Please go ahead.”

Oliver gave a self satisfied nod before moving past the pair only to stop as he heard the sounds of swords scraping each other. He turned backwards to see the guards barring access to Flora and Sel.

Flora looked back and forth between the guards, her eyes calculating and cold. Sel stood still but clearly at the ready for any sort of trouble.

“They’re with me.”

The Elvish woman shook her head “We said we’d let you in. These two? Definitely not Reiner’s usual prey.”

“They aren’t” Oliver admitted “But I need them.”

The human turned to him, suspicion in his eyes “Why?”

“She…” Oliver pointed lazily towards Flora “Is my street doctor.”

“Street doctor? As in….?”

Oliver gave a cheery wink “The fun kind.” And for give measure, he added a weak shiver to his act “Ugggggh I feel cold, are you cold? It’s cold.”

Before anyone could say anything, Oliver began shaking. He rubbed his hands for ‘warmth’ while swaying back and forth.

“Uh oh.” Flora spoke dully, pushing past the guards and holding Oliver steady “He’s crashing. I need to give him his umm medicine.”

“Medicine?” Oliver repeated, his voice soft yet manic “Yes medicine. I need it. I NEED IT!”

Folks began to turn their way, the guards shifting uncomfortably under the sudden attention they were receiving.

“And this one?” The Elvish woman gestured to Sel.

Oliver began to rock back and forth, his voice a harsh whisper. “Guard. Guard. Guard guard guard guard.”

The human threw up his hands in defeat “Bah! Get him in there and fixed! Any trouble and I’ll personally come over to beat your asses.”

“Thank you sir.” Flora murmured through gritted teeth. She guided Oliver and Sel through the doors and into the party within.

Flora sighed as Sel cracked the tension out of their fingers. Oliver straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

True to his expectations, the bank had been altered to be suitable for a charity event: Torches lined the walls, casting the building into a bright light. The desks normally found on the floor were gone as to allow a more spacious setting. Oliver counted a handful of guards scattered about, wandering about for any sign of trouble. All except for the lone guard beyond the empty elevated platform who stood in front of the stairway to the upper floors.

“What now?” Flora asked

“Split up. Sel stay close to the door, Flora and I will figure out a distraction.”

“Sounds good.”

And without another word, Oliver was swallowed whole into the crowd.

-----

It had taken an hour for Oliver to figure out what kind of distraction he would need.

The patrols themselves hadn’t been very difficult to plan for: They would move randomly about, keeping an eye on the party and each other. He counted about 6 of them total and each one of them was easily starstruck. At the sign of any disagreement, they would swarm in groups of three and quickly threaten any troublemakers into compliance. However, upon meeting anyone with even the smallest bit of fame, they would subtly motion to each other and make their way as one to the person in question, hoping for a glance or the chance for an autograph.

So the floor guards were no problem but the one standing watch over the door was much more difficult. Evidently Lea was smart enough to give the most important job to the most responsible of his idiots. The stairway guard or Stairy as Oliver labeled him, would not budge at the sign of any trouble. Loud arguments, agitated party goers, a waiter being tripped (sorry it was for science buddy). None of these would pull him from his post. Celebrities wouldn’t either. Any time his buddies motioned to a famous person, he would shrug his shoulders and stay put.

Oliver was beginning to wonder if Flora needed to poison Stairy until he noticed something about half way into his observations: Stairy was a music lover. Specifically a cute girl music lover.

His gaze would wander every time he caught sight of a pretty girl who happened to be too close to him. Oliver wasn’t sure at first so he decided to test his theory. With his pocket change lessened, Oliver noticed how often a girl would catch Stairy’s eye. His attention didn’t shift when they fell in front of him, obviously in distress, or walked slower allowing him to enjoy the view longer but Oliver caught him smiling and tapping his foot when the odd girl would sing. He even staggered away from his door a few steps at a time before catching himself and returning to his post.

So the best distraction would be a girl who could sing and have some level of fame attached to her name.

Oddly specific and Oliver hadn’t the slightest idea how he was going to mange that. He was attempting to solve this puzzle when something caught his ear.

“Get off me you mulched dirt licker!”

That rather unique set of cursing could only mean one thing: Flora.

Oliver turned to where he last spotted her and found the young druid being hassled by a tall man in an elegant uniform.

Oliver noticed the guards were looking about, not yet spotting the commutation but aware something was going on. He needed to act first if he wanted to stop Flora deciding to kill everyone in the room.

The bard quickly slipped into the crowd, darting and weaving between any and everyone he could. He saw Flora slip a small vial into her hand as the man towered over her.

“I jus wanna dance.” the man’s words slurred out of his mouth “A pretty thing like yo shou wanna dance”

Flora’s eyes narrowed angrily “For the last time you dried poop stain, LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Flora pulled back her hand, prepared to throw the mysterious vial at the drunk’s face.

“Whoa!” Oliver cried out, tightly grasping onto Flora’s wrist “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing I can’t solve on my own.” Flora coldly glanced towards the drunken man.

“One sec.”

Oliver eyed the man carefully, absorbing every little detail he could.

He could see the muscles strain against the fabric of his light green tunic so this man worked in something physically laborious. The sheathed sword on his belt weight seemed to throw him off balance with every step. His gaze was unsteady and Oliver could see his pupils dilating wildly.

So this man was physically fit, armed with a sword in a charity event for the rich people and wearing light green tunic while currently drunk.

“You should leave her alone” Oliver said, sarcasm dipping from each word “You are so not her type.”

“So?” The man hiccupped “What’s the big deal?”

“So she’s got a girlfriend you idiot.” Oliver gestured with his hand “Besides you should go before your boss Lea gets here. I’m betting he won’t be happy one of his undercover mercs is currently drunk on the job. Of course I could always tell your captain what’s going on. That’s him over there right?”

Oliver gestured to the closest guard making his way towards the trio. He didn’t look any different than any guards but Oliver noticed his green was a shade darker than the rest. Lea probably used different hues to signify rank in his mercenaries.

The drunk’s face paled as he fidgeted nervously. He rose his hands in surrender, eyes darting between the two “Sorry.”

“Any trouble?” The captain approached, his hand tightly held around the hilt of his blade.

Oliver beaned cheerfully, trying his best to pull attention away from the fuming Flora “Not at all my good sir. This man simply mistook us for someone else, correct?”

The drunk nodded slowly “My bad. Forgive my intrusion.”

The captain gave a cold smirk “Apologizes. Mikey?”

The drunk flinched “Yes sir?”

“A word in private. Now.”

Oliver let out a sigh of relief as the captain dragged Mikey away..

“You should’ve let me poison them.” Flora muttered darkly.

Oliver scratched the back of his neck tiredly “Night’s still young. Still might get your chance if I can’t figure a way past Stairy.”

Flora tilted her head quizzically “Stairy?”

“The asshole at the base of the stairs.” Oliver answered absentmindedly as he spotted a familiar streak of platinum blonde hair among the crowd of strangers “And I just figured it out. Can I trust you not to poison everyone here?”

“You have an hour. I get bored easily” Flora swirled the sickly purple liquid in the vial threateningly.

“You and me both.” Oliver patted her shoulder before chasing down his perfect distraction.

-----

Oliver’s heart began to thunder loudly in his ears, a nervous and uncontrollable energy overtaking his resolve. The mission was important but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to see Maria today.

Maria Thoreau was the daughter of a powerful, influential family. The Thoreau’s were more concerned with their standing in high society than any virtuous endeavors and thus each one of their children was trained from birth to excel in their chosen field. Maria’s older brothers were an aspiring politician and merchant respectively.

Maria’s path was to be a well famous singer and patron of the arts. She wanted nothing more than to sing for the people. Unfortunately, her father only saw a chance to further the family’s good name and tied his desire for power with her passion and dream. It was bittersweet really but nothing much could be done about it.

Yet.

Maria knew Oliver as a musical rival who thwarted her group’s attempts at winning local competitions which in turned derailed her father’s plans. So needless to say she was less than thrilled when she caught him making his way over.

“Ollie” she forced a smile while her hazel eyes narrowed, peeved “I’m surprised to see they let you into this exclusive event.”

Oliver gave a cocky shrug “Well your beauty caught my attention and I couldn’t resist trying to figure out a way in.”

Maria’s cheeks burned a pinkish hue.

Maria was the same age as Oliver with short, tastefully cut dark brown hair. A single streak of platinum blonde hair hung off the side of her face, giving her such a cute look. Her clothes were practical tonight since she wasn’t performing: A simple white blouse with a long flowing dark blue skirt that went all the way down to her feet. Her shoes were sensible dark blue flats designed for comfort over style.

Maria coughed into her hand, willing her blush away.

“So.” She cleared her throat “Is this your sad attempt to throw me off my game? You won’t win the next competition. We’ll be dealing with professional judges this time.”

Oliver’s eyes widen in false surprise “There’s a competition here? Fancy that. I hadn’t been made aware of that but since we’re both in town, why not have a round two?”

“Oliver….”

“I mean” Oliver went on, pretending not have heard “You are a much better singer solo than with those harpies you’re forced to keep around.”

Maria glanced to the side timidly “Don’t be absurd, the Melodic Maidens are a perfect, well oiled machine.”

Oliver scoffed dismissively “I suppose they’re nearby, listening in. Hardly leave you alone, don’t they?”

Maria opened her mouth to respond when a shrilly voice cut in.

“What do you know you two bit hack? How much did you bribe the judges last time?!”

Oliver gave a strained smile as the rest of the ladies forced their way into view.

“Lilly, Filly, Sally. You suck.”

The triplets snarled in unison, openly glaring at the bard.

Lilly, Filly and Sally were Maria’s chains: They were as much there to further her career as they were to report back to daddy to ensure the errant daughter stayed on course.

As triplets, they all shared the same features: Three pairs of dull green eyes and long messy black hair. Even their clothing were the same with each wearing a strapless dress that showed way too much skin and skirts that were way too short. The only reason Oliver could tell them apart was due to their preferred colors: Lilly in a shade of pink that was bright for her skin tone, Filly with a pale ugly yellow and Sally in seas of dark red.

The trio surrounded Maria, their arms embracing her in an uncomfortable hug. Maria bit her lip, trying to hide her uneasy.

“Still wearing that tacky outfit huh Ollie?” Lilly eyed his faded clothing distastefully.

Sally let out an unfriendly laugh “Ollie always looks like trash. Not even prize money could buy an ounce of class.”

“Actually” Oliver brushed his shoulder dismissively “Class is cheap. No amount of money could buy an ounce of character. You can blow hot air at me all you want but nothing in this world could ever change the fact that the three of you are bitches.”

The trio clicked their tongues disappointingly, their normally plain faces twisted into unflattering visages of rage while they screamed as one.

“HOW DARE YOU INSULT US?!”

“YOU ARE SUCH A POOR TACTLESS MAN!”

“YOU FUCKER!”

Oliver casually waved his hand “All bark and no bite. I’m supposed believe you’ve gotten any better in two months? Last time I checked I won the last competition.”

“OH YEAH?!” The triplets yelled, furious.

Maria threw a suspicious glance Oliver’s way “Girls, I don’t think…”

“Come on Maria, we don’t want to have to tell daddy you backed down from a challenge.”

A shiver ran down her spine, the fight draining out of her face. Oliver felt a tinge of guilt but said nothing as the girls took their positions.

Maria paused for a moment, her breathing slow and calm. The murmur of the crowds grew louder and louder upon the recognition that the ladies nearby were the Melodic Maidens.

Maria pivoted on her heels, a bright warm smile gracing her lips. Oliver could feel his heart skip a beat at the sound of her soft, airy voice beginning to sing

“Oh you hear a lot of stories about the sailors and their sport” Maria gave a playful wink his way. His cheeks burned brightly at her playful banter.

“About how every sailor has a girl in every port”

Maria twirled, her steps mischievous and alluring as her dark blue dress chased after her. She gracefully held two fingers aloft for everything to see, her smirk cocky and assured.

“but if you added two and two you’d figure out right quick”

Maria backed up as the triplets step forward to join her, the group made whole and ready for the chorus.

“It’s just because the girls all have a lad on every ship”

Maria turned to throw a sultry look towards her rival bard but instead of finding a dumbstruck Oliver, she found a smiling one. His gaze was gentle and loving as if he was seeing utterly beautiful. A small smile was tugging at his cheeks. Maria could feel her heart thunder in her ears as, without warning, Oliver gave a thumbs up and mouthed an appreciative “Thanks” before ducking into the growing crowd.

“And it’s twiddley idle idle idle, twiddley idle aye.”

What was once a spattering of folks formed into a massive gathering. Most of the party goers and guards had come over to catch the free show the girls inadvertently given and thus all focus shifted onto them. What was an attempt to show up Oliver ended up being a very unnecessary showcase.

“It’s often times a man will leave you broken with dismay”

Boy was Maria feeling that dismay right now.

-----

Oliver’s plan worked: Stairy hadn’t been to resist the siren call of a beautiful woman and her singing. Luckily the harpies hadn’t ruined it with their imperfect pitches. Stairy hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Sel slipped in behind and began working at the door. It took a moment but one blink later and the automaton vanished out of sight.

Oliver let out a sigh when a hand gripped his shoulder tightly.

“Hello sir.” A guff, low voice in a less than friendly voice “Might I have a word? You’ve been acting rather strange all party long.”

Well fuck.

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.4]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Chapter 04: Demands of the Faithful

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.]

    “I’m glad you could make time,” Byleth says, carefully placing her fine cup on the small bottom plate. If she notices how uncomfortable you feel, sitting in the centre of the yard, drinking tea, she ignores it. “Let’s think together about what we want to teach during the mock battle.”

    “This is a bad idea,” you say, nibbling on your cup. “A very bad idea.”

    The late afternoon hours are quiet, but it certainly helps that the tea arrangement is tugged away in a far off corner in the courtyard, hidden behind tall hedges that allow privacy. The sweet smell of chamomile tea and strawberry pastry is a nice exchange from the usual savoury smells you’re used to in the cafeteria. All around you, the high, spiky roofs of the monastery’s towers stand out against the fiery, orange sky, throwing longer and longer shadows as the sun sets behind the mountains. The clouds are soft, pink cotton-candy, blushing at the warm touch of the sun.

    “I think it’s a good idea,” Byleth continues, cutting through a piece of cake with her fork. “We’ve seen what the house leaders are capable of. It’s time to see what the rest of the students can do.”

    “Don’t take me wrong. I think a mock battle will help them grow,” you agree. “I just don’t really understand why it’s me who has to lead the Blue Lions.”

    “I think Professor Hanneman is not present at the day of the mission,” Byleth explains. “It seems on the last day of Lone Moon he always leaves the monastery for a private reason. And I assume Lady Rhea means to see the extent of your power.”

    That’s what you expected as well. In the last couple of days you realised your power is a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme. It was a strenuous task to try out how much is too much; where there’s still room. Under the keen eyes of Hanneman, you two practised day after day, trying to figure out how much your body can take before exhaustion sweeps over you and renders you immobile. Crests usually don’t have a limit; depending on their nature they grant a permament boost to the bearer’s abilities. Muttering under his breath, Hanneman had made quite a show to remind you what a curiosity the Crest of the Herald is. Like you wouldn’t know.

    “Since we’re going to be on the field as well, you might want to get more practice with the sword,” Byleth proposes, and you groan. She has a way of being brutally honest, and so far no one’s been spared to get the brunt of it. “I’m not letting my students hold back. Not even against you.”

    “You really are a voice of confidence, you know.” Shoulders drooping like someone took the wind from your sails, you throw your head back and drink the rest of your tea. Byleth’s expression doesn’t change, and you wonder why you even try being funny around her.

    After clearing the table, Byleth accompanies you to your next lesson hall. It’s nice in theory, but her vigorous way of trying to drill sword techniques into your head on the way doesn’t hide her true agenda. Only slowly, you begin to realise that is maybe her way of caring for someone. Brutish in appearance, but once you look past the first impression of indifference, Byleth’s silent demeanour speaks louder than words.

    Students linger in small groups in front of the class rooms, their exhausted faces from a full day of lessons and hard training visible in the way they carry their bodies. If you had a say in it, you’d cancel the evening lessons and let them rest; a reoccurring debate inside the faculty that doesn’t go anywhere. Byleth stops in front of the class room, surveying the students with a cool gaze, when suddenly Claude and Hilda jog towards you, and by “jogging” they decided Hilda to be the only one running while carrying Claude bridal style like he weighs nothing. As they pass you, Claude tips an invisible hat in your direction, calling “Hey, teach,” and then immediately “Bye, teach!” as they cross the courtyard.

    Your gaze follows them. “What just happened.”

    Byleth doesn’t even bother to look. “Claude and Hilda happened.”

    Heavens, you don’t know if you’re able to handle them later.

    After exchanging goodbyes with Byleth, you tackle the next forty minutes with a belly full of sweets and a mind occupied with worrying about everything you might do wrong next week. Forming two groups, you hand out two different manoeuvres you dug out of books, and present the task, “Work out the pros and cons of each battle tactic, and present them to the class. Explain where you would have done things differently, and why.”

    Sylvain raises his hand.

    “Yes, you can leave to bathroom breaks without asking me,” you say.

    Sylvain drops his hand. Then raises it again.

    “No, you can’t bring animals you find on your way back to your seat,” you say.

    He drops his hand. Beside him, Ingrid fails to stifle a groan.

    Twenty minutes later, the first group stands in front of the class. Mercedes’s steady hand draws the perfect copy of the manoeuvre on the chalk board while Annette recites every step flawlessly. They’re a powerful combination, and that’s only half owed to their friendship. Mercedes is soft; she’s the silk hiding the dagger that Annette’s sharp mind is. There’s strength in kindness, and both have honed this ability to a razor-sharp weapon. There’s still a pouch of unfinished cookies Mercedes has baked for you left in your room, something to keep in mind for the next tea hour with Byleth. Felix and Dedue don’t add much, and you’re a little afraid to ask, seeing how Felix’s eyes burn holes in the back of Dedue’s head. There’s been rumours going on about a dispute, but no details, and you gladly leave that sort of teacher-student business to Hanneman.

    The remaining students do their job almost just as good. But the thought of children being so confident in ways of war and killing leaves a painful twinge in your chest. You wonder what will become of them all in a few years, what battles they will win. What battles they will lose—this fear lingers at the edges of your consciousness like an ever-present shadow. To push it away, you try to refocus on the task at hand.

    “Look at the battalions you have,” you advise, tapping a finger against the cool surface of the board. It comes away white with chalk, leaving a white smudge on your robe as you wipe it off. “Where are they placed?”

    Ashe clears his throat. “Two Lance Soldiers, that’s Infantry. One Magic Squadron, also Infantry. The latter is stationed far northeast on that island. Two Pegasus Corpses, which are Flying Types. We put them behind the mountains to ambush the enemies on their way to one of our Infantries.”

    “A good idea in theory,” you acknowledge, and don’t miss how Ashe exhales in relief. “And where are you enemies?”

    “They’re facing our Infantry and the Squadron,” Dimitri steps in now. “The Flying Unit engage from the back. After their victory, Infantry and Flying close the last opposite unite off on the bridge, and join the Magic Squadron in fighting.”

    “Okay, okay,” you nod. “And now look at the terrain of this last unit you want to take on from the front and back. The one on the bridge moving towards the Squadron.”

    The room is quiet for a minute, and then a silent “Oh” from Ashe.

    “Yes. Oh. The Magic Squadron moves slower through the woods. You’ll lose them. And one of the Lance units is probably the next to go.” You draw sharp lines across the board with red chalk, changing the battalion’s movements. One goes across the whole board, crossing out the word Sea. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have your Pegasus Companies move this way across the water, join the Magic Squadron and then close in from the right to join the Infantries?”

    “But Herald.” Ingrid raises her hand, but doesn’t wait for you to pick her. “If Infantry and Flying take out the first enemy, we’ll still win. The remaining unit will be trapped on the island without a possibility to retreat. Wouldn’t it be wiser to sacrifice the Magic Squadron just for that?”

    “I agree with Ingrid,” says Sylvain. He’s sitting on a desk, and swings his legs back and forth. “With or without them, we won the battle, and that’s what matters.”

    You turn back to scan the manoeuvre one more time. They’re right—blocking the enemy’s escape routes off proves a solid guarantee to win, and yet you’ve somewhat hoped they wouldn’t settle on this option. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, turning your lips upside down as if you’ve bitten into a lemon.

    “Sometimes, you don’t want to win the battle,” you start slowly, the thought blossoming from a dark place deep inside you. “Sometimes you want as many as possible to live.” Which is easier said than done, and no one in the room agrees on your statement because they know just as much that such a choice isn’t always granted. Before the silence stretches on too long, you quickly add, “I guess it is more important to know there is no right or wrong answer. You make decisions later on that will either grant you victory or death, and you will have to live with those decisions.”

    Unanimous murmur sounds from the students, a topic nobody wants to dwell on too long, and you grant them that wish; this precious little time they’re still allowed to be children and make mistakes before responsibilities catch up to them. The rest of the lesson flies past without disturbances, and when the bells announce the break, they jump from their seats and scurry outside.

    “Don’t forget there’s going to be a test after the mock battle,” you call after them, knowing they’ll forget anyway and then boycott. The Lions are finally done with lessons, but there is the Deer House who have the misfortune to attend the last period of the day. As you prepare their unit of instruction on different terrains, Dimitri approaches you, his expression a mixture between confidence and tension.

    “Herald.” He stops in front of your desk, shoulders squared into a declaration of deference. “I have prepared instructions on everyone’s weaknesses and strengths. Please, do consider to take a look. Since one of the rules is that only six units will be stationed on the field, I hope this will make your decision easier who to choose.” Placing the papers with outmost care on your table, Dimitri hesitates a moment before continuing, “What you said earlier … truth be told, I think the same. To limit the loss of lives as much as possible should be a priority to a leader as well. To hear that from someone like you … I was quite glad.”

    “Someone like me,” you repeat, but you’re more surprised to feel your fingers itch to take the papers and get a first read on everyone. After going through similar notes from Linhardt, you’re now excited to learn more about your proteges, and with luck someone from the Golden Deer students might provide you with a first survey as well.

    “Someone responsible for tactics and strategy,” Dimitri quickly clarifies. “Someone tasked with bringing absolute victory.” He gives you a look that is somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time. “I understand that those sometimes compete with one’s own beliefs regarding the value of life. One’s conscience is as much of a weapon as a sharpened blade. If it breaks, what use is there to a person.”

    “Those are … some mature thoughts.” You don’t know where this observation goes. Of course he is mature, he has to be as the successor of a noble lineage. “For someone your age.” You press your mouth into a thin line, cursing your inability to think of a better response. But Dimitri simply smiles—a smile that is like a light suddenly being turned on in every room of a dark house.

    “Oh, but I do not want to bore you with such matters. I just wanted to add, I really do look forward to have you on our side during the mock battle.” He gives a little courtesy bow. “Let us discuss the details on the day before the mission. A good evening to you, Herald.”

    Dimitri leaves with a little bounce to his step. It’s probably better he’s in high spirits, even though you aren’t sure what exactly made him happy. It would be a real shame to extinguish his excitement by being an utter failure during the battle, so you make sure to read whatever he managed to put together about his classmates as soon as possible. There’s still some minutes left before the first Deer students will enter. Exhaustion lulls you into resting your eyes, and the moment your head is cradled in your arms, you doze off.

    It’s the third time you have this dream after joining the Officer’s Academy, though calling it a ‘dream’ is a stretch—there is nothing happening, nothing to see. Only white, as pure and unblemished as a young lily blossom in early spring. Only this time this picture—maybe a memory, but of what or where you can’t say—is different.

    Wake up, a voice whispers, barely recognisable and dull, spoken behind a wall of water. Wake up.

    Your hands weigh a ton. Unable to reach out and grasp it, the dream blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand.

    Wake up.

    “Herald, wake up,” Claude persists. “You’re drooling on my test papers.”

    His hand brushes your shoulder and you jump, all focus on the dream dispersing. Multiple voices fill the room in a shower of sounds, not helping to regain your senses of where you are. It doesn’t help that your right eye throbs dully, and as you rub it to somehow reduce the sensation, white spots dance across your vision.

    “So sorry, Herald,” Claude smirks with his hand still hovering over your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake you from your beauty rest, but Hilda planned to draw obscene things on your face, and we can’t have that now, can we.”

    “Liars never prosper, Claude!” comes Hilda’s response from somewhere in the back of the room. You groan, narrowing your eyes at him. Going back to sleep and stumbling about to try and figure out what’s going on sounds more pleasing than dealing with Claude’s shenanigans.

    “Man, what a bummer you won’t join our House during the mock battle,” he continues as if Hilda hasn’t said anything. “If someone asked me, I think to have you fight for the Blue Lions is cheating.”

    “But no one asked you?” you offer, indulging him with a weak smile.

    “The audacity, right?” Claude rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, leaning against the teacher’s desk. “Just imagine the brilliant schemes we two could work out. Oh, I have an amazing idea. How about you ask Lady Rhea—”

    “I’m not asking to be by your side during the battle.”

    “Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “Immediately shut down. Who knew our dearest Herald would be such a heart breaker.”

    You shoo him away, not only because he’s getting on your nerves, but there’s also Ignatz and Raphael standing in line, waiting for your attention.

    “We’ve heard the students from the other Houses gave you some insight in their abilities,” Ignatz says, tugging a stack of papers to his chest. “We decided to give you one as well.”

    “I’m sure you’ll like them,” Raphael chimes in, looking more excited than usual. “I gave Ignatz instructions on how to make our report the best. Forget boring words, Herald, we’ve prepared the real deal!” He rips the papers from Ignatz’s hands and slams them on your table. A crack sounds on the underside, and Raphael leans his whole weight upon the surface, completely oblivious to the protesting creak of the wood.

    “Here, we started with Claude, since he’s the big shot and all that,” he explains, opening the first page. It shows Claude, a surprisingly accurate portrait of him, if not a little bit scrawny. He’s wielding a bow, nocking multiple arrows. Seems like Raphael wasn’t the only one giving instructions.

    “And here is Leonie, and there’s Lorenz, and oh! That’s us working together as a team!” Raphael beams as he turns the page. In this picture, everyone is assembled, fighting against angry looking soldiers and horned monsters. There’s Lysithea and Marianne shooting lightning bolts from their hands, zapping their opponents. Raphael is carrying a huge stone, on top of it stands Hilda, wielding a mighty axe.

    “These are the most accurate file reports I’ve seen,” you say for lack of better words. “It really is a shame I can’t join you for the mock battle.”

    “There’s gonna be a next time, no worries!” Raphael gives you a thumbs up, then retreats to his seat, Ignatz by his side. They’re a funny duo, not just because of their different build. Their personalities seem the complete opposite, and yet strangely fit like a child’s box to sort blocks into the right shapes.

    The difference between the Golden Deers and Blue Lions, for one, is the noise level. Instead of waiting for you to call them up one by one, they love to shout answers whenever they see fit. Judging who was the first isn’t really easy when four people scream at the same time, so you’ve given up on that—Claude’s policy whoever screams loudest didn’t help all too much as well. Maybe it’s time to ask Byleth about some tips how to handle them. When the bell tolls for the last time for this day, announcing everyone to be relieved of their work, the student clear out faster than during fire drills, leaving you with a turmoil of thoughts and worries and two little voices bickering about how much of a disaster next week is going to be.

    After seven days and nights of restless sleep and vigorous training under the vicious supervision of Byleth, the green fields stretching before you end boarding on lush woods, its treetops protruding into the sky. It’s a wonderful day you would enjoy much more without knowing this is a battle field, and the people behind you wait for your command.

    “Black Eagle and Golden Deer are in position. Captain Jeralt said the mock battle begins in roughly ten minutes.” Dedue gives you an expectant look, and you give him a curt nod, your mouth dry.

    “Thanks. We’ll have a last briefing. After that, we’ll deploy our units.”

    Dedue joins his classmates, leaving you to your troubled thoughts. With luck, none of your opponents will reach you, and you won’t have to fight. It’s as if you can feel Byleth’s taste for your blood all across the field, even though right now she’s just a blurry, dark blob in the distance, surrounded by her students.

    “Do not worry, Herald.” The hard metal of a gauntlet on your shoulder makes you flinch, backing away from Dimitri. The worry on his face is a mirror of your own, albeit for different reasons. “Everyone will do their best to follow your orders, and fight with everything they've got. Your leadership will lead us to victory.”

    “Oh, yeah!” You don’t meet his eyes. “For sure.” Zero pressure and all that. You don’t say that, seeing that most of the students don’t appear to be as nervous as you. Confidence is key, and even though you see none of it in tangible proximity, you can at least fake it until you make it.

    Six minutes left. With a deep breath, you try to get hold of yourself, and face the Lions.

    “Since we don’t know who will be deployed by Manuela and Byleth, prepare for everything. I want to split the group. Dimitri, Dedue and Mercedes move to the northern forest. Felix, Sylvain, you’re moving west with me.”

    Felix pulls a grimace, but before he can say anything, Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans on him, gracing you with a full grin. “We got your back, Herald.” He earns a whack on his back from his friend.

    “Why are we splitting up if our plan is to take out each group separately?” Dedue inquirers. “Isn’t that what we agreed on before?”

    “I think the Herald plans to let our opponents think we plan on taking them both on at the same time.” Dimitri throws a quick glance at you. “We’ll draw them in our direction, and once they are near, we close in from both sides.”

    You nod. “Precisely. We know the Black Eagles will start far north from us. The Golden Deers are northwest. As soon as one of them moves towards us, we’ll have to defeat them immediately. It will be easier fighting one House, not both at the same time.”

    “Look at you, Your Highness.” Sylvain pats him on the shoulder, looking proud. “Someone’s been paying attention in class!”

    “Sylvain—” Dimitri’s chiding meets deaf ears as Sylvain already turns away, checking his lance for a last time. But he does beam a little, you think. Or maybe it’s just the sun making everything look much brighter. It’ll go into your report nonetheless. Chances of a victory look good—even if you have to retreat, the Blue Lions might make it on their own.

    The bressy sound of a horn echoes across the valley, reverberating in your bones. The mock battle begins.

    The weight of the wooden training sword hanging from your hip is foreign; it’s as though you only expect to trip over it. Determined to keep it in its holster, you approach the grove, flanked by Sylvain and Felix—and not a minute too soon. Moving towards you is the first line of enemies, Ignatz, Lorenz and Marianne.

    “I think they didn’t see us—” Sylvain starts just as the first arrow flies past his head and hits the trunk beside him with a thunk. For safety purposes, all arrow’s tips are wrapped up in stiff cloth, not intended to leave permanent wounds but surely still capable to deliver nasty bruises like the training swords and lances.

    “I think they saw us—” Sylvain’s brilliant new observation ends in a yelp as Felix shoves him out of the line of fire.

    “Get down, dumbass!”

    You three duck behind bushes and trees, cautiously observing how the others advance, their weapons drawn.

    “I’ll go for Ignatz,” you say. “Felix, you’re fast enough to reach Marianne and take her down before she starts healing everyone.”

    “Fine, we’ll try your plan.” Felix has his sword drawn already, gripping it tight enough his knuckles turn white. “Try not to get kicked out too soon, will you.”

    You blow a strand of hair from out of your eyes, squinting at his back as he jumps out of cover. The last couple of weeks you’ve put in some extra hours of sword practice with Felix. As an exceptional swordsman, noble and diligent in his training unlike anyone else—safe maybe for Dimitri—you imagined no one could teach you as much as possible in the short amount of time until the mission. It took some convincing, but the decisive argument that sold him was your desire to become better to finally have at least a chance against Byleth. If she is stern during practice, Felix is vicious, exploiting the tiniest opening you give in order to make you learn from your mistakes. Your body was a medley of pain and aches after every evening, but now the memory of that very same melody is your marching song towards battle. Then there’s always the knowledge that if you three can distract them long enough before the rest of the Golden Deer students arrive, Dimitri and the rest will close in on your position, and taking down your opponents won’t be difficult.

    “Sylvain, Lorenz is yours.”

    He answers with a simple salute, grip tight around his training lance, and as you both follow Felix out in the open, an image flickers before you, there and gone like a flame going out with a last glint. An arrow, headed straight at you. Your body moves in instinct, dodging the projectile not a second too late. Judging from the direction of its origin, Ignatz must be just beyond the rocks only a few hundred yards away. You throw a MiasmaΔ in his direction, the black ball carving its path across the grasslands. It hits the stone, chipping parts away and revealing Ignatz, crouching behind it. He looks up, dirt on his cheeks, and adjusts his glasses before ducking out of his cover, another arrow already ready on his bow.

    Another arrow hits him on his back, hard enough to get him down on his knees. Mercedes’ accuracy isn’t as good as Ashe’s, but the determination carved into her face makes up for lack of skill. Dimitri and Dedue are right on her heels, but a single look thrown over your shoulder shows that Felix and Sylvain have everything under control. Coming out victorious as well, save for Sylvain pressing a hand against his ribs, they were still complete. The knowledge of that makes you sigh in relief, a new surge of hope soaring inside you.

    “I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Claude’s dubious plan.” Lorenz’s bickering is still audible, even as the three proceed to leave the battle grounds to meet up with Jeralt. You’re really curious to see what exactly Claude had in mind, but diverting your focus for just a second could become dangerous. Instead, you turn towards the students.

    “Stay close,” you order, waiting until Mercedes is finished checking Sylvain's injuries. “We’re going to move further towards the Golden Deers and eliminate them first.” Flexing your fingers against the slow growth of getting used casting spells, your group begins to move further north.

    Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Dimitri buckling and unbuckling his spear from his back. Out of lack for the right words, and because the first rush of adrenaline still courses through your body, you jostle against him, wearing a grin on your face.

    “Look lively, Your Highness,” you advise. “All that nervous fumbling isn’t what a leader is supposed to do.”

    A tiny gasps leaves him, more an exhale than anything else, but he turns towards you, slightly flushed. Bringing his hands to his sides, it’s too obvious he’s tensing his body so they don’t stray again—like a statue that’s on the edge of shattering at the tiniest movement.

    “You’re right, of course.” He lowers his head a little. “I just keep thinking that the Black Eagle students wait for us in that direction as well. Some are surely moving towards us as we speak.”

    “Are you worried about Byleth?” you wonder, and more as an afterthought add, “Or Edelgard?”

    “Anyone who is not worried about Byleth is a fool, if you ask me,” he replies with a crease between his pale eyebrows. “And well, this is our first chance to prove ourselves, being the heirs to the ruling factions. I know Edelgard is exceptionally strong. And Claude surely has an ace up his sleeve. You are right, Herald. Nervousness is a sign of hesitation, of weakness. I will be better than that.” A new fire comes alive in his eyes as he strides onward, catching up to Mercedes and Sylvain to compliment her on the excellent shot from before.

    The epiphany really comes only now, fast and hard like a lightning bolt, that these children will drink in everything you have to offer—advices, orders, simple words of encouragement—simply for the title that is strapped around your neck. The weight of that responsibility slows your steps, which allows for another worry to quickly catch up: has everything you have taught them so far been right? Do they really know how to exploit the advantages certain classes have over others; will a strategic retreat even occur to them in the right time before it’s too late.

    Doubt is like poison, slowly eating you from the inside. This mock battle won’t just be a lesson for the students. It will also test if you have put them on the right path, and the realisation unfolds a new conviction inside you, breathing new wind into your sails.

    You quickly catch up to them, another rush of encouraging words on your lips when another image flickers on and off, painting your sight red. You freeze, raising an arm, hand formed into a fist.

    “Halt!” you shout, processing what you just saw. The students pause, forming a loose circle around you. The throbbing from before settles back in, more persistent now like someone’s knocking against the back of your skull to get your attention. You try to ignore that and focus on categorising every student’s ability in alphabetical order.

    “Linhardt,” you gasp, eyes wide open and glued on Dedue.

    The students exchange worried glances. Sylvain is the first to speak. “No, Herald,” he says. “Linhardt’s the pretty boy with all the books, you know. Who sleeps just about anywhere, like a cat. That’s our Dedue here.”

    “No, I mean Linhardt has Nosferatu,” you quickly explain, flailing your hands in hope to express yourself better. It doesn’t look like it helps. “Linhardt is the only one left who can use Nosferatu, and he’s going to land a good hit on Dedue. And with good, I mean bad. If he hits you, you’re down, Dedue.” Because only that makes sense, as Marianne is already standing on the sidelines and you haven’t heard about anyone else learning the skill. Undoubtedly a Nosferatu will hit Dedue if you don’t change course or take the spell caster out first.

    Dedue steps forward. “Should it give us an advantage against our enemy, I will gladly face the opponent and go down if it means it won’t interfere with our progress towards the Golden Deer students.”

    “Sacrificing yourself for a mere praise from the boar, is that what you hope for?” Felix demands, or more like snarls, his handsome face crumpling into an ugly look of contempt. “Pathetic.”

    “Sacrifice is a big word to throw around during a mock battle, don’t you think,” Sylvain unhelpfully throws in, his posture a little too relaxed in the light of the conflict that’s about to break out.

    Dedue shakes his head. “I am simply fulfilling my duty,” he states. “Anything that will bring His Highness victory.”

    “You would also run head first into an ambush and get yourself killed, is that it?” Felix grimaces. “Blindly following orders—”

    “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Your raised voice makes them pause, and you use that second to grab lead of the conversation. “We don’t even know if Linhardt is going to be alone or joined by other Eagle students. What do you think will your little act accomplish, Dedue?”

    He sets his mouth into a grim, hard line, unable to come up with a satisfying answer that isn’t a repeat of what he just said.

    “You’ll have a tough time going against Black Eagles with all their magic users, so stay with Dimitri. Go and deal with the rest of the Golden Deer students. And you—” You meet Felix’s glare with narrowed eyes. “A battlefield isn’t the place to throw around petty disagreements. You would do well to remember that.”

    “Understood.” He rips the training sword from its holster. “But let me go take down that mage. I’ll cut him down swiftly.”

    “We’ll go together. I’m not leaving any of you on your own. Take care of Claude,” you tell Dimitri, showing with a nod that you fully trust in his leading ability. “We’ll meet east from the barricades in exactly one hour.”

    He doesn’t shy away from you glare. “Understood. Take care you two.”

    Felix takes the lead with long, eager strides. As you follow him, you rub your eye, wincing at the pinprick-like pain. The dull throb doesn’t cease this time, and if you had to take a guess, there’s only once left for the Crest to activate before you reach your limit. So far, nothing has helped you to ascertain when exactly a foresight occurs, and leaving it to pure chance is like grasping a loose rope in hopes that it is tied to something somewhere as you take the leap. Maybe Hanneman will make more sense of it laters.

    “You should have stayed with the others,” Felix says after a moment, scanning your surroundings for any sign of the enemy. It sounds more like a simple statement than an accusation. “I can handle someone like Linhardt on my own.”

    “I said before, we don’t know if he’s alone. I highly doubt it.” It’s like Dimitri said before: Underestimating Byleth will surely end in casualties and defeat. You don’t consider it far-fetched that she has sent a non-magic class with Linhardt, but who that will be is left to be determined.

    “No matter how many accompany him. Be it two or three or all of them, I will take them down.”

    “It takes more than one person to win a war.” Though you don’t doubt Felix might try it by himself anyway. “You’ll notice soon enough that you will rely on your comrades.”

    “I will rely on them as long as they don’t get in my way.”

    “So charming,” you mumble to yourself as you two round a mound. It really is none of your business, but you're actually curious about what is going on between him and Dedue. The moment you finish outweighing the pros and cons of trying to go down that rabbit hole, the air around you changes, barely noticeable save for a change of wind—it completely stills for a second, but that is enough to realise what’s happening.

    “Felix—” you manage before the Nosferatu explodes in front of you, knocking you to the ground. Before the mock battle, all magicians were instructed to weaken their spells; no lasting damage should befall any of the participants. Only because of that you manage to climb back on your feet, only left with dizziness that makes the world spin. The jarring sound of metal clashing against metal clears your mind a little, and when you turn around, Felix and Ferdinand are clashing blades.

    You turn further, and there he is, a hand raised in your direction. “Sorry, Herald,” Linhardt says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “The professor threatened with extra homework if we would hold back against you.”

    “Of course she did,” you mumble, grabbing your sword with sweaty hands. Two against two is fair, and you have no doubt that Felix will hold his ground against Ferdinand. The only solution to your little problem named Linhardt is to get as close as possible, and make use of your advantage in meagre sword skills.

    Another Nosferatu is sent your way, but this time you dodge, the hair on your neck standing on end. Somehow your body automatically shies away from Faith magic like a cat fleeing from water. Just one more hit will surely be enough to throw you out of the mock battle, and you can’t have that, not when the picture of Dimitri’s resolute expression is carved into your mind.

    You close the distance, all nerves tensed in anticipation, completely focused on trying to feel where the next spell is going to land. As Linhardt retreats into the woods, his sight obscured by trees, you dive after him, shoving twigs out of your way. A shadow moves through the undergrowth; every muscle in your body locks up, but you plunge forward, sword raised—

    Linhardt gasps when he finds himself pressed against a tree, your sword at his throat. With both hands up, he doesn’t move an inch, simply blinking at you. Somewhere above you, a bird cries out; a branch breaks. Linhardt makes a face like he jammed his foot in a door he slammed shut himself.

    “I surrender,” he says. “Getting beat up and spending time in the infirmary doesn’t sound as good as reading tomes in the library.”

    “You sure?” Your heart beats so loud in your chest, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break through your ribcage and fly off. “Byleth might drown you in homework for that.”

    He shrugs. “I call it a strategic retreat. I’ll just have to—” A yawn. “—convince the professor.” Another yawn. You begin to see the ulterior motive behind his surrender. Squinting at him, you proceed to bind his hands with a dark spell. Black shackles appear around his wrists, locking them tight together. As you make your way out of the grove, you hope Felix had the same success.

    That thought immediately dies when you return to the plain and see Jeralt heaving an unconscious Felix on the back of his horse, a battered Ferdinand by his side.

    “Ah, Herald.” Even though beaten up black and blue, Ferdinand still manages a smile. It looks a little lopsided with his swollen cheek and the dried blood on his upper lip. “I don’t mean to offend, but I hope you return because Linhardt defeated you in mighty combat?” A second too late he sees the magic binds around Linhardt’s wrists. His face falls. “My, Linhardt.”

    “You don’t quite look so good yourself,” Linhardt throws back without any heat in his voice. He sounds rather bored. Tired.

    “Excuse me, but what happened. What’s wrong with Felix?” you ask, turning to Jeralt. Before he can answer, Ferdinand chimes in, “He fought splendidly! Though I had no doubt in that, he is a noble after all. Yet, after ringing me to the ground, he lost consciousness. By my honour as the heir of House Aegir, I cannot take advantage of that. We both shall step out of battle.”

    “He passed out?” Now that you take a good look at him, he’s still pale, unhealthily so. Slick sweat glues his dark hair to his forehead, and the skin beneath his eyes shimmers slightly blue—lack of sleep.

    “Overexertion, I guess,” Jeralt says now. He pulls Linhardt to his side, and gives his shackles a thoughtful look. “I’ll take these three with me. You go and continue the mock battle, Herald.”

    “But…” It doesn’t feel right to leave Felix alone. Even though he technically isn’t, you imagine it would be better to wake up to a friendly face.

    “He’ll be fine.” Jeralt gives you a strange sideway glance. “The other brats rely on you right now, don’t they? Go to them.”

    He’s right, of course. The mission isn’t over yet, and with a strong combatant like Felix missing, victory has just slipped from your grasp.

    There is the meeting point. There it is, and no student from the Lion House is in sight. The minutes pass in long stretches, ticking away until it’s impossible to tell if time moves on or holds still. Holding out between the trees, you look in both directions—for your comrades and the enemy. For whatever reason, Byleth has decided not to advance to your position, and you aren’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. More minutes pass in aggravating silence, heavy and oppressing, and then—

    “Herald!” Dimitri’s voice rings through the woods. Your head snaps to him, and there they are, the Blue Lions tearing through the woods, a yellow flag with a deer on it waving behind them.

    “You did it!” Joy and relief spreads through you as you stumble towards them. “You guys really did it!” They shuffle around you like kittens searching for warmth, and something tight uncoils inside your chest. Is this what Byleth always feels when she’s in front of her class?

    “Hilda and Claude were mighty opponents, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dimitri reassures, but then a shadow jumps over his features. “Unfortunately, Mercedes had to leave. We couldn’t reach her in time to step in.”

    “Step in,” Sylvain repeats, muttered under his breath as he brushes red locks from his sweaty forehead. “I want to see you stepping in when Hilda swings that axe like a lunatic and not scream like a little girl.”

    “Where is Felix?” Dedue inquirers, ignoring Sylvain.

    Your shoulders drop. “Well, Linhardt was accompanied by Ferdinand, and while I pursued Linhardt, they fought. None of them emerged unscathed, although I feel Felix drew the shorter straw.”

    “Felix?” Dimitri repeats. He sounds as if you just tried to convince him it’s going to rain butterscotch pie later. “Our Felix lost?”

    “Not exactly the fight, but I’m sure his pride took a hard beating.”

    “Well, that leaves four against four.” Dimitri brings a hand up to his chin, a worry crease between his eyebrows. “And they still have Edelgard and the Professor.”

    “And we got the Herald and you!” Sylvain beams. “I say we wrap this up and celebrate our victory with a nice dinner and maybe some ale? How does that sound?”

    “Sacrilegious.” Your voice is drier than the crisp leaves cracking under your feet. “Aren’t you too young for alcohol?”

    “Too young and irresponsible,” Dimitri agrees with you, looking tired of Sylvain’s antics. “But I don’t object to a celebratory dinner.”

    “That is, if we win.” Dedue reads your mind, and brings the conversation back on the right course.

    “I assume the Black Eagles are holding position. They’re waiting for us,” you say, briefly checking everyone’s state. Safe for dirt and scratches, they’re still doing good, though having fought already, the Blue Lions are on a slight disadvantage. You can only hope some of Byleth’s students dropped out facing the Golden Deers.

    “We shouldn’t keep them waiting then.” Sylvain winks, playing with the grip of his lance. The smile that flirts with his lips is threatening.

    “Keep your guard up.” Dimitri shares a single, meaningful glance with every one of you, then leads your little group out of the forest. Whatever Byleth has planned, you hope that you’ll be ready for it.

see hope rise with the tide

[In which Jinbe goes to check in on Arlong, and finds some things that need to be set right. Canon divergence. Read it on AO3 here.]

“It’s too quiet,” Aladine says, and he’s right. 

Cocoyashi Village is too quiet. 

It’s a port village on a midsized island. It should be bustling with life, or at least populated; there should be trading ships in the bay, citizens walking the streets. Instead, it may as well be a ghost town. The Sun Pirates’ ship is the only one visible all along the coastline, and only the occasional hints of movement visible through closed windows give away that anyone lives here at all. All the shades are drawn. 

There is something sinking, slow and heavy, in Jinbe’s chest.

“Are you sure you want to go alone?” Aladine asks, his voice unreadable. 

Jinbe hadn’t planned on coming here for a confrontation. He hadn’t planned on much of anything at all, really. He’d only come in the first place because he’d happened across Arlong’s latest wanted poster in the paper and been struck by- something. Curiosity? Concern? 

(Fear?)

Now, though, looking at the shuttered windows and the barren streets, he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t want to know what happened here, not really, but his life has rarely been a matter of what he wants. 

“I am,” he says, stepping down onto the shore, and it comes out as a sigh. “I shouldn’t be long.” 

Whatever he finds here, he knows, will be his responsibility. 

The walk through Cocoyashi’s silent streets feels longer than it is, and every footstep against the dirt roads is too loud in the dead quiet. He catches flickers of movement, now and then, through windows and doors. There are people in this town- many of them, even. And they’re all hiding. From him. 

JInbe’s visited many human cities and towns, all up and down the Grand Line. He’s been met with disgust, with scorn, with stony indifference, and weathered them all, but none hold a candle to the kind of frozen terror that grips this town. It’s a relief when he leaves the silent houses behind, even though he can still feel the eyes on his back. 

With every footstep he draws nearer to the too-familiar tower, looming over the landscape, and with every footstep he wonders. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find when he reaches the concrete walls that surround Arlong’s compound, doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find when he steps through the open gates. 

What he finds is a child. 

The girl is underfed and rangy, short orange hair unwashed and skirt torn. There’s a bruise rising over one of her eyes, livid and purple. She freezes when she notices him, and he sees her eyes flicker to the brand on his chest and linger there for a heartbeat before she smiles, horrible and empty, and he knows that smile. 

“If you’re looking for Arlong, he’s inside,” she says, pointing at the monstrous building. Jinbe doesn’t look away from her, from the bruise over her eye. She can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen. Her fingers are worn ragged and raw. As he watches, a drop of blood drips to the ground. 

A girl, with reddish hair and exhausted eyes and a ragged, forced smile, and it’s Koala but it’s not. 

“What happened to your hands?” he asks, and it comes out too loud, too angry.

She flinches almost unnoticeably, tucks her arms behind her back and takes a step back. The little spot of blood is still far too red against the flat grey concrete. “Nothing.” 

He swallows back the rage that wants to come (he’s not angry at her but she doesn’t know that, he has to remember she doesn’t know that). He tries to remember what had worked with Koala, instead: slow movements, soft words. 

He kneels down, slow as he can make it, bringing himself down to her level. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises, and the words taste bitter and ashy in his mouth. “What’s your name?” 

“…Nami,” she says after a long beat. She’s watching him like she doesn’t know what to make of him, like she’s waiting for the trap. For the blow, he realizes after a moment, and something twists in his stomach. 

“Nami,” he says, “I’m Jinbe.” And again, “I’m not going to hurt you. How old are you?” 

“Thirteen,” she says, quieter. Younger than Koala must be, now. 

He nods. “And what’re you doing here?” 

She hesitates for a moment, and then she tugs her arm around to show him her shoulder, and the ground drops out from under him. The same sharp-edged sigil flying from Arlong’s tower is written on her skin in hard, cruel lines of ink, and Jinbe knows a brand when he sees one, and he is going to be sick. 

“I’m a member of Arlong’s crew,” she says, and she’s still smiling but her voice is shaky like she’s about to cry. “I’m his mapmaker.” 

It’s Koala but it’s not because it’s so much worse- 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.” 

-because this is his fault. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not nearly enough, it’ll never be enough- “I’m so sorry.” 

She’s still staring at him, but she isn’t smiling anymore, and that’s better, he thinks. 

“You’re safe now, alright?” he says, and tries to keep his voice gentle through the fury boiling in his chest, because she deserves that much at least. He’s never been good at gentle, not truly, but right now he cannot be anything less. “I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.” 

“Is,” she says, and then swallows hard, and edges a step away from him. “That’s not fair.” 

It’s true, he knows, but not in the way she means it; she’s thirteen, and there’s a brand on her shoulder and her fingers are bleeding and her eyes are heavy with mistrust, and none of this is fair. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he says. “Arlong is my responsibility. I’m sorry I didn’t come here to put an end to this sooner.” 

There’s something breaking in her eyes, in the twist of her mouth. “You-?” 

“I’m sorry,” Jinbe says again, because there’s nothing else to say. 

“I- the village,” she says, voice sharpening, going half-desperate, throwing caution to the wind. “He’s gonna, he’s gonna hurt them, if he gets mad, he’s gonna hurt my sister-”

(Not me, not a single thought of he’ll hurt me, if you anger him; only the village, only my sister, and Jinbe’s heart breaks and breaks and breaks.) 

“He won’t,” Jinbe says, because looking at her, now, he knows he’ll die before he lets that happen. “I swear on my life I won’t let him.” 

Something crumples in her face, then, and her shoulders start to tremble, and then she’s sobbing like the child she is, rubbing at her eyes with raw and bloody hands as fat tears roll down her cheeks and splatter to the concrete. She cries like Koala used to, like she’s desperately trying to swallow back her tears, keep herself quiet, keep herself safe. 

Jinbe’s hands twitch at his sides, because- he should do something, say something, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse. He doesn’t want to hurt her any more. There’s nothing he can do but wait until she cries herself dry, and he can do that much for her, at least. 

And then the doors of Arlong Park crash open, and a voice, sharp and slithering and all-too-familiar, snarls, “What’s that fucking racket, Nami?” 

Nami’s whole body tenses up all at once, and she claps her hands to her mouth as if to silence herself. Arlong- older, angrier, but still so recognizably Jinbe’s little brother that it hurts- stomps out of his wretched palace, and Jinbe immediately steps sideways to place himself between him and Nami, shielding her at his back. 

The sky is clouded over, and Nami is still choking on tears behind him, muffled and broken, and the flag overhead snaps in the wind, and Jinbe hates. 

Arlong’s eyes land on him. They widen.

“Jinbe?” he says. 

“Arlong,” Jinbe replies, and lets all of the rage that he’s been struggling to contain throughout his conversation with Nami bubble up and over into his voice, lets it fill his eyes with lightning. “Explain yourself.”

Jinbe came here hoping he wouldn’t have to fight his brother, and now he might have to kill him. 

A flicker-flash of something that might be fear crosses Arlong’s face; he’s seen Jinbe angry before, many times, perhaps more than anyone else still living, but this is different. They both know it’s different. Did Arlong put that bruise over her eye, he wonders, or did he just not stop whoever did? Did he laugh? 

Arlong’s face hardens, after a moment. “What’s there to explain?” he snaps back, defiant as he’s always been. “I’ve built a place where our brothers can live in the sun as they deserve. What are you going here? What have you accomplished? Come crawling back to join me, finally?” 

“Did you hit her?” Jinbe asks, and his voice is so flat and cold with fury he barely recognizes it. 

Arlong blinks, looking momentarily wrong-footed. “What?” 

“Nami,” Jinbe clarifies, acutely conscious of her ragged, hiccuping breathing at his back. “Were you the one who hit her? You always did think it was funny, with Koala.” 

Arlong stares at him for a moment, and then he laughs, and it should be familiar but instead it’s just grating. “Is that what you’re so upset about? Nami?” He stops laughing, but he’s still grinning. “She’s my crew, Jinbe. I’ll treat her how I want. She chose to join up herself. She’s a brilliant cartographer.” 

“She’s a child, Arlong!” Jinbe is shouting, now, couldn’t stop himself if he tried, and he can see other faces in the doors, in the windows, drawn by the noise. Some of them he knows, has sailed with, fought with, laughed with. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look any of them in the eyes again. “You branded a child!” 

“A human child,” Arlong sneers, his voice thick with disdain, with hatred, and Jinbe takes two strides forward and punches him into the ground hard enough to shatter the concrete. Behind him, Nami makes a tiny, shocked noise. 

For a moment, the plaza is silent, but for Jinbe’s heavy breathing and the sound of Arlong spitting gravel. Arlong lifts his head, slow and painful, and Jinbe doesn’t flinch from the seething betrayal in his eyes. 

“So that’s how it is?” Arlong hisses, clawing himself to his feet, spitting blood, red red red as the blood dripping from Nami’s fingers. “Traitor. You’d side with the human scum over your own brother?” 

“You betrayed everything Fisher Tiger stood for,” Jinbe snarls. “And you call me the traitor?” 

“They killed him!” Arlong howls, and the old pain in his voice is something Jinbe knows well, something he’s carried in his chest for years. “She killed him!” 

“She is innocent!” 

“She’s filth, and she’s mine, and I’ll do whatever I want with her!” Arlong bites out. 

And Jinbe knows, he knows, he knows what happens when people become things, because he’s known Tiger, Koala, Aladine. He’s seen that damage, sat up at night hearing the echoes of those nightmares. 

“You sound like the Dragons,” Jinbe snarls out, all the disgust of the revelation in his voice. “Tiger would be sick.” 

He sees the words hit, because Arlong’s eyes widen, just for a moment, before they harden again, defiant to the last, and maybe there is no saving him, not anymore. Maybe everything that was good in Jinbe’s brother died when Fisher Tiger did, and he doesn’t know this person he’s facing now at all. But that’s wrong, too, he knows it’s wrong; the truth he has to face is that maybe Arlong has always been this, and Jinbe has always been blind. 

Arlong bares his bloodied teeth and lunges, and Jinbe’s fist and all the grief and guilt and rage behind it catch him in the chest. Bones crack, and blood splatters, and Arlong hits the wall with a shattering crunch. 

This time, he doesn’t get up. 

Quiet falls.

Arlong’s crew are all present now, drawn out by the crashing sounds of the fight, faces Jinbe knows and faces he doesn’t. They’re all watching him with wide eyes, expressions that range from shock to fear to anger. None move, so Jinbe ignores them for the moment. He’ll need to deal with them, he knows, and he will, and with Arlong, too, but there is someone more important than both, first. 

He turns to Nami. 

She’s still frozen in place, staring past him, bloody fists clenched at her sides, lips parted, eyes fixed unmoving and unblinking on Arlong’s still form. “Nami,” he says. She doesn’t respond. 

“Nami,” he says again, and it’s a moment before she can tear her eyes away to glance up at him. “Do you live here?” 

She stares at him for a moment before she seems to find her voice. “I- I have a room,” she manages, and she sounds so young. “…It’s not home.” 

“Alright,” he says. The anger, as fast and chokingly intense as it had come, is ebbing away just as suddenly in the face of the shell-shock in her eyes, leaving only tired old grief. “Why don’t you go collect your things, and then I’ll take you home, wherever that is.” 

For a moment she looks like she’s going to cry again. “…Okay.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” 

She shakes her head, and swipes at her eyes, and then hurries across the plaza to the doors of Arlong Park. She pauses, for a moment, as she passes Arlong’s body. As Jinbe watches, she spits on his face, murmurs something he can’t make out before ducking through the open doors. The watching fishmen let her pass without a word; they’ll do nothing, he knows, with him watching them. 

Jinbe is already so tired, wrung out and exhausted by anger and grief, but his duties are not over yet. (Sometimes it seems like they never will be.) 

“You’re going to leave this island,” he tells Arlong’s crew, and he’s not shouting anymore, but his voice echoes across the silent plaza nonetheless, heavy with the disappointment he knows cuts worse than knives. Even if he doesn’t know all of them, they all know who he is, and they know now where he stands, and his words have weight. “Leave Arlong for me to deal with. I don’t care what you do from here, but never come near here ever again.” 

He sees Chuu, Kuroobi, Hachi. They were there for Tiger’s death, all of them. His crewmates, once; his brothers, once.

“You should be better than this,” he says, and thinks about the blood on Nami’s fingers and the brand on her shoulder, and feels nothing but tired and angry and sad. “We need to be better than this.” 

Nami isn’t inside for long. She emerges a few minutes later, with nothing but a small bag over her shoulder and a carefully-folded piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand, and hurries to Jinbe’s side like she wants to put as much distance between herself and the monstrous building as possible. It warms something in his hurting chest, that she sees him as safe.

“Ready to go?” he asks her.

She’s still staring at Arlong’s prone body like she can’t process it, but she nods, jerky and uneven, and so he sets a careful hand on her narrow shoulder and guides her away through the gates. She’s so small. Jinbe has been cruel before, in his life, cruel and brutal, and he isn’t proud of it, but there’s a world of difference between brutality in combat and the kind of cruelty that darkens a child’s eye. 

They leave Arlong Park behind, and the tension doesn’t start to run out of her shoulders until the road has risen up behind them and the high concrete walls are out of sight. 

“What’s going to happen to him?” she asks after a long, long moment. Her voice is raspy from crying. 

“I’ll drop him at a marine base,” Jinbe says, and the betrayal in the words cuts like glass, but the alternative is to kill Arlong himself, and even after everything, he’s still not brave enough for that. “From there, he’ll either be sent to Impel Down or executed.” 

She swallows, nods, staring down at the dirt road. “Good,” she says, and the anger in her voice is something he knows down to his bones. And then, after a beat, more tentative: “…He said you were his brother.” 

“He is,” Jinbe says, and it comes out as a sigh, because even after everything, Arlong is still his brother and always will be. “He was my crewmate, too, once.” 

She’s quiet, and then, “I have a sister. Nojiko.” 

He remembers. He’s gonna hurt my sister- “Older or younger?” 

“Older. She’s fifteen.” 

“She must be worried, hm?” he says. “Older siblings always worry.” 

She laughs, a little, and it’s a ragged, guilty sound, but it’s a laugh, and that’s a victory, if only a small one. “She does. All the time. She tries to act like she doesn’t.”

He should have come sooner. He can’t stop thinking about it, about what might have been avoided if he had. He’d wanted so badly to think the best of Arlong, to believe whatever he was doing couldn’t have been too bad, not when he’d borne witness to Tiger’s last moments, not when he’d had Hachi and the others with him, not when he was still Jinbe’s little brother. 

Older siblings always worry. He should have worried more. If he had, maybe Nami’s sister wouldn’t have had to.

They reach a fork in the road, the main path continuing on towards the town while a smaller, less well-worn trail branches off towards the coast, and Nami stops. 

“Nami?” 

“Can we,” she says, and swallows, “before we go back to Cocoyashi. Can we go somewhere else, first?” 

“Of course,” he says, and she steps off the road and leads the way down the trail. It twists and winds its way through a copse of trees and up a low rise of hill, and Nami ducks the low branches and steps over the roots like she’s made this trek a thousand times before. 

The path emerges onto a cliff, overlooking the ocean, and on the cliff there is a grave. 

Jinbe thinks, oh, and does not follow past the tree line. This is something he will not intrude upon.  

Nami takes a few steps more, and then falls gracelessly to her knees before the rough wooden cross. She digs her abused fingers into the grass, bows her head. Tears fall, glittering in the sunlight, splattering to the ground below. 

“Bellemere-san,” she says, and she’s smiling, and it’s real, the first real smile he’s seen from her, and that alone is worth all the pain and grief and fury weighing on Jinbe’s shoulders. “Bellemere-san, it’s over. It’s over. It’s-” 

She cuts herself off, sniffling, and wipes her eyes, and she’s smiling, and it’s real. 

“I’m free.”

A haze creeps around the edges of Rabbit’s mind, a steady rise back to consciousness; details escape them, the haze of drowsiness like cotton between their ears and they blink slowly in the dim yellow light. The gibberish hum of a tv turned down low on the edge of their hearing, but they know the sound of the news anywhere--the monotone of a newscaster droning

Turning their head around and they squint, a faint hum of questioning in the back of their throat. They spy the box TV, the automatic subtitles lazily scrolling across the bottom of the grainy screen, half a sentence behind. Florida’s in the midst of another rough storm coming up from the tropics, scenes of preparation moving across the screen and Rabbit imagines that’s what prepping for the apocalypse must look like. 

Idiots.

Rabbit drags their eyes away, sweeping across the heavy gaudy patterned curtains and tacky window valance, the curtains drawn tight--isolating them further in the cocoon of warm dim light.

The computer screen draws them in, blocked by a pair of arms in an out of focus blur, only the blue white light of the screen against their eyes. They eyes narrow as they adjust, words appearing with speed in little fill in the blank text boxes--expense reports. The constant tap of fingers against the keys match the pace, the steady rhythm complimenting deep breaths in the chest pressed against their ear, a faint grunt of displeasure grumbling in his chest. 

Warmth....cradled, held close. Tucked in and held with security behind tense arms.

Rabbit pulls their legs in closer, turning their face away from the light. A concerned hum reverberating their head, the sharp scent of mints and the sound of crunching washing over them. Cinnamon and cardamon, by the smell--must be a special kind.

They idly hum back, nuzzling against Bautista’s chest and they take their own deep breath. Cheap laundry detergent is a smell they’ve grown used to on their own clothes, but it’s funny how they never realized its the same with Bautista

“You alright?” Bautista gently breaks the quiet.

“Jus’ tired...Didn’t know I’d fallen asleep.” Rabbit mumbles and there’s another hum, one of understanding and the comforting sound of tapping of fingers against keyboard. Counting breaths, how each inhale moves them up and back down, heartbeat steady in their ear.

“I didn’t know it either until I looked.” He mumbles back and Rabbit feels it more than hears it, the rumble in his chest.

Both of them had been working late, just the table lamp on and the same station cycling through it’s nightly repertoire. A touch of background noise to further occupy their mind, distract and evade. They were sitting beside him and nodded off when Bautista turned quiet in the lull of a bickering conversation. It had been a long day. Nerves frayed from tracking all day, the usual deep ache settling between their shoulders and in their thighs, muscles tensing despite how they kept pressing their thumbs against the pressure points to relax. Relaxing...Rabbit can’t remember the last time that happened. At least until now.

How they ended up sandwiched between his arms and computer in his lap is a mystery.

“Why am I here...?” Rabbit ponders and Bautista stops crunching away at another mint for a moment. “Sitting in your lap, I mean...jerk.” They mumble for clarification, yawning.

Bautista is quiet, fingers drumming against the keys and he finishes chewing on the mint. Long enough for Rabbit to wonder if he’s blowing them off, or worse: thinking this is a terrible idea and wondering how quickly he could dump them out of his lap and save their precious computer from flailing arms or legs. (Wouldn’t be the first time some poor electronic of theirs had suffered from a flailing arm or leg--but that had been an accident, they swore!)

Funny how their mind travels to that memory, or worse yet wondering if he’s wondering if this is a terrible idea. There’s been too much of that lately: the wondering about wondering about him. Or the wondering about his wonder of what he thinks about them. Too much wondering for one brain, gross.

“Do you hate it?” He asks instead and Rabbit pauses, chewing the inside of their cheek and the callous on their thumb. There’s a scar inside their mouth, matching the imprints of their molars and the callous from the flickering of lighters. One remembered well, the other forgotten. They don’t remember a lot of things, or choose not to remember. 

Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. Most of the time they don’t want to know the difference.

But he asked them a question and he’s quiet, just him breathing and it’s steady like the thump thump thump of his heartbeat against their ear.

“No...” 

Rabbit admits in a timid voice, finding a loose thread on his shirt and they pull it, wrapping it around their thumb over and over until it breaks. Words stuck in their lungs, in their stomach—more things they could say--unraveling the string turning their fingertip white. Things they should say. That this feels nice, that they like being held, that he’s far too good to be holding them like this. 

He shouldn’t let him hold them like this, the more he lets them sit the more they’ll stain him—cover him in briny, rough rotting ichor that won’t ever wash out. Carrion sloughing off their decrepit body to fall into the ocean in visceral chunks, and if all the bad could show up on their skin they would be rip for the tearing from vulture’s beaks like prometheus bound to a rock.

“Rabbit?” 

Quietly their name, coming from Bautista’s lips like he’s unsure of how it feels to shape their name with his lips, how the word that belongs to them tastes in his mouth.

Sharp scent of mints, cinnamon burning their lungs as they take another deep breath. The faint crunch and the steady up and down as Bautista breathes. Just one hand tapping away the keys, the other tucked back, held as an offering. palm up, shiny scars melding into the worn lines and crevices of callouses on his palm. Callouses from gripping the stock of a rifle, the hold on the grip of a pistol--an old flaking callous on the outside of his thumb from the flick of a lighter.

Rabbit always thought of him as more of a matchbox sort of man.

He doesn’t move despite their hesitance, eyes fixed on the computer screen even when Rabbit cranes their neck to look. They don’t look long, averting their eyes back to the TV and they slowly, achingly reach out. Pressing their palm to his, fingers slipping together and it’s a strange fit—his hands are much larger, less slim than Rabbit’s own stick thin fingers and their whole hand almost fits in his palm.

He doesn’t protest, nor shies away as Rabbit pulls his hand close, tucking it beside their chest--an idle act of vulnerability tucked in the narrow black negative spaces of their silhouette. Their thumb brushes against and counts the scars criss-crossing the backs of his hands. Tracing over the hills and pits of tendons flexing under their touch, across knuckles blemished and bruised.

Rabbit lets out another deep breath and lets the steady back to back news reports lull them back down to the same drowsy haze as before. Head lolling against the slow up and down of Bautista breathing, almost feeling the brush of his thumb across their own hand. Silently wondering what he’s finding on their hands--and almost not wondering why they’re wondering so hard.

Almost.

evidence of a lost past part 5

chronologically after 1 & 2 and a bit before 4

fun fact of the day: Hua Cheng’s dancing to Lover’s Tears as performed by the Shanghai Conservatory Symphony bc it’s one of my favorite lazy improv songs

story tag

By the time seven comes around, Xie Lian’s legs are trembling with fatigue and his hair’s plastered to his forehead and nape. Winding lazily out of a renversé, he drops his arms and exhales. He feels...worn, gently pummeled like a sock in a washer or a stone along the riverbank. It’s been a while since he used his body like this—even these last few weeks of borrowing Hua Cheng’s studio have been more about relearning how to move at all, retracing the lines of the technique he’s let fall by the wayside.

Now, for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s properly danced. The feeling buoys up in his chest, bright and a little heady. It still feels funny to break the rules he grew up with, to blend classical lines and break up languid adagio flows to hit the ground, but the way it leaves his body feeling exhausted and satisfied makes it hard to resist.

He takes a few minutes to stretch properly, working down from his neck to his feet and closing off with a short round of abs before he shrugs his sweatshirt back on, picks up his shoes by their heels, and goes to find Hua Cheng.

He’s lured up the stairs by the arching strains of strings and the low rumble of piano underneath. Wandering to the upper studio, he finds himself swaying absently to the three-four time as if the music itself is drawing him into a waltz. He hums softly along and turns the corner off the stairs to find the studio door propped open. Here, the music swells so loudly he can nearly feel it buffeting his body like ocean waves. He comes to a halt at the door.

Hua Cheng is alone inside, a single lean figure in the half-light of the studios. Only two of the four rows of fluorescent lights are on, and they form dim lines like walls of silk strings through which Hua Cheng weaves as precisely and deftly as if he were the shuttle, the hand shaping the cloth.

The choreography is some Xie Lian has seen before—today, even. On Hua Cheng, though, it is a wholly different creature than when He Xuan performed the same steps. He Xuan is a capable dancer, with strong technique, but it’s abruptly clear that he’s a younger dancer with less experience than Hua Cheng. Where He Xuan maintained the extended balances with a tight jaw and stiff shoulders and dropped from them gratefully, Hua Cheng suspends on the ball of his foot, drawing it out and slowing his extension till it seems he’s pushing the music, curving the song’s fermatas and languid sweeps.

In time with the trills and high ornamentation, he flicks through hand gestures in rapid succession while his legs sweep rond de jambs into a light leap off his left hand. The motion rolls him back up to the start, into the sequence that begins the entire pas de deux: a heavy step to the side, the sway of loose arms carrying him into a spin.

At this point in the piece, the dancer never looks to the downstage left corner, like it’s bad luck or a persistent blind spot. When He Xuan danced it this afternoon, the choreography had seemed awkward, the missing corner too self-conscious. Watching Hua Cheng now, though, Xie Lian’s heart aches. Hua Cheng pours himself into the movement, every reach a desperate plea, every sharp twist furious rejection. Standing in this absent corner, where Shi Qingxuan is to enter, Xie Lian suddenly understands why Hua Cheng has been so insistent about the facing. He bites the inside of his lip at the familiar welling of grief that laps at the insides of his ribcage.

Hua Cheng presses into a suspension with his leg nearly to his ear before dropping into a double turn as rushed and frantic as a hurricane. He stops sharply, finally facing the corner as his leg stretches back in an exquisite arabesque, his arms reaching forward as if begging an indifferent god. His gaze sweeps up and then catches on Xie Lian. Freezing, his eye goes wide, and he stumbles forward half a step, falling out of the final pose.

“Ah, I’m sorry, San Lang,” Xie Lian says, suddenly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Hua Cheng shakes his head even as he rubs the back of his neck. Wiping his hand on his thigh, he gives a small shrug.

“Gege is always welcome,” he says, a little breathless. “I was just surprised.”

His hair’s coming loose from the ponytail, hanging in hanks around his face. With his t-shirt and bright eye, he looks softer than usual, and Xie Lian is briefly possessed by the inexplicable urge to hug him.

“Ah, it looks very beautiful, San Lang,” he says instead before pausing. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth before adding, “I think I see why you were dissatisfied in rehearsal.”

“Oh?”

Raising an eyebrow, Hua Cheng tilts his head to the side in open curiosity, and Xie Lian flusters. He’s still not used to such sincere consideration, to having his words listened to with such care. He scratches his cheek.

“Mn,” he says. “It’s just—you choreographed it with a more experienced dancer in mind, didn’t you?”

Hua Cheng blinks at him once, and Xie Lian mentally goes over his words before flushing. His hands fly up, trying to wave off the offense, and he nearly clocks himself in the face with his shoe.

“No, no, I don’t mean it like that! He Xuan is definitely experienced, too, and plenty capable,” he says in a rush. “Of course he’s a very skilled dancer—all of them—”

A laugh escapes Hua Cheng, and he crosses the space between them with two easy strides. Catching Xie Lian’s hand, he smiles at him. Although there’s amusement in his look, it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at Xie Lian. It just feels—fond. Warm.

“Gege, it’s alright,” he says. “If you say it’s so, then He Xuan must really just be a useless upstart.”

The teasing edge to his tone is enough to cut through Xie Lian’s fluster, but he groans and buries his face in his free hand at the shameless teasing.

“San Lang,” he mumbles.

Hua Cheng laughs, bright and irresistible, and gives Xie Lian’s hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

“Anyway, gege’s right,” he says, stepping back slightly and tugging the elastic out of his hair. “I didn’t choreograph it with He Xuan in mind.”

His hair falls to his shoulders, a little rumpled and wavy from being up, and briefly hides his face. As he drags his fingers back through the crown to retie it, Xie Lian cants his head and considers him. He Xuan is the most experienced of Hua Cheng’s dancers, along with Shi Qingxuan. Lan Chang is older, of course, but from what she’s said, she only dances for fun and to teach now. It would take months for her to build back the strength and stamina needed to perform.

“Why don’t you do it?” he asks.

Hua Cheng startles, looking up in surprise. Tightening the elastic, he dips his head a moment before shoving his ponytail over his shoulder to hang in a long line down his back.

“Ah, it’s silly. You’ll laugh,” he says.

“Noo,” Xie Lian insists, grinning. “I promise I won’t laugh at you.”

Looking at him a moment, Hua Cheng narrows his eye, but his lips press together like he’s suppressing a smile. He looks briefly skyward and takes a breath, losing his fight with the smile. Parting his lips, he draws breath to speak before pausing and letting it out in a quiet exhale as he settles his hands on his hips.

“Well. It’s a pas de deux,” he says, like that’s the end of it.

Xie Lian pauses, pressing his lips together and tilting his head. When no more is forthcoming, he can’t help the snigger that escapes him, and Hua Cheng shoots him a betrayed look.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” he chides, but there’s no heat behind it.

“I’m not, I’m not!” Xie Lian says, holding up his hands. “It’s just—you really dislike dancing with someone else so much?”

It’s not that Xie Lian would blame him, exactly: as skilled as his company dancers are, Hua Cheng is exceptional. Even with Lan Chang in the peak of her career or He Xuan at his finest moments, the pairing would still be unequal.

“Not exactly,” Hua Cheng hedges. He presses the toes of his left foot into the floor, arching the foot into an absentminded stretch. “It’s just—the one I thought of when I was choreographing isn’t an option. So to dance it with anyone else—they really can’t compare at all.”

Oh. Xie Lian swallows, startled by the sincerity of the explanation. That really isn’t anything to laugh about. He hesitates, chewing at his bottom lip and sneaking a glance up at Hua Cheng. This person Hua Cheng thought of—if Xie Lian ever knew them, they’ve been lost to time. The knowledge weighs like a stone anchor deep in the pit of his chest, but he tries to swallow it down. He’s being presumptuous, really. He shouldn’t make so many assumptions.

“Ah, then maybe we could figure out how to make it work for He Xuan and Qingxuan together,” he offers, tentative.

Hua Cheng’s expression softens, the hesitance fading into a gentle and welcoming warmth. Nodding his head decisively, he smiles.

“Gege has the best ideas,” he praises. “Where should we start?”

Setting his shoes and bag down by the wall, Xie Lian draws in a breath and steps more fully into the room. It’s not for him, to be lit up on the stage with hundreds of eyes glued to every articulation of his hands and feet—but maybe he can still help Hua Cheng, if only by being a second set of eyes.

“Ah, the a la seconde turn that turns into a tilt?” he suggests. “The floor sequence after that seemed to give He Xuan some trouble.”

Hua Cheng nods and rolls his shoulders once before moving back into the center of the space. Starting a few steps ahead, he glides through the movements as naturally and confidently as if they were the only way his body knows to move, as if fit to his long limbs by the finest of tailors. Xie Lian offers advice and suggestions where he thinks they might better shape the choreography to He Xuan’s own movement, but it seems a quiet kind of betrayal.

Watching Hua Cheng dance, Xie Lian doesn’t want to see the piece altered or made for another. He wants to see it like this, like it was meant to be, with Hua Cheng alone in the thin light and the corner empty, open, waiting.

Never Have I Ever (5/?)

Read the Board Game Verse on AO3.

The next Friday night Michael shows up early and with a list of demands. ‘Put on some warm clothes and grab a couple of blankets you don’t mind getting dirty. We’re taking this show on the road.’ He heads into Alex’s kitchen to pilfer the fridge, and Alex doesn’t bother asking questions, he just does as told.

Outside at Michael’s truck, they toss the blankets and whatever Michael took from his kitchen into the bed. ‘Your firepit? Where are we going?’

‘The desert. Our old spot. Hop in.’ A little thrill shivers down Alex’s spine as he climbs into the Chevy. In all their years of each other, spending the night in the desert has only ever ended one way.

Their drive out is twenty minutes of quiet, radio softly playing between them. Michael’s window is down despite the chill, and Alex enjoys the way the wind dances through his hair, making a mess of his curls. Every couple of miles, Michael glances over at him with a promise-painted smile, the same way he used to when they were seventeen.

They turn off the highway, tires kicking up dust clouds behind them. Beyond the mountains the sun is setting, pink and purple and orange flames licking at the first stars daring to blink down at them. The desert around them looks the same as it ever does with pockets of snow still unmelted from the season’s first snowfall. Eventually, two familiar mesquite trees appear and it’s like coming home, both of them breathing a little easier.

Michael puts the truck in park. ‘This place never changes.’ He slides out of the Chevy and before Alex has even set foot on solid ground, he’s managed to float everything out of the bed and onto the desert floor. ‘You want to sit on the ground or would the tailgate be easier?’

He looks nervous and that makes Alex nervous. ‘On the ground, near the fire. Just need a hand getting down there.’ He reaches out to Michael, asking for help but also offering comfort for whatever anxiety is biting at both their heels. Michael helps him onto the blanket and plops down beside him, the fire close enough to keep the encroaching sting of autumn winds at bay.

Scattered around them is an array of food. Everything from paninis oozing melted cheese to a handmade Greek salad from a recipe Michael had found at Isobel’s house while rummaging through her cookbooks. ‘I might have gone a bit overboard, but in my defense, I skipped lunch and was starving.’

Alex is already halfway through one of the paninis, eyes closed in satisfaction. ‘This is delicious.’ Michael makes a mental note to keep the panini maker he’d borrowed from Max. It’s not like Max ever uses it anyway.

Once they’ve eaten their way around the blanket, Michael gets back up and removes a large black case from his truck. ‘There’s a reason I wanted to come out here tonight.’ He winks down at Alex. ‘And no, it’s not the reason you’ve been thinking since I first mentioned the desert.’ Alex looks away quickly, hiding the disappointment that suddenly floods his face.

Michael doesn’t notice, too busy pulling a large telescope from the velvet lining inside the opened case. ‘Mars is brighter than it’s been in years this month. I’ve been itching to get out here and have a look. Isobel gifted me the telescope on our shared birthday in June. I was going to pawn it.’ He shrugs and peeks his eye through the eyepiece, adjusting the fingerscope per the instructions he’s found on his phone.

Alex looks up at the night sky and finds Mars with his naked eye. It is extraordinarily bright, a glowing pink orb rising through the inky black expanse of space. And when Michael finally captures it in the lens of the telescope, he gasps and grabs at Alex’s arm. ‘You can see so much detail. All the pockmarks and craters. And the dust looks almost orange. It’s amazing. Look.’

He drags the telescope closer to Alex so he doesn’t have to move much, checking through the eyepiece one last time to focus directly on the red star. Leaning back on his heels, Michael motions at Alex to take his place and turns his own eyes upward. They are both looking at the same star but he also knows they are seeing something entirely different. He huffs out a sharp laugh which draws Alex’s eye away from the telescope. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. Just metaphors and nonsense. The ways that perspectives get so warped and are so hard to understand when everyone doesn’t have the same telescope.’ Alex gives him a funny look and Michael laughs outright. ‘I’ve been hanging around Max too much.’

Alex shakes his head gently. ‘No. I think I get what you’re saying. For a long time, we’ve wanted the same thing, but we’ve been coming at it from our own messy angles. I’ve often thought we were similar to the codes I break. We’re on the same page, but written in a language the other needs help translating.’ Michael nods at him, smiling sweet.

They spend an hour searching through the various stars and distant galaxies before a growing ache in Alex’s chest pushes him to ask a question he’s been holding inside since they decided to work on their friendship weeks ago. ‘One day you’ll be able to find your star. The one you’ve been searching for since you crawled from that pod. And you’ll figure out how to finish building your ship.’ He pauses to collect himself, already feeling the emotion in his chest threatening to overwhelm him. ‘One day, you’ll be able to go home.’ His eyes start to burn with unshed tears, but he keeps going, meeting Michael’s gaze with determination and readying the fortress around his heart he was so sure he wouldn’t need anymore. ‘Is that still what you want?’

Michael reaches up and swipes at the first tear that falls from the corner of Alex’s eye. ‘I found my star a long time ago. And I’m not going anywhere without you.’

Alex drops his eyes to his hands. ‘I have no right to ask that of you. I know that. Not after all the leaving I did.’ He tugs nervously at the hem of his shirt, hands starting to shake with the cold. ‘But I’m never going anywhere without you ever again. I promise.’

‘I know.’ Michael grabs an extra blanket and wraps it tight around Alex. ‘So what’s tonight’s game? Didn’t see you toss anything into the bed when we were leaving.’

They both lean back against the Chevy’s tire. Alex stretches the blanket around Michael’s shoulders so that they are sharing more than just the woven wool’s warmth. ‘How about the classic drinking game, Never Have I Ever? Sans alcohol but with a new twist.’ He grins, lips sharpening at the edges and eyes darkening with dare. ‘Instead of taking a drink, you have to kiss the other person.’

Michael snorts. ‘So we’re just soundly saying goodbye to the friends experiment then?’

‘No. Platonic kisses only. No kissing on the mouth and no use of tongue.’ Alex hears the bullshit in his words and knows Michael does too. His nerves return and he begins to second guess himself. ‘Or we can play like normal. There’s still plenty of wine left. Or not at all. I’m happy to just sit here with you too.’

‘That’s okay. I like the new rules. Not much of a wine guy anyway. Who goes first?’

‘Me.’ Alex sits up a little straighter and spends a fair amount of time considering his first move. ‘Never have I ever used my telekinesis to do literally anything.’ He follows the statement with a cheeky grin, clearly quite proud of himself.

‘Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? That’s how we’re going to play?’ Alex tries to suppress the manic giggle that bubbles up in his throat but loses the fight pretty quickly. Michael shakes his head. ‘Have a placement preference?’

‘Nope. I’m looking forward to wherever you choose.’ He blushes and struggles to meet Michael’s eye, muscles tensing in anticipation once he feels Michael shift against him.

A breeze nestles between them, but neither of them notices. The cool air doing absolutely nothing to assuage the heat pulsing between them. Michael presses his lips to Alex’s temple, less a kiss than a remembrance of every kiss that has come before. Alex closes his eyes and lets this new memory burn a spot next to all the others.

It’s strange. Michael has kissed him goodbye dozens of times over the past few weeks. None of them half as affecting as this barely glancing touch.

Abruptly, Michael pulls away. ‘Never have I ever gone to war.’

Alex reopens his eyes at the sound of Michael’s voice. ‘If we keep this up, we’re going to dig ourselves into a hole, Guerin. One we can’t get out of.’ He brings his fingers up to the sleeve of Michael’s shirt. ‘You told me to dress warm when all you’re wearing is this thin t-shirt.’ Michael watches as Alex slowly guides the sleeve up over the top of his arm. Alex bows his head far enough to leave a trail of rough, chapped kisses where the bony end of his collarbone meets his shoulder.

Michael’s breath hitches the instant Alex doesn’t stop with one single kiss. The dry scrape of his lips sending goosebumps down to his toes, his heartbeat a staccato rhythm echoing throughout his entire body. ‘That doesn’t feel at all platonic.’ His voice is low and strained, edged with the desire to flatten Alex hard against the wool blanket beneath them.

Alex smiles and smacks his shoulder with one last loud kiss. ‘I guess that depends on your perspective. Never have I ever stepped foot on another planet.’

‘How about I share a little bit of my perspective with you?’ He scoots impossibly nearer to Alex, hand cupping his cheek and tilting their mouths dangerously closer. Their breaths mingle together although Alex is almost certain he’s not breathing at all anymore. Michael’s lips hover over Alex’s, the anticipation building to a crescendo they’ve both been waiting for since five Friday nights ago at the Wild Pony. And it doesn’t matter how many times they’ve kissed before. Because there’s never, not once been this much hope waiting for them on the other side.

When Michael’s lips finally land on Alex’s skin, they narrowly miss his mouth. Instead they fall at the corner of his lips, a sliver away from touching home. Alex exhales, half-groaning with the comedown. He’d been sure, so sure this was their moment. Swallowing down what he really wants to say, Alex turns to Michael just as he pulls away. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘I think this was the best idea.’ He tilts his head and smiles at Alex so beyond innocent that Alex yelps when Michael pushes his shoulders roughly onto the blanket and slides effortlessly between Alex’s welcoming thighs. Alex barely has time to take another breath before Michael’s mouth steals it away, sucking at his bottom lip so desperately Alex has to lift his head to chase after Michael’s urgency.

The kiss is needy, both of them grasping at each other like they’re dangling off a cliff holding on with nothing more than their fingertips. Michael’s hands tug at Alex’s hair, jagged, work-worn nails digging into the softness of his scalp without apology. And Alex fills the gaps between Michael’s ribs with his fingers, feeling Michael’s lungs expand with each new, shuddering breath. Eventually twisting Michael’s t-shirt so tight in his fists it rips at the seams.

One kiss becomes two becomes twenty until neither knows whose tongue is whose anymore. Michael’s shirt is long gone and Alex’s pants are shoved halfway down his thighs before either of them has the sense to stop. ‘Your skin is like ice, Alex. It’s too cold out here for this, even with the fire.’ His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. Leaning back on his knees, he helps Alex back into his jeans, despite his ardent protests that he’s not too cold, and grabs the remaining blanket to wrap around them. Even with two thick, wool blankets, the night air is still harsh enough to make both of them shiver. ‘Maybe we should go back to your place.’

‘No. Please not yet.’ Alex shifts closer to Michael, joining their bodies wherever he can reach. Laying his head on Michael’s chest, he hums in satisfaction at the steady beat of his heart. ‘You’ll keep me warm. Tell me about the stars like you used to.’ Alex points to a random patch of desert sky. ‘Isn’t that Polaris?’

Michael snorts into Alex’s hair. ‘You’ve always been so bad at this. You can’t really see the North Star from here. It’s not bright enough.’ He drags Alex’s still-raised finger to another part of the sky. ‘That’s Gemini. The twins. I’ve always thought of me and Max as Castor and Pollux. But the version where only one of them, Pollux probably, is immortal.’

‘Max is Pollux, I’m guessing?’

Michael nods, chin tapping against the top of his head. ‘Yes.’

The stars glow brighter as Michael spends the next hour recounting so many of their mysteries, fingertips dancing up and down Alex’s arm like he’s tattooing the stories into his skin. Alex pretends like he’s never heard them before when in reality he’s had them all memorized for over a decade. The stars and Michael’s stories are what had kept his first tour overseas from chewing him up and spitting him out.

Tilting his chin, Alex kisses into Michael’s neck, leaving a sloppy trail in his wake as he nibbles up to his ear. ‘Take me home.’

The warmth of Alex’s house beckons as they pile everything back into the truck. With no traffic, they pull into the driveway in record time, not bothering to unpack the Chevy before heading inside and straight to Alex’s bedroom. They collapse onto the bed and undress each other slowly, allowing the furnace’s heat to melt them into nothing but nerve-endings and sensation, their sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly together.

Once they’re sated and sleepy, Michael throws a leg over Alex’s thighs and wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him as close as possible. ‘I guess we’re dating now.’

‘Weeping Headstones - Prologue’

The beginning of a Doctor Who AU I’ll never finish: Tommy and Tubbo are all set to hang out and go stargazing when- Well, they never can get a bit of peace, can they? Feat. some suspicious statues in the shape of Weeping Angels...

It promises to be a beautiful starry night. That’s what Foolish apparently told Tubbo earlier that day as he hung around Snowchester. Tommy doesn’t know how he knows that or how far he trusts it to be true, but if he’s right, he’s glad Tubbo’ll be here to spend it with him. It’s been a good week or so since they’ve had the chance to go stargazing; between bad weather, Tubbo’s responsibilities in Snowchester, Tommy’s new hotel project and yesterday’s nuke test, they’ve both been rather busy lately.

Just the thought of it makes him clear his throat on reflex, and it brings a smile to his lips. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have radiation poisoning. Like, eighty percent. Okay, maybe he should’ve been more careful, but since he and Tubbo emerged from Dream’s creepy-ass vault with their lives Tommy’s been feeling rather indestructible. Not to bring Hamilton back into it, but he couldn’t seem to die. Besides, they had medicine, he hadn’t been accidentally hit by a nuke, and Dream was in the prison. Nothing could possibly pose him any threat right now.

As if to immediately prove him wrong, there’s a sharp ‘TWANG’ from only a few feet behind him, accompanied by a sharp whistle of air. Tommy’s reflexes from fighting a dozen wars and never knowing who to trust kick in, and he sinks down on the bench as an arrow sails through the empty space where his head just was. He has no armour and only a random sword on him: on the other hand, it’s just a skeleton. He draws his sword, dropping to one knee using the bench as a shield. The skeleton stands on the path outside his house, nocking another arrow on its bow. Tommy takes advantage of that brief moment, vaulting the side of the bench to run at the skeleton. He lands one hit on the wretched thing’s shoulder when he hears a familiar hiss from behind him to the right. He lets out a cry of surprise and swings in a wide arc, striking the creeper that had also snuck up on him and sending it back a couple metres or so. He scrambles back in the direction of L’Manberg, watching as the creeper shuffles forward and the skeleton fires a lazy shot to the side of it.

“You okay?” Tubbo sticks his head out of Tommy’s doorway, obviously alerted by Tommy’s surprised squeaking. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He says quickly, darting forward and delivering a second strike to the creeper, sending it reeling back again. Tubbo appears to disregard his statement, levelling a loaded crossbow at the skeleton and pinging a bolt off its skull. It makes a dull thudding sound and leaves a sizable dent. Tubbo reloads again, but the skeleton shoots first. Tommy doesn’t even need to dodge, as the arrow sticks in the creeper with a sound like someone stepping on a stick of TNT - don’t ask how he knows what that sounds like. There’s another hollow thud as Tubbo cracks another bolt off the skeleton’s body, and the magic holding its bones together disintegrates along with its form.

“We can call that one a team effort.” Tubbo shoots him a wink and goes to retreat back inside when he’s stopped by a small gasp from Tommy. He turns back, “What is it?” The blonde boy is sifting delicately through the pile of ash left by the creeper, revealing a round of black shellac like a palaeontologist uncovering a precious fossil. Neither boy can suppress the grin that forms. “Which is it?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy lifts up the disc to show the red centre. “Blocks again.” He leans back and gets to his feet. “You want it?”

“Sure.” Tommy passes it to Tubbo with a gentleness reserved only for discs and injured friends, and Tubbo gives him a genuine smile as he goes to put it in his ender chest. As he carefully puts it away, a warm feeling spreads through him. Contentment. He keeps an ear out for any more Tommy mishaps.

The boy in question is currently messing with the jukebox, resetting Cat since it had stopped playing since his encounter with the skeleton-creeper duo. The familiar synth melody begins to play, and Tommy’s about to recline back on his bench when he hears a series of small crashing noises, like someone’s dropped a frying pan down a flight of stairs. Furthermore, the noise came from the opposite direction to his house. He looks in the direction of the downtown SMP but sees nothing- No, wait.

Sticking just above the footpath is the top of a head. Someone’s crouched on the Prime Path stairs up to his house, and they’re watching him. Tommy maintains eye contact while getting up, going for a staring contest to psyche them out, whoever they are; he hasn’t figured that part out yet. They’ve got grey hair and a very stony gaze that turns his stomach over, but apart from that, he can’t make out anything since their body is out of his sightline. He makes his way over, head whirling with thoughts. Is this the apparently infamous Addison Rae??

Tubbo’s communicator buzzes unexpectedly. He yanks the microphone down to his mouth with two fingers, hands full of cr*p from Tommy’s chests. “Tubbooooo…” From the sound of Tommy’s voice, he’s making a regretful face and has just done something stupid. “On a scale of one to started a war, how bad is it?” A loud sigh is transmitted through the headphones in regrettably crisp quality. “Different scale. This is like that time I mistook a scarecrow for an attractive woman.” Tubbo sniggers. “What happened?”

“I feel like a foolish man, Tubbo.” “What did you do?” “I thought someone was watching me from the stairs, right? But it’s just this creepy-ass statue.” He plows through Tubbo’s giggles, kicking the statue with his foot in irritation. Part of its arm goes with it. “I’m being trolled with an oversized garden gnome.” “Weird. What’s it look like?” “It’s- It kinda looks like it belongs in a graveyard actually. It’s an angel, but its hands are on the stairs and everything, like it crawled up here to get me.” “Ah yes, angels. The most terrifying of monsters.” “I’m gonna ask Foolish if there’s a family relation-” “Oh god don’t-” “Or if I can kick it off the stairs like the other one. There’s a broken one down there.” He relayed, peering down at a pile of grey limbs and ash on the ground far below.

“I say pay it no mind. I’m nearly done.” Tubbo passes on, dumping an armful of saplings into a corner of the appropriate chest, inventively named ‘nature sh*t’. “How long does it take to find drugs in my chests? If it’s that hard, we have a serious problem, and not just with your eyesight.” Tommy complains, putting on a show of frustrated gestures to no one as he makes his way back to the bench. He flops down, ignoring the acute feeling of being watched sourcing from the statue on the stairs. “Tommy, looking in your chests is like trying to find the button in Pogtopia.” The blonde boy sits up straight, his back cracking in several places. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tommy can hear the smile in Tubbo’s voice the next time he speaks. “Lot of stuff that looks about right, but none of it actually does what you want it to.”

Tubbo hears the beginning of a reply masked with an undignified splutter, and he’s about to shoot something back first when the scream rips the sarky comment out of his mouth. He sprints up Tommy’s stairs and throws himself out the door, crossbow levelled… But there’s nothing there. Also, there’s no Tommy.

Panic starts to rise. He scours the immediate area, peering over the edge of the hill, along the path towards the hotel, all the way to the stairs down to L’Manberg, checking the houses opposite Tommy’s and down the stairs where Tommy said the angel statue was. And while there’s a broken pile of stone far below as he described… Whatever Tommy saw on the stairs is gone. 

There’s no time to worry about that.  “Tommy!”  His thoughts race. What could’ve happened?  The wind starts to pick up, and it brings a whirring sound only just obscured by the dying strains of Cat.  “Tommy?! C’mon man, this isn’t funny!”  It can’t have been a mob, there was nothing there. There’s no one else in the area; even so, Tubbo loads his crossbow and keeps it handy. He hasn’t been killed: there’s no blood and no body.

Could Dream have escaped the prison?

The thought sends a chill through him, rivalled only by a frigid Snowchester morning. Tommy hasn’t told him, properly, about his exile yet. There’s still a lot of leftover feelings involved for both of them. Even so, it’s plain to see: Dream hurt Tommy in ways neither of them had dealt with before: ways they should never have to deal with. If Dream were to get out of Pandora’s Vault and then go for Tommy before anyone could warn them…

Tubbo has his phone out and is halfway through typing Sam’s number when a small noise behind him causes his danger sense to start blaring like a nuclear siren. He turns, standing near Tommy’s door again, just in time to see a figure pass overheard, leaping from the roof of Tommy’s house and landing ahead of him. The figure makes a beeline for the bench, or more accurately the jukebox, and Tubbo watches dumbfounded as the figure lifts Cat from where it’s playing with practised ease and places it into their coat. The mystery thief is facing the wrong way for Tubbo to see their face, but he does take note of the pink hair tied back in a small ponytail, the ruby-red, fur-lined cloak and the sturdy boots leaving tread marks in the grass before they hop over the edge of the hill. He runs forward to perhaps get a shot in as they escape, only to be met with an empty landscape and the beginnings of a very pretty sunset.

He drops his phone to his side, jaw slack and nerves shaking. Someone’s trolling him and Tommy by moving an angel statue around. Then Tommy suddenly vanishes with a scream. And the icing on the absolute disaster cake: a possibly very powerful enemy’s just made off with one of the discs.

“Oh, f*ck me.”

(ao3 link)

           Davis drags his damp rag across the dusty countertop, sighing deeply once he hits the edge. He scans the barren interior, jumping from empty table to empty table to an empty table with bottles, plates, and crumbs left behind. His previous customers must have dipped when he wasn’t looking. Davis grabs a nearby basket, moving towards the mess. He dumps the plates inside, then the bottles after he guzzles the dregs of beer left behind. Finally, Davis takes what he’s owed. Their bill came out to thirty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents. They paid with two twenties, flat. “Fucking assholes…” Davis pockets the money, returning to his post.

           Just another ordinary day at Berens’s.

           He brings the used dishware into an equally empty back kitchen, the doors flapping behind him. Davis recycles the bottles and places the dishes in the sink, washing them immediately. As he sets them on the rack to dry, his eyes linger on a framed photograph hanging nearby. He brushes his thumb across a faded face, a wet fingerprint left behind on the glass. Davis smiles, chuckling softly at where water droplets race down Cal’s profile.

           He misses him. It’s been so many years, and yet Davis still aches for his touch. Davis remembers the phantom feeling of Cal’s arm draped over his shoulders, of their fingers lacing together, of his nose tracing the lines of Davis’s cheek while they took this picture. It was a beautiful day at the beach for them, on a spring morning where they both decided clear skies were better than the suffocating walls of a lecture hall. They fled the campus and found a deserted shore, and under the cover of an umbrella they talked, ate, and kissed and kissed and kissed until the moon replaced the sun and made Davis’s night-dark skin shine when its light hit him. Cal, in reverence, traced constellations with his lips from memory; him, a creamy-white nebula hovering over Davis’s pitch-black galaxy, both communing in a transcendent ritual. It lasted past curfew. They were grounded. It was worth it.

           Someone cuts Davis’s reflection short. A sharp whistle interrupts his thoughts, followed by a gruff, “Anyone home?”

           “I’ll be with you in a second!” Davis needlessly dries his hands on the stained apron tied about his waist, hurrying out of the kitchen to greet his new customers.

           He finds them waiting by the pool table, the one with deep-brunet hair inspecting the cues while the other, fairer-haired man tickles a hole in the table’s lining. They’re dressed for the beach, in brightly patterned shirts, bathing suits, and flip flops, and Davis prays they haven’t come from it. He doesn’t think his ancient joints can manage an hour of sweeping floors, collecting sand that somehow gets everywhere. Regardless, he plasters a replica of a smile onto his face. He clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Sorry for the wait,” he says, “what can I help you with?”

           “Lunch,” Fair Hair says, moving close enough Davis can count the freckles dotting his pinkish cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “What d’you have?”

           “Regular fare,” Davis shrugs, “I can get you a menu or –“

           “No need,” Fair Hair says, “we’ll have burgers, fries, and beers, the most expensive you have!” Then, as he motions for the darker-haired man to stand beside him, he wraps his arm over the brunet’s shoulders. Davis spies the silver band on Fair Hair’s hand. It matches the one his friend wears. “We’re on our honeymoon,” Fair Hair tells Davis, without invitation to do so.

           Davis’s demeanor shifts. A more genuine expression appears on his face, while a warmth rouses the rosebuds sleeping in his chest. It makes their velvet petals bloom, urge forward their aroma, rich and sweet, and causes their thorny brambles to wrap themselves tighter around Davis’s heart. “Congratulations,” he replies, “I don’t have a special newlywed section… but you can sit anywhere, at any table, or the bar… I’ll go and fix up your burgers.” He turns, hiding his glossy, brown eyes before he embarrasses himself. Married men always do this to Davis, unlock a more wistful and sappy part of his soul. Some long-buried piece, that used to dream of a time where he might have had a similar experience to those two on the other side of the kitchen doors.

           He places two beef patties on the grill and starts frying oil for the fries.

           While cooking, his gaze wander back – as it always does – onto that photo of him and Cal. Inspired by his new customers, he reflects on a memory years after that lazy beach day. They shared an apartment, one that offered little besides its amazing view of the ocean and a balcony they could watch the sun set along the waterline after work. It didn’t matter if Davis’s tips barely added up to a twenty, or that Cal’s eyes went cross from staring at numbers for hours at end, because they’d come home, watch orange bleed into blue, then purple into orange, and when the ink dried above Davis finally went about cooking dinner. Cal watched him; eyes alight like the stove burner that simmered their pasta water. “You deserve your own place,” he told Davis, “that way everyone can have a taste of your amazing cooking.”

           Davis shook his head, chuckling. “One day, baby. One day. There’s about a million other things we need to do first, and about half of them involve money.”

           “Yeah, yeah…” Cal reached across the counterspace, intwining their fingers. “It might take a while, with how we get paid.”

           “It might,” Davis conceded, squeezing Cal’s hand. He brings it up and softly kisses each knuckle. “At least we’re saving where we can. Homecooked meals, cheap place… lucky we can’t get married, so we’re saving money that way.”

           Cal frowned, seriousness plaguing him for the moment. He stepped closer, stare intense as he breached Davis’s personal space. “If we could?” he asked, voice hardly a whisper, “would you?”

           “Would I what?”

           “Want to get married?”

           “If they’d let us…” Davis paused, chewing his answer over. He released Cal, moving the steaming pot off the burner. He flicked it off. “I…” He leaned against the stove, arms crossed, “Christ, Cal, I’d want to do more than that.”

           Cal arched a brow, head skewed to the side. “What more is there?”

           “I’d want a big wedding, with all the bells and whistles,” Davis explained, laughing, “a party, a celebration of you and me as we become… well, you-and-me. Then, after the party, we’d go on a big honeymoon –“

           “When we already live next to the beach?”

           “A different beach! Maybe an island!” he said, “And once we’ve finished our trip, we’d buy a little property somewhere in the ‘burbs, as we go about looking to adopt.” Davis rubbed his neck, sheepishly peeking through his lashes at a blushing Cal. “What I’m trying to say is… if I could, I’d want more than marriage. I want a life together where we can just… we can be together, without always worrying who might know, y’know? I’d kill for that. Hell, I’d fight to have that.”

           Funny, though, that when it came time to fight, Davis lost. He fought the paramedics, but they wouldn’t let him in the ambulance. He fought the doctors, who wouldn’t let him see Cal. He fought Cal’s parents, their harsh words and condemnation like being stoned in front of an eager crowd as they chewed him out for their ‘delusions’. Davis heard Cal passed, but wasn’t there when it happened. He also wasn’t invited to Cal’s funeral, to see him off into his next life. Davis did steal a quick moment, though. A kind nurse took pity on him and snuck Davis down into the morgue. She allowed them a final goodbye, as Davis traced the lines of Cal’s cheek with his thumb and pressed tiny kisses wherever his teardrops fell. “I’m sorry,” Davis croaked, chilled by the waxy numbness of his lover’s lifeless hand, “I’m sorry forever wasn’t as long as we planned.”

           Davis assembles the plates messily, mind caught between the past and present like a line of wash. He, hung up by clothespins, is pushed mercilessly by incoming winds. Those clothespins cannot hold forever. The fabric of his body shifts out of their vice-like hold until, finally, he flutters away and out of the kitchen. He returns to the main room of the bar, delivering Fair Hair and his husband’s meals. As expected of newlyweds, they’re wrapped up in each other. The husband whispering into Fair Hair’s ear as they sit on the same side of the table, their fingers laced together atop it. Davis clears his throat, setting the food and drinks down. “Here you are.”

           “Thanks.” Fair Hair grabs his burger with a free hand, shoving into his mouth despite the silent, amused judgment obviously displayed on the other man’s face. Fair Hair moans around the bite, puffy cheeks bursting with a grin. “Dufe,” he says around soggy chunks of bun and burger meat, “Thif if awesfome!”

           “Thanks,” Davis nods, brushing at his apron, “Now, if you need anything, don’t be afraid to holler –“

           “Actually,” the husband delays Davis’s exit, pointing behind him and towards the bar. “I was wondering if you could settle something for us.” Davis looks to where he’s directed, at the glowing neon sign that hangs above rows of bottles. It’s similar to the one that brands the front of his business, in a similar script, too. Except where the cowboy hat-and-bandana hovered above ‘Berens’s’ of Berens’s Roadhouse, indoors it was placed next to it. “Dean here,” the husband continues, Dean – Fair Hair’s name, apparently – rolling his eyes at being called out, “thinks there shouldn’t be an extra ‘s’, after the apostrophe…”

           “Cas…” Dean whines, unofficially introducing his husband, “You don’t have to –“

           Cas continues over Dean, ignoring him. “Meanwhile, I told him that, as long as it’s not plural an ‘s’ should go after the apostrophe. Can you please tell my husband he’s wrong?”

           Davis stares at his sign, tracing the curve of the script with his eyes. In the background, Dean argues in a fierce whisper. “Why are you bringing him into this? He’s not gonna admit he’s wrong!”

           Cas volleys, backhanding his response at Dean. “It’s his name, Dean, he wouldn’t spell it wrong.”

           “Actually,” Davis interrupts, “it’s not my name.” He turns, laughing at their bent brows and Cas’s skewed head and the tiny dots of sauce staining Dean’s mouth. “It was my old boyfriend’s name,” he explains, “Last name.”

           Dean leans forward in his seat, burger forgotten for the moment. Cas realizes there’s a meal in front of him and begins picking at it, chewing absentmindedly on a fry. “You named your place after an old boyfriend?”

           “Felt only right,” Davis shrugs, “Couldn’t have bought this place without him.” Cal’s job, while lacking pay, had a generous insurance policy. Davis was listed as the sole beneficiary. That, coupled with what Cal left Davis in his will, meant he had enough to buy the little property near the beach like they always planned. Naming it after Cal soothed him, somewhat. That angry, gnarly scar over his chest numbing slightly. “Besides,” Davis says, “at least, with the name… it’s like he’s with me.”

           “But not actually with you?” Cas asks, “Like… you haven’t been feeling any cold spots, have you?”

           “Cold spots?”

           The table jolts, saltshaker sliding a few inches to the left. Davis guesses Dean kicked Cas, from the serious edge to his expression and the apologetic wince on Cas’s. “Sorry about him,” Dean apologizes, “he spent the morning binging supernatural podcasts. Y’know… monsters, hauntings, ghosts. Must’ve fried his brain better than the sun could.”

           Davis huffs, smiling. He moves towards the bar, leaning against it to better chat with his customers. “Ghosts?” he says, “No… ain’t nothing like that, at least the kind you’re thinking of.” Davis lets himself imagine Cal like that, tethered to this earthly plane even after passing. His battered body floating amongst empty tables and dirty dishes. Cal chained to their dream, making it a nightmare. Davis quickly dismisses this notion. While he misses Cal, Davis knows wherever he is must be better than this failing monument to Davis’s love. “Maybe if I thought it’d help drum up some business, I’d’ve entertained it. But I doubt ghost stories would help this late in the game.”

           “Oh,” Cas hums. Davis recognizes the tone, familiar with it. Hears it from his accountant, his sister, and the occasional guest who dawdles in the front before skipping off elsewhere for food. “Is your business failing?”

           “Cas!”

           Davis watches them descend into another fight. The paradise of honeymoon quickly crumbling, storm clouds rolling across clear blue skies. He walks behind the bar, grabbing an empty glass and filling it with the tap until the rim is frothy. As he meanders his way closer again, he tunes into their conversation. Dean picks at Cas’s bluntness, while Cas defends his claim in an even pitch that makes Dean sound hysterical.

           “He’s not wrong,” Davis joins them, sitting at an unoccupied seat, “I mean… you think I’d be here chatting with you two if there were things that needed doing?”

           Dean shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable given how he’s looked at the door five times in the span of a minute. “Sorry to hear that.” He guzzles his drink, drowning whatever else he might have said.

           Cas resists the threatening tide of awkwardness lapping at their ankles. “It’s odd that this place isn’t more packed,” he tells Davis, “with the amount of people here – the vacationers alone – there should always be a steady stream of customers.”

           “Those lemmings?” he snorts, sipping at his beer, “They’re always chasing after the next thing. What’s new? What’s shiny? When Berens’s was new and shiny, we got a lot of traffic. There was a time when you couldn’t walk three steps without bumping into someone else. But then more fancier places were being built… chains and clubs and all that… I couldn’t compete. I mean, Roadhouses are popular in the middle of nowhere when there’s barely anything else to do! But I’d’ve been damned if I had to live somewhere without the ocean. Would never want to be fuckin’ landlocked…” His eyes find that swirling script of Cal’s last name. Something heavy crushes his chest, each subsequent breath more labored. “It does suck though. This was our dream, having a place that was… ours. Even when it was just me, I still went ahead because, I thought, why not? Wasn’t as if I had much going for me after Cal… but every month now it’s like the water rises a bit higher and keeping myself afloat doesn’t seem all that worth it anymore.” He glances back at the newlyweds, seeing how he commands both their attention. He notices a somberness in their gaze Davis does not care for. “What am I doing?” he asks aloud, scoffing “This is your honeymoon. You probably have something like parasailing or jet skiing planned, right? Probably cutting into your time –“

           “No, no,” Cas assures him, lips tight as he smothers the pity straining for release. “That’s not it at all –“

           “Yeah,” Dean adds, “We’re all jet skied out from yesterday –“

           “Dean!”

           “And I’m afraid of heights,” he trails off, shoving fries into his mouth, “so that’s a no on parasailing…”

           “What he means,” Cas translates for Davis, “is that we don’t mind listening. It must be stressful, running this place by yourself?”

           Davis chuckles. “Stressful is an understatement.” He slides his drink back and forth across the table, its rhythmic scraping sound almost hypnotic. Skrt. Skrt. “You’d think being mostly empty would make it easier, but actually it’s worse.” Davis looks away from them, bouncing around the room. He frowns at how stray sunlight highlights the dust covering his furniture or floating in the air. “Getting to the point where I don’t know why it’s worth it, coming back day after day.”

           “Because this was your dream,” Cas says, “Yours and Cal’s.” Davis bites his tongue, holstering whatever pointed he comment he had that might burst his bubble. It’s not his fault. Four minutes cannot compare to the four decades of hell Davis lived through without Cal. Forty years of slowly being picked apart by people who didn’t care nor understand what this place meant to Davis. They saw a building where they could eat for an hour, maybe two, and then leave without thinking twice about it. Dean and Cas didn’t plan on gnawing his ear off with this conversation, they stopped by because they were hungry. They were here for their honeymoon, and some of that magic must shield Cas from the harsh reality of Davis’s predicament. He’s blinded from the pain by those romantic, rosy shades. “Doesn’t that make it worth it?”

           “It did, at first,” Davis concedes. He rests his elbows on the table, shoulders sagging with the tiniest amount of relief that feels like water on a blistering, arid day. “But I can’t keep doing something because it’s worth doing… not at my age… not with how business is doing.”

           Cas bristles, responding with more heat than appropriate. “But what you’ve done, for as long as you’ve done it, it’s been good,” he insists, “why stop now because of a – a slump!” Davis’s good temperament chars from the observation.

           He squeezes his drink, hands trembling. “It’s more than a slump,” Davis says, “it’s a freefall. I’ve been putting in all this hard work, and for what? What do I have to show for it?” Davis finishes his drink, meeting Cas’s fierce gaze with his own. “This place’ll probably do better as a condo –“

           “You don’t know that.”

           “I might not, but some folks do.” He bites his lip, unsure why he hurls his troubles into these strangers’ laps. Davis guesses it’s because Cas’s eyes, while hard, effortlessly prodded at the truth and that Dean listened like he cared for whatever left Davis’s mouth it made him want to say something meaningful. Or perhaps Davis was tired of keeping this to himself, and these saps were the tipping point. “Got some realtors skulking about, always asking when I’m ready to put this place out to pasture. Condos were one thing that was discussed… so were gyms, a dispensary, a parking lot –“

           “You’d let them turn this place into a parking lot?” Cas asks.

           “I don’t have much of a choice in my position,” Davis says, “They’ve got money that I need.”

           “But you said this place… you named it in memory of your love,” Cas murmurs, softer. He shrinks, drooping slightly. Dean gently cups Cas’s neck and massages with such care Davis sucks in a quick breath. Davis feels the memory of a caress on his neck, enough that he ghosts his fingers over the skin there in case someone had touched it. “If you sell… then isn’t that like giving up on him?”

           Davis wondered the same things. He spent countless hours awake in bed, worrying about how admitting failure went past the surface. That giving up on Berens’s meant letting go of that final piece of Cal he can call his.

           But Davis, weary from these thoughts, has made peace with this sacrifice. “Everyone else already gave up on Berens’s,” he says, “I’ll only be the last…”

           “That’s bullshit.” Dean speaks, finally rejoining their conversation. His sudden outburst places him at the center of this conversation, affixed at his husband’s side. “You shouldn’t give up. Cal wanted this place for you, didn’t he? You were only able to buy it because of him.”

           “Because he died,” Davis growls, “That’s how. If he knew how much of a shitshow this whole business would’ve been, I doubt he’d have wanted me to use the money for this. Hell, he’d probably hate if I stayed and pissed away the rest of my money trying to keep the lights on in here. Like stopping footprints from being swept smooth by the tide, it’s like.”

           “Well…” Dean fumbles, scratching at his plate for something to do. There’s no food left. Neither on Cas’s plate. Davis knows Cas was too busy to eat. “Okay, what if you sold it to people who… who want to run it as it is?”

           “I’d ask them how they think they can do this any better,” Davis sighs, slumping backwards. “Besides, there isn’t anyone who wants to do that who’s also eyeing this property.”

           “What about us?”

           Davis asks Dean what he said. Dean repeats himself. From Cas’s wide-eyed stare, Davis knows he heard correctly. “Really?” he drawls, sarcasm heavily coloring his tone. “You want to buy this place? Like that?”

           Dean shrugs, fiddling with his thumbs. He sweats, spotlight too warm for him now. “Uh… yeah?”

           “Have you ever run a restaurant before? Or a bar?”

           “No,” Dean says, “But I had family, who ran a roadhouse. Helped them a few times when my brother and I stopped over – we traveled, a lot, for work. It was years ago but I still remember a lot of what went into it…” Dean smiles unnaturally. It reminds Davis of those phony grins motivational snake-oil salesmen would coach suckers into doing in front of mirrors, to inspire confidence. “Besides, Cas and I have been looking for a career change.”

           “That is true,” Cas adds, brow raised, “Although we never discussed running a roadhouse.”

           “Cas, sweetie, I mentioned how owning a bar might be cool.”

           “Bars and roadhouses aren’t the same thing.”

           Davis coughs, nipping the budding argument while young. “As nice as the offer is,” he starts, “You boys don’t haf’ta buy this place from me because of pity –“

           “It’s not pity,” Dean insists, “No, not at all. I…” He glances at Cas, a strange emotion shuddering across his face. Like maybe he’s seen a ghost. That grip on Cas’s neck visibly tightens. “I know what it feels like, wanting to keep something… of someone you love. A physical reminder that they were here and that they mattered and… they mattered to you.”

           Cas leans into his husband’s side. “Dean’s very sentimental.”

           “Yeah,” Dean laughs, “I guess you could call it that.” He takes the empty plate with his free hand and stacks it atop the other, pushing them towards Davis, knocking it into the salt-and-pepper shakers and napkin dispenser. “I’ve lost a lot in my life, and I’ve only been so lucky to not just have them come back to me, but to get second chances. Or third chances, or even fourths.” Dean’s lips lift at the corners, flashing a friendly smirk. He definitely appears more relaxed than he did seconds ago. “I want to be the one to give chances, now, because I can. I want to buy Berens’s from you… if that’s okay?”

           It’s too good. Davis pinches himself, first. When he doesn’t wake, he knows he isn’t dreaming. He places a hand over his heart. Its strong beat reveals Davis has not died. Still, Davis cannot lower his defenses completely. “This isn’t a sting?” he asks, “Some harebrained scheme cooked up by scuzzy developers to get me to sell?”

           “The fuck this look like, Scooby-Doo?”

           Cas chuckles, “It might if you brought your ascot with you.”

           “Cas –“

           “So, you’re…” Davis scrubs a hand over his mouth, pressing it against stubble and focusing on the drag. “You’re serious? About wanting to buy this place?” He huffs a tired breath, tension leaking out of the cracks in his bones and leaving him with little support. Davis collapses on himself, smiling. “What about your honeymoon?”

           “Honestly?” Dean laughs, mirroring Davis’s posture, “We were running out of things to do. Probably would have hit the road in a few days, head on back to Kansas.”

           “Kansas?” Davis squawks, “You sure you aren’t using this as an opportunity to jump ship from there?”

           Cas sips at his drink, a bead of condensation falling off it from how long it went untouched. “We love Kansas,” he tells Davis, “but where we live now it… there’s a lot of baggage there. We want to start fresh.”

           “Besides,” Dean adds, “my brother was talking about renovations, making it more… work-friendly. Figured it’s best me and Cas dip and let the little brat have a go at it on his own. He’s earned it, I guess.”

           Davis nods. “If that’s all…” His gaze darts to the neon sign, a question in his mind. “Hey,” he says, “if you are plannin’ on doing this… this crazy idea of yours, are you – do you have any preference to what you call this place?”

           Dean taps at his chin, drawing the silence longer than necessary. “Well… a few come to mind. Harvelle’s… Campbell’s… Singer’s… hell, I could follow your lead and name it after Cas here, Novak’s – “

           “You’re not funny.” Cas elbows Dean hard enough the other man gasps from the pain, the other two delighting from the bug-eyed look that flashes. “We’ll keep it Berens’s.”

           “Thank you,” Davis says, standing, “Really… I – this is good. Great, actually. You want another round? On the house?”

           “Hey!” Dean protests, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “No giving away free booze! That’s our profit you’re eating into…”

           “Not yet,” he jokes, digging through his pockets, “Deed’s not yours until the I’s are dotted and money’s in my hands.” Davis finds what he searched for, tossing a quarter towards them. Cas catches it, effortlessly. “Why don’t you pick something from the jukebox, my treat!”

           He rises, and Davis turns to round the bar. Davis grabs three smaller glasses, and the Jameson he keeps on the highest shelf. He pours them each a generous fifth, maybe more. It’s a celebration, after all. As he carries the drinks back over, the opening chords of a familiar song start. Davis nearly drops the drinks.

           His expression must concern them, because Cas clears his throat and asks, “Is this okay?”

           Elvis croons from the speaker. Davis’s face strains from the too-wide grin threatening to crack his face in twain. “It’s perfect,” he says, settling at the table. He distributes the drinks, Cas joining them. “Cal always dug Elvis.”

           “I get it,” Dean says, “guy was a hunk, for the fifties.”

           They spend the next hour like that. Getting drunk, discussing the hardships of running a business and debating Elvis’s legacy as ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ plays in the background on loop. During a lull in their conversation, Davis feels, for the first time, that Cal is alive again.

           It wasn’t because of the bar, or how it fares. But because of these two men, a sense of calm washed over him. They make Davis hopeful for the future.

           Berens’s is in good hands.

Saudade - Chapter 2

|| Prologue || ||Chapter 1 ||

Summary: "Saudade" - A nostalgic longing for a person or thing that was loved once, but is now lost.

Helmut Zemo's life was forever changed when the Avengers picked his country as a personal playground to fight their own creations. He would never regain the pieces of his life where he was a husband and a father of two. But the existence of new Super Soldiers might just bring him closer to that life he once had than he ever thought was possible. Madripoor holds secrets that even Baron Zemo does not know about.

Word Count: 10k

Helmut followed in some sort of a daze, not focusing on the turns that they took as they made their way to Selby's office, barely seeing the money that was piled up on the tables and the armed men that stood guard on seemingly every corner. No, his mind was miles away, trying to comprehend what he heard mere minutes ago.

"What the hell, man?" Sam hissed right by his ear as he overtook James. "You almost blew us."

"Apologies." Was all that he could muster up to say, looking straight ahead. What else could he really say? That for the briefest moment he thought he heard Nic's voice? That if he shut down the logical side of his brain even for a second, he would admit that's how he'd imagine she would sound like now? That he, not even seeing a woman's face fully, picked her as an example of how his girl would look like? Maybe being locked up for few years with nothing but books and solidarity brought him closer to insanity than he liked to admit.

Helmut barely heard Le Petit Homme by Edith Piaf playing over the speakers as they finally approached Selby's office. The woman in front of them turned back. Her brown eyes landed on him for the briefest second and knocked the air out of his lungs once again. Was this a trick of some sort? Power Broker trying to get under his skin, render him useless? Helmut doubted that he would care enough to go to such lengths, but there had to be an explanation. Sure, he knew that theoretically there were around seven people in the world who could look similar to Nic, but his gut instinct was sending him red signals. That this was too much of a coincidence for him to cross paths with a lookalike, in Madripoor of all places, the one time that he was looking for information himself. No, something was wrong here. He couldn't get distracted, couldn't let some lowlife distract him with the face of the dead. He spent most of his life trusting his instinct. The one time that he didn't, he spent days digging through the rocks of a collapsed building.

The woman took a couple of steps behind him, attacking his nose with a sharp, earthy scent that had just a tiniest floral undertone, and stopped in front of Sam. She invaded his space, leaving no distance between them. Helmut followed her actions with his eyes, noticing that James straightened up and he shook his head lightly in a warning. There were too many eyes watching them. She reached for Sam's neck and Helmut was nearly certain that James would lash out. He could tell by the way that he was clenching the prosthetic arm, that the man was considering it. Whatever they thought she'd do, they didn't expect for her to simply unbutton the top button and straighten his collar.

"Are you really going to make me wait for my own guests, Nic?" Selby's sweet voice almost made him jump up in surprise. He clenched his hands in the pockets of the coat, wrapping his fingers around the hard handle of the ka-bar knife he still had in his possession from the army days. A coincidence. Nicoletta, or any similar version of it, was simply a popular name. It wasn't his Nic. Definitely not the girl he buried years ago. Just one big, fat coincidence. He was even prepared to entertain the idea of it being a futile attempt by someone to distract him. In his mind, he knew that. He only needed to convince his heart that hadn't stopped racing from the moment she spoke.

"Of course not." Her voice rang out, making him inhale sharply. She ran her fingers through the suit jacket and with a smirk moved in front again. Right. There was no time for mistakes.

Nic moved out of the way, allowing Helmut to cast his eyes on Selby. She had her back turned to them, sitting comfortably on one of the couches. A power move. She was not threatened by their presence. Not that he could blame her, there were four security guards in the room alone, all holding assault rifles. No doubt more were ready to barge in at a second's notice.

"You should know, Baron. People don't just come into my bar and make demands." Selby said as she tapped her fingers against the couch. Helmut gave her a tight-lipped smile and a small nod as he moved to sit down in front of her. Two of the men stood by the wall beside them while James and Sam moved in to stand on either end of the couches.

"Not a demand. An offer." He elaborated, getting comfortable on the couch. He crossed his legs, his foot landing on the edge of the short table that was in front of him. He noticed a couple of bags lying on the table with a clear powder and a Grand Power K100 semi-automatic pistol within a hand's reach, positioned in a way that she could easily grab it. It was a cat and mouse game. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Nic walked over to the table behind Selby's couch and turned her back on them.

"A lot has changed since you were here last." She took a glance at James before turning back to him. "By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

A lot of things might have changed during the years, but he could tell that she did not. All sweet and smiles, hoping that he would fall into the false sense of security that she loved to provide. That he'd spill his secrets or slip up and give a reason for her to doubt his intentions for the visit.

"People like us always find a way, don't we?" Helmut dodged her question raising his hands in a shrug. The more that he could get away with leading her in circles, the better. "I'm sure you've already figured out what I'm here for."

His smile faltered ever so slightly as Nic came back in the view, moving past James to sit down on the couch. She had taken off her mask. He blinked twice to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks with him. Sure he had moments during his imprisonment, in the dead of night where he had nothing but his own mind to keep him company. Moments where he could almost imagine Ivana's soft touch against his face and see his children in a flash between one moment and the next. If he concentrated enough, he could've heard their voices. But this was different. This was too real to be a figment of his imagination, no matter how vivid it could be. Whoever she was, she looked identical to his Nic.

He bit inside his cheek, irritating his mouth even more as Nic planted herself beside Selby and mimicked her pose. It was so much harder to keep his composure when she was right in front of him, watching his every move with those same shade of brown eyes that Ivana had.

With her sitting opposite of him, he had a chance to take a closer look at her. The chopped off blonde hair barely reached her shoulders. Unlike the majority of the people in the bar, she did not wear makeup or attire suitable for such a place. Instead, she wore a pair of jeans, a high collared crop top, and a rust-colored leather jacket with a hood.

Swallowing he looked back at Selby, determined to keep his attention to her. He was after the information that she had, he needed to concentrate on that. Not on the hypotheticals.

"So many people with offers and deals these days." She grinned, moving her hand to rest on Nic's shoulder. "Like this one. Promised to look over the bar for a good sum and yet did nothing but drink while your friend had fun trashing it. I feel cheated really."

"The agreement was for me to look over the bar. Not to fight for it. There's a difference…I think." Nic deadpanned but didn't move to get the hand off her. Helmut could feel her gaze burning holes in his skin. He readjusted his pose ever so slightly, hoping to get rid of the feeling entirely if he moved a couple of muscles. It didn't work.

"Funny thing aren't you." Selby chuckled and leaned to grab one of the small packets off the table. "Be a dear and make yourself useful. Our friends in Azimut are offering a share for B163.9. I think they're blowing smoke up my eyes but I was in a good mood that day. Tell me what you think."

Helmut clenched his jaw and shared a glance with James. The longer they stayed, the more difficult it would become to maintain their cover. The opening snap of the bag brought everyone's attention back to Nic. She shifted in her seat, pulling a key out of her pocket.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what she would do next. Helmut cleared his throat and picked different points of interest to look at around the office. He resisted the urge to shift more in his seat or start tapping his fingers. Whatever the young woman was, his stomach rebelled at the thought of watching her snort the powder. Her appearance alone was too close for him to clearly draw the line and separate the two girls. It didn't matter that his Nic would never reach the age this woman in front of him was, would never end up in a sleazy office in Madripoor, snorting God knows what. It didn't stop his blood from freezing in place and a massive pit forming in his stomach.

Helmut settled on looking at Selby instead. He had to concentrate on her or else he wasn't sure if he could keep the content of his stomach in place. It was too similar, too close to home for his mind not to start messing with him with the 'what if' scenarios.

The ride home was dead silent. Helmut was sure that if he clenched the wheel any harder, the leather surrounding it would rip and break. The bright beam-lights of Ivana 's Range Rover Evoque lit up the road in front of him as he sped through the empty streets. He was grateful that there was no other cars around as he wasn't completely sure that he wouldn't murder someone on the spot given the chance.

"Daddy?" Nic pulled his attention from the countless racing thoughts in his head.

"Hmm?" He frowned and tilted his head towards her, not taking his eyes off the road. He needed to concentrate on something else.

"Are you mad?"

"No." Sometimes you had to lie to your children to protect them. He was quite familiar with that concept. Certain matters were best kept hidden. Truths of what his job really entailed, the rumors of human experimentation in outside city facilities, reasons why their country was always on a brink of war or governmental collapse. So what was a small lie about how he felt compared to the never-ending list of half-truths and outright lies he told?

"Are you sure?"

"Don't close your eyes. You'll only make yourself dizzy." He changed the subject instead. He cast a glance at her curled up on the seat and with a sigh, placed his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it in a warning. The last thing he needed was her freaking out if she started to feel sick.

Helmut had only needed to take one glance at her and instinctively know that it wasn 't just alcohol running through her system. He didn't need proper lighting to know her pupils were still blown out of proportion or look at the way she grounded her jaw to confirm his suspicion.

"I feel sick."

"I bet you do," He muttered under his breath, too low for her to hear. Nonetheless, he pressed down gently on the brakes bringing the car to a smooth stop. "Let's get you some air."

Nic clumsily reached for the door handle and pulled it hard enough that it slipped from her grip and made a loud noise sliding back in place. It took her few tries to actually pry the doors open.

Hearing the door shut, he closed his eyes and leaned further into his seat. Dragging his hand over his face did very little to help him relax the tension that slipped into his bones ever since he answered her call. He could already feel the beginning of a migraine forming.

Helmut sighed deeply and unclipped his seatbelt. He couldn 't let her leave his eyesight for too long. Who the hell knew what she could think of doing in the drug-induced mind. Clearly, there wasn't much thinking involved that got her in this state in the first place. He had to swallow the urge to demand for answers that she most likely would not be able to think of. 'Later', he had to remind himself. They needed to get home first.

Helmut walked around the car from the back and found her sitting on the gravel with knees pulled to her chest. Even with his jacket over whatever it was that she was wearing, she was barely covered. He had no doubt that the gravel that dug into her skin would be painful tomorrow. God, that was never how he wanted to see her.

Slowly crouching down, he put his hand on her shoulder again, feeling it shake under his touch. He brought his other hand into her hair, and stroked it lightly, in an attempt to calm her down. Of course, she ended up freaking herself out. That was what tended to happen when you didn 't think your actions through. Hearing her breath hitch, he forced any emotion he might have felt to leave his voice and moved in closer, dropping down to one of his knees. The gravel was a bitch.

"You're fine. Look at me," He moved his hands to cup her face, tapping her cheek lightly to keep her attention on him for long enough to calm down. "You're okay. Don't work yourself up. It will pass."

She gripped his shirt and lurched herself into his chest, almost knocking him backward. Grunting lightly, he wrapped his arms around her shaking form and let her destroy his shirt with makeup, tears, and snot.

"Come on, mom is waiting for us at home." He encouraged her softly and kissed the side of her head. "I'm sure she has some tea ready for us. That sound good?"

He felt her nod against him and waited a couple of moments before pulling away.

Getting her inside and not waking the entire house was another feat. It seemed that she was hellbent on being as loud as humanly possible. Even with him supporting most of her weight, she found ways to almost trip or knock something off.

"Hey," Ivana greeted them as she stepped from the kitchen into the hall. Her eyes widened at the sight of them. "Whoa."

"Mom!" Nic half screamed into his ear, making him wince in pain.

"Nic!" He hissed in warning. He was this close to snapping entirely. "Carl is asleep, don't be loud."

She turned and looked at him with a wobbly lip and eyes sparkling with tears. Helmut swallowed, feeling the pang of guilt pass him. No, he had no reason to feel guilty. But just because he knew something logically didn 't mean that her expression didn't pierce through his heart.

"Here, I'll put her to bed," Ivana interrupted approaching them and wrapping one of Nic's arms around her shoulder, taking some of the weight off him. "You take a breath."

"I'm fine." He bit out harsher than he meant. Taking a breath in, he glanced at them. "Give a shout if you need help."

It took him longer than a moment to actually let go fully and let Ivana take over. Rubbing his neck, he walked up the stairs to their shared bedroom and dug through the drawers of his bedside table until he found a half-full packet of cigarette carton with a lighter shoved inside.

He took it and walked out into the balcony, leaving the door half-open behind him. He closed his eyes as he brought the bud to his lips and inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs. Only then could he feel his shoulders releasing some of the tension that he carried. He eventually reopened his eyes, not really looking at anything.

"You're smoking." Helmut eventually heard Ivana behind him but didn't turn to her. At least she didn't sound annoyed.

"Yeah," He mumbled as she joined him and leaned against the railing. "I'll take a shower before I come back to bed."

"I'll let it pass for tonight." She looked him up and down and slightly arched her eyebrow. "Although, do make sure you throw that shirt into a wash. I don't even want to know what's on it."

Helmut could tell she was trying to lighten up his mood but he wasn't sure it was possible at that minute. There were too many emotions swirling under the surface. He wasn't a stranger to saying something in a heat of a moment and then regretting it as soon as it came out of his mouth. Half of their early arguments as a new couple consisted of that. So he kept his mouth shut until he got himself under control. Ivana understood his needs, sometimes more than he did himself, and let him brood in his own misery until he finished his first cigarette and tossed it away.

He sighed deeply and finally turned his head to look at her. She stood beside him in a rich blue, silk dressing gown and some fluffy slippers. For a moment he wondered if it wasn't too cold to stand on a balcony in the middle of the night. A twinge of guilt passed through him. He didn't want his own restlessness to make her cold.

"Am I away from home that often? Going through abandoned bunkers, this. Is this some sort of cry for help or attention? What else don't I know? She secretly dating a fifty-year-old man too?" He pondered, the words rolling off his tongue the moment he opened his mouth. Perhaps he opened his mouth too soon. He stretched out his arm, going for the carton that he threw to the side but she blocked it and took his hand in her own instead.

"She messed up." Ivana agreed quietly, rubbing her fingers against his knuckles.

"She's fifteen, lied where she was, drank and got high off her rockets. I think it constitutes more than just a mess up." He barked out. Fuck. He needed another cigarette.

Untangling his hand free of her hold, this time she didn't stop him as he reached for the carton and pulled out another cigarette before lighting it up again. After a couple of moments of silence, he swapped hands and extended his left for her to hold again. He needed something to ground him.

"I'm not disagreeing with you, love." She reminded him, lacing their fingers together. "But she did call you when she felt unsafe. That counts for something."

"So what? We should congratulate her on making a single sane decision in the mess that she created herself?"

"No one is saying that, Helmut. But maybe you are being a bit too harsh," Ivana said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He leaned further against the turning in their balcony, exhaling harshly the smoke out of his chest, causing his throat to burn. "She is a teenager after all. They are not exactly known for making the best choices."

"I'm not too hard on her. If anything, I'm clearly not hard enough on her. Hell if I called my father after pulling these kinds of stunts he would have skinned me alive for disrespecting the family name."

"I'd rather have our daughter mess up and know she can call us than her hiding out god knows where out of fear." She chastised him, her tone hardening. It snapped him out of his tirade long enough to realize the implications of what he said.

"My apologies," He lowered his head in shame at even the notion of it. "It wasn't what I intended to say."

"I have been by your side long enough to know what you mean and don't mean. I know you're angry."

"Of course I'm angry. You didn't see her in that dingy bathroom with skimpy clothes, eyes blown wide. It wasn't just some weed she smoked, that's for sure. Besides where did she even pick up such clothes?" Even talking about it made his skin crawl with dread. He brought the cigarette to his mouth yet again, needing the calm. Chain-smoking was a habit that he picked up years ago all the way back when he was just a private, and needed nicotine in stressful situations. This definitely constituted a stressful situation.

Ivana didn't respond, just kept rubbing his shoulder. Her lack of anger was starting to get under his skin. Almost made him feel like he was in the wrong. He wasn't, not this time.

"Why aren't you angry?" He finally asked.

"Of course I'm angry Helmut, I'm furious. But right now, Nic is in bed and you need me more."

Her words, spoken with such gentleness, forced him to turn to her and really look at her. Here she was, in the middle of the night, listening to his ramblings and quietening down all his inner turmoils. What would he ever do without her? There was no way in hell he ever deserved her.

He clenched his jaw a couple of times as he tried to find the words to somehow justify his behavior. To justify the tornado of rage and absolute fear that swirled inside him. In the end, he settled on:

"A girl died a week ago, overdosing on shit like this."

"I know."

"All I can imagine is that being her," He sighed, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get it out of his head. It was like the idea itself tried to choke the life out of him. "Of getting a call like that in the middle of the night. Instead of the one we got tonight. I can't. I really can't."

Ivana sighed and wrapped her arms around him, stepping on her tippy toes to land her chin on his shoulder. "We won't. You know we won't. She made a mistake and she is sorry about it. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again. Together."

Helmut felt her fingers slowly run through his hair, easing some pressure off his chest. Not enough to let it go entirely, but just enough for him to feel like he could go back inside.

"Well, she's a sad drunk just like you. That's for sure." His attempt to finally lighten the mood felt flat even to his own ears. Nevertheless, she chuckled and slapped his chest lightly in a warning.

"Watch yourself. One more comment and I'll have you sleeping on the couch." She smiled and turned to go back inside but he tugged her back into his hold before she had a chance.

"I love you." He told her, meaning every word. He loved her, truly. He doubted that he would ever find enough words to express just how much he adored her.

"And I love you. Now come on, let's go back to bed. You can be mad at her tomorrow." She took his hand and pulled him back inside their room.

"You go ahead, I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"You better." She pointed a finger at him. "And seriously, lose the shirt. Preferably into the trash. It's disgusting."

For once he didn't disagree with her opinion on clothes. He doubted he would ever be able to get the stains and the stench out of the material.

"Nothing special for the price. I'd go for the Stironium that Joy offers. Basically the same thing but cheaper. " Nic's voice snapped him back to reality. Swallowing, he spared a glance at her, half expecting her to look drugged up. He didn't delude himself, knowing where he was. Narcotics in Madripoor hit a completely different level. It was more like a ticking Russian Roulette. You were considered lucky if you were alive by the morning.

To his surprise, the woman didn't even look dazed let alone under the influence. That was…an interesting piece of information to know.

"I knew it," Selby sighed and nodded to one of the men who promptly left the office. Her attention returned to him. "What was your offer again?"

"Tell us what you know about the Super-Soldier serum." Helmut proposed and stood up. He circled behind James, touching him just enough to show that he was the one in control. As expected, James did not move or wince as he trailed his hands down his face. "And I give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want."

"Now that's the Zemo I remember." Selby gleamed at the prospect of his offer. Helmut nodded, pleased. "I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right."

With his job of selling the bait complete, he returned to his seat. He nodded in thanks as Nic moved her legs out of his way.

"The Super-Soldier Serum is here in Madripoor. You're looking at one example right in front of you." Selby confirmed his speculation and pointed at Nic lazily.

Helmut struggled briefly to keep his face straight. The woman in front of him did not look like a Super Soldier, if anything she looked very much like a regular person. Well, as normal as a person could be when they looked older version of someone else. But human. Nothing like the ones that he killed in Siberia.

Besides, Selby looked eager when he offered up James. Why would she want him if she already had a Super Soldier working for her? He supposed James was pretty handsome for a man but he doubted that she would be interested in him that way. The Selby he knew was always interested in finding use out of a situation or a person, not to take a personal interest.

Too many things weren't adding up.

"Doctor Nigel is the man you want to thank or condemn," Selby released a dramatic sigh, cocking her head to the side. "Depending on what side of this you're on."

"She's your pet?" Helmut asked curiously. He had so many questions about this Nic, but couldn't ask any of them without giving himself away.

"In a way. Power Broker's toy. Such a pretty thing, lethal too if you can afford her." The way she said, with such glee, made a shiver go down his back. She cast her eyes at Sam. "you know all about that don't you, Smiling Tiger?"

"Don't need to tell me." Sam mustered up all could in sounding confident for which Helmut was thankful. But Selby didn't seem to want to let up.

"You're taller than I'd heard."

"It's the shoes." Nic intervened and loosely crossed her arms, kicking up her foot against his couch. If he didn't know better he would say that it was a subtle attempt to lock him in his place. Was she playing something? He couldn't figure out her angle. Not yet, anyway.

"You had plenty of business with him didn't you?" Selby raised her eyebrow at Nic who merely nodded. "Can you confirm it's him?"

Helmut stiffened up, slowly moving his hand closer to his pockets, ready for a fight. He wondered if he would be able to grab the gun off the table quicker than Selby. Any moment now, their cover would be blown. He doubted the security would hesitate in shooting them. Nic stood up and slowly walked over from the couch to Sam. She circled around him like a cheetah ready to play with her food before devouring it.

She walked right up to Sam until there was almost no space between them and looked up. Helmut was ready to pray to the God he had long abandoned if it kept Sam from blowing their cover by stepping back. They were so close to knowing what they needed, it would be nice if they could leave this place without being shoved inside a body bag. He watched with a bated breath as she tilted her head and clicked her tongue.

"Oh, it's him."

Helmut was not expecting that. He looked up to James who also wore a similar expression of surprise. She was covering for them? Why? He doubted she really believed Sam to be Conrad Mack, she gave them more than enough indication that she suspected at least something.

"Good." Selby flashed her teeth as she turned to Helmut. "Had to ask. Too many fakes running around ever since the Blip."

Yeah, like the one sitting right in front of him who just lied about the identity of the Smiling Tiger.

"The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but… things didn't go as planned."

"Is Nagel still in Madripoor?"

"Oh. The bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is gonna cost you." Selby teased him, raising up. "And before you get all cute, don't think you can find Nagel without me."

Helmut pursed his lips. She was right, people like him loved to hide out in the dark, work off-grid in their own little dungeons. He despised the Frankenstein wannabes, too deluded in their own ideals to see the lines that shouldn't be crossed.

Selby just about passed by Sam when a sudden buzzing noise brought the office to a standstill. It appeared that everyone held in their breath as the vibration rang out again. All eyes turned to Sam who dug into his jacket to retrieve his phone.

Fuck. Fuck. Did he seriously not turn off his phone? Helmut looked away exasperated and his eyes landed on Nic just in time to see her stiffened in her seat and clench her jaw. If Sam blew their cover and Selby realized that she covered for them, for whatever reason, she'd be just in as much hot water as they would.

In conclusion, this was very bad for all of them.

"Answer it. On speaker." Selby ordered as the phone continued to vibrate in Sam's hand. James moved behind Selby as the guards stepped up closer to Sam. Helmut glanced around the place, looking for any possible exit routes or what they could use to defend themselves. If they were ever going to get out of here alive, he was going to feed him nothing but expired food, that was for sure. Did he really need to spell it out for them every little precaution when going into a bad place? What kind of moron didn't turn off his ring tone when going undercover?

"Hello?" Sam answered.

"Hey, um, we need to talk about this situation. It's been drivin' me nuts."

"What situation exactly are you talkin' about?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nic move to the center of the couch as she watched the interaction.

"Are you high? You know what situation, it's the only situation me and you have."

Their eyes met as Nic reached for the gun on the table while everyone's attention was focused on Sam and put it in the inside pocket of her jacket before leaning back. She continued to watch him with a cold gaze as she ran her hand through the right side of her face and settled her fingers over her mouth.

He barely heard it. Perhaps he even imagined it happening at all. Maybe she simply coughed. But at that moment, he was certain that she uttered 'grasshopper' in Sokovian.

The call, Sam, Selby; they all became muted. Mere background noise as his whole body froze up on the spot. There was ringing in his ears. Or was it his own heartbeat that was banging against his eardrums? He wasn't sure. A sudden chill swept through him as if a cold wind cut through his skin. The word was not meant for him. He most likely was not even meant to hear it in the first place.

His brain screamed at him to snap out of it. To get himself back in order before he was riddled with bullets. But even blinking felt like an impossible feat. How was he meant to pay attention to what was going on around him? A fleeting, treasonous, thought crossed his mind. Did it even matter if he ended up with a bullet in his head before he had a chance to fight back? No. He still had a job to do. He needed to finish it before he gave in any temptation.

"If that was the case, then why'd they dog you out, Big Time?"

It felt like forever when he finally zoned back into his surroundings. Right. Sam was about to blow their cover. This woman in front of him was or at least knew Sokovian while looking like his daughter. James did what he did best, and stared at Sam.

Wait. Who was she talking to? Was she wired? Who the hell was on the other end?

Helmut tilted his head ever so slightly as Selby walked behind him. From experience, he did not enjoy someone standing behind when he was not in control of the room. Even now, it made his skin crawl with dread. She was circling them like they were the prey.

"Yeah, you damn right I'm Big Time. You'll see when I have that banker killed."

"Cass! What'd I tell you about the Cheerios?" Helmut inhaled sharply. They were done. "I don't have time for this! Sam, I'm sorry. I'll call you back."

The pressure in the air dropped. Selby raised her eyebrow, surprised.

"Sam? Who's Sam?"

"Now." Nic hissed out at the same time as Selby shouted "Kill them!"

Nic ripped the pistol out of her jacket and jumped up. She aimed and pulled the trigger. The sound of that first bullet leaving the chamber pierced through his eardrums. Multiple shots followed, as well as a window shattering into millions of shards. A man in the very back of the office dropped with dead weight.

The second's hesitation, the shock of surprise that passed through the guards, gave just enough time for Sam and James to overpower them. Helmut leaped from his seat as they fought for the weapons, there was no moment to waste.

Nic jumped over the corner of the couch to the table. Slapping the mask over her face she pulled the table apart. By the time that everyone was either knocked out or dead, she had thrown a backpack over her shoulders and secured it over her chest.

James pointed the gun as the doors to the office opened.

"Whoa." A woman with glasses entered the office. It took her one look inside to raise her hands up in surrender. "Wait I-"

"Nothing personal, it's just business." Nic responded and pulled the trigger before James could.

"They're gonna pin this on us," Sam informed them as he looked at Helmut. As if he didn't know that himself.

"We have a real problem now," He sighed thinking of what they could do. Maybe if they managed to sneak out unnoticed, they'd have just enough time to hide out and eventually get out of Low Town. It was their best chance. "so leave your weapons and follow my lead."

"We have roughly two minutes before every single mercenary gets an alert for a bounty. She was on the no kill list." Nic briefed them as she walked over to them with a phone in hand.

"Two minutes?" Helmut couldn't help but smirk. "A lot can be done in two minutes."

=====

By the time they made it to the streets and turned a corner, Nic's phone chimed up.

"We are about to have a lot of company," Nic called out and held up her phone. It had two notifications:

Messenger | now.

'Selby dead. B1k BOUNTY for her killers.'

Veron | now.

'58324 Ridge Tow. 7 minutes.'

Helmut would have loved to ask about the second message if they weren't about to become biggest practice targets to about every single lowlife in the city.

"What's the plan now?" James bit out as they marched down the street. More and more phones chimed up. Eyes followed their every move.

"Follow me and you might stand a chance," Nic replied, pulling a hood over her head.

"How do we know you're not just going to shoot us? You just said Selby was on the no-kill list and you shot her."

"Oh, you don't. But I am your only hope of staying alive."

"This is not good," Helmut warned, he could see the bystanders arming themselves. They had no choice but to place their trust in her.

The street light went out underneath them and a man pointed a gun at them. Shots rang out behind them.

"Through here," Nic shouted, ducking from the fire. She took a sharp turn behind a parked van that Helmut barely managed not to miss. They sprinted through a small alleyway in between the buildings.

"Why are you helping us?" He called out as they passed yet another turn, barely keeping up with her.

"An interested party is paying a lot of money to keep you alive." She responded and slowed down ever so slightly. As if she noticed that he couldn't keep up with a Super-Soldier speed. She frowned looking behind him. "Are your friends able to follow any basic instructions?"

Helmut looked back as well. Sam and James were nowhere to be seen.

"Not particularly." He sighed, shrugging. "Who is this interested party?"

She did not reply to him. Instead, she tapped her right ear as she held the pistol and slowly walked over to the end of the alleyway.

"We have a problem." She snapped into what he assumed was an earpiece.

"Oh?"

"Forty seconds."

Wordlessly she passed her gun to him and pulled out a blade that he could not recognize in the dim light. She moved out of the alleyway into the open. He followed suit with the gun raised but had no time to see where she ran off to.

Helmut aimed at whoever stood in front of him just as Sam and James cut the corner and appeared into the view. The goon dropped dead before he could pull the trigger. Startled, he squinted to see where the shot came from.

He turned at the sound of motorbikes approaching them. Another shot rang out, right as Nic popped out and dragged the goon off the bike to the floor. He did not rise again.

"You seem to have a guardian angel." Helmut broke the silence, surprised, as he walked up to them.

"Well, this is too perfect. Drop it, Zemo." A voice behind him made him jump and turn around. With the gun in his face, he had no choice but to bend down and slowly put the gun on the floor.

"Sharon?" James faltered, recognizing her. He knew her. A friend?

"You cost me everything." The woman, Sharon, growled at him with the gun still pointed to him. Helmut cocked his eyebrow. Did he? He could not recall ever meeting her before. He raised his hands in surrender and took a step back.

"Sharon, wait." Sam interjected, stepping closer to him. "Someone recreated the Super-Soldier serum and Zemo had a lead."

He was defending him? How sweet. Helmut would have made a witty comment if his life wasn't hanging by a thread. He turned his head to see Nic walking up to them from behind. The knife that she carried had spots of blood on it.

Helmut swallowed nervously. The woman in front of him clearly held a grudge against him and the woman behind him, well he had not the slightest idea what she wanted. Who was to say that they weren't about to end his existence at a moment's notice.

"That explains why you guys are here. And Selby's dead." She gave a pointed look at Nic who just shrugged.

"In my defense, this one did not think to turn off his phone."

"So what are you doing here?" Sam asked, changing the attention away from himself. Helmut wondered if he was embarrassed that he forgot to do such a basic task. He hoped that he was.

"I stole Steve's shield, remember? I also took the wings for your ass, so that you could save him from him. I didn't have the Avengers to back me up. So I'm off the grid in Madripoor." Oh. So that's why she didn't like him. Even though it was hardly his fault.

"Don't blow smoke. I was on the run, too."

"Was. Is. Big difference. I don't speak to my family anymore. I can't. My own father doesn't know where I am."

Helmut looked around uncomfortably. He didn't particularly care about their reunion. Especially when they were still out on the open and could be spotted at any moment.

"Listen… Sharon, we need your help." James said, causing the woman to chuckle.

"Please." He added for the good measure.

Sharon sighed and looked behind them where Nic stood around.

"You alright?"

"Never been better," Nic called out. Even with his back turned to her, he could tell she was smirking.

"This isn't over. I have a place in High Town. You'll be safe there for a while."

Helmut shared a look with Sam and James and nodded. Getting a ride to High Town would be safer for them than navigating their way back to the safe house themselves. The bounty on their heads would not go away anytime soon.

"I'll follow by." Nic nodded to them and walked over to the motorbikes that sat empty. Kicking one of the bodies out of her way, she turned on the engine.

Helmut intended to trail behind them but Sam grabbed his shoulder and roughly moved him to the front, preventing him from seeing Nic take off. He still had so many questions and about zero answers when it came to her. Not knowing something was not his style.

The ride from Low Town was just as quiet but more relaxing than their last one. He imagined that having company that did not try to kill them at any chance they got helped.

Glancing at the side mirror, he saw that a single motorbike was close, trailing behind them.

"Your friend," Helmut opened his mouth, hoping to get even a grain of information. "Nic. Who-"

"Shut up, Zemo." Sam snarled from the back as he leaned into the seat's headrest and closed his eyes.

Helmut raised an eyebrow watching him through the rear mirror. At first, he assumed that the hostility was from the adrenaline of having a whole town trying to feed them bullets. But enough time passed for them to settle down and take a breath in. So there had to be another reason for the snappiness.

Helmut racked his brain through the day's events that would result in such behavior. He had to admit a lot did occur in the space of the twenty-four hours.

Oh?

Perhaps his intuition was correct and there was something going on between these two men. It would definitely explain the constant staring at each other. If he was right, he could imagine that Sam did not take lightly at the prospect of him trying to sell off James. Not that he actually wanted or planned to do it. He had hoped it would not come to that point anyway. James was much more useful to have around than not.

====

Their car pulled in front of a gated building that was surrounded by guards. Helmut had to admit, he was impressed. Not many people would be able to afford such a place, especially in High Town. He followed closely behind Sharon as they walked inside.

The inside was as over the top and sleek as he imagined it would be. They passed through numerous paintings that he had no doubt were the real copies and other artifacts. So she was a hustler then.

"Looks like breaking all those laws is treating you well." Sam chuckled looking around.

"I thought if I had to hustle, might as well enjoy the life of a real hustler. You know how much I'll get for a real Monet?" Sharon explained, leading them further in.

"Also it helps that a lot of high-paying idiots do not realize the real value of art and are willing to overpay," Nic added passing them all.

"Deactivate your hustle mode. You sell fake Monets."

"No. She means real." Helmut interjected, having some experience with places like these. Ivana had picked Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 by Marcel Duchamp to hang in their living room by the fireplace. "This gallery is specialized in stolen artwork. Monet. Van Gogh. Classics."

"It's true. You know, half the artwork in museums like the Louvre is fake. Real stuff sits in places like this." Even James reaffirmed their point.

"Okay, guys, I see what you're doing. You're more worldly than good old Sam." Sam rolled his eyes and proceeded to Google it.

"Yeah. What's Google say?" James asked sarcastically.

"No shit."

Helmut glanced at them. They fell behind, referring to bicker with each other than to follow them. Definitely had to be fucking.

"Come on. You guys need to change. I'm hosting clients in an hour." Sharon sighed exasperated.

====

Helmut helped himself to the open bar while James and Sam tried to pick what to wear for the evening. There was no way he would exchange the comfort of his own clothes to whatever Sharon had in stock. He already looked the part anyway. It was one of the many advantages of having a good taste in fashion.

Nic apparently had a similar idea as she threw the backpack by James and joined him at the bar. Wordlessly, Helmut passed her a glass and proceeded to pour himself a good amount of scotch. He would need a lot of it if he even wanted to begin to untangle the mess. Ignoring her existence seemed to be the easier option at the moment.

"Much better." Sharon made a comment as she passed Sam who kept changing his mind on what shirt to wear. His indecisiveness started to grate on Helmut's nerves. Even he didn't take this long to choose a shirt and he was called a fashion diva on numerous occasions.

Sharon sat down beside James and took the bag on her lap. She unzipped it and looked up at Nic with a grin.

"You think you can push it?"

"I know I can." Nic replied smugly and rose the glass to her mouth.

"Hold up," Sam interrupted turning to them with a simple turtle neck in his arms. Helmut crinkled his nose. Really? All this time for a plain turtleneck? "What exactly do you do? Cause you are sending mixed messages with the killing and saving our asses."

"I do whatever you can afford me to do." Nic grinned and looked him up and down as if to make a point. Helmut cringed at the suggestive tone of her voice. It made him uncomfortable to even think of what it could entail. Whether she did look like his daughter or not, it felt wrong. He doubted she was much older than twenty. Practically a kid.

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, getting a similar image as he did.

"So what?" He asked Sharon, putting the shirt over his head. "You have a lot of people that need to be murdered on your list?"

"Oh, no." Sharon chuckled. "We're friends. I just buy her out whenever I can to mostly chill. Her being able to sell crap to others on the side are just an added bonus."

"Who is the Power Broker now?" Helmut asked as he held the glass in his hands. He doubted it was the same person from when he dealt with him. People in places like Madripoor usually did not reach pension age.

"Depend on which division you want to talk to." Sharon shrugged. "It's not a single entity anymore but more like a big umbrella organization. Even then, you don't really know who you speak to. Suppose it's easier to hold on to power that way."

"You seem like you know a lot about how this place operates. What's going on, Sharon? You don't ever wanna come back home?" Sam frowned, sitting down on the couch opposite of her.

"They'll lock me up if I step foot back in the States. Madripoor doesn't allow extradition." Sharon sighed, standing up and walking over to another table to pick something up. Helmut watched her, noticing that she did not sit in one place for too long. Interesting. He wondered for a second if perhaps she had some form of ADHD or if it was just her body language betraying discomfort.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't call, but after The Blip and the chaos, I just…"

"Look, you know the whole hero thing is a joke, right? The way you gave up that shield, deep down, you must know it's all hypocrisy."

"He knows. And not so deep down." Helmut commented, bringing everyone's attention to him. He raised his glass in fake salute.

"By the way, how is the new Cap?"

"He sounds annoying." Nic interjected. She raised her eyebrow as he looked up at her. "What? It's Madripoor, not a cave. We do keep up with international news."

"Don't get me started." James grumbled, turning his head away.

"Please." Sharon scoffed, settling down beside James again. "You buy into all that stars and stripes bullshit. Before you were his pet psychopath, you were Mr. America! Cap's best friend."

Well, that was offensive. To both him and James.

"Wow. She's kind of awful now." James bit out dryly.

"You get used to it." Nic retorted as she poured herself another drink.

"Karli Morgenthau and at least seven others have taken the serum." Sam spoke, playing with his collar. Either the scotch was really good or the day was getting to him, but if Sam kept messing with his attire one more time he wasn't sure he will be able to control himself enough not to strangle him.

Perhaps he was still annoyed at Sam for not turning off his phone.

"You guys really should steer clear of all of this for your own safety."

"We know it's a risk, but we won't leave until we find the one who cracked the code."

"We got a name. Wilfred Nagel." James added.

Sharon shared a look with Nic before rising once again.

"Nagel works for the Power Broker."

Helmut moved out of her way the moment he saw her walk in his direction. He glanced at the empty seat by a glass table and chose to sit there. It was close enough that he could still see them. The only downside was that Nic was directly in his sight now. With no imminent danger to his life, it was harder to concentrate on other matters and not let his mind run miles away. The longer he looked at her, the more exhausted he felt. Weariness seeped into his bones. He focused on the glass in his hands, running his fingertips through the golden strip.

"We need your help, Sharon. I can get your name cleared."

"You haggling with my life?"

"Not like that."

Helmut frowned. He didn't particularly care for their conversation. Or whether Sharon cleared her name. He was itching to get out, preferably as far away from Nic as possible. Maybe he could drink himself stupid until he forgot ever meeting her. Or until he started to believe that it was just his mind playing tricks on him and he simply slapped Nic's face over someone who shared her name.

That was going to take a lot of alcohol. It had been years since the last time that he got so drunk he passed out. Ironically, alcohol never made him forget, if anything it made the noise in his head so much louder.

He stopped paying attention to their conversation. It became a background noise as he zoned out. Even the glass that he kept staring at blurred away.

"I don't buy that. You pretending like you can clear my name."

"Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. Maybe you're right. What happened to you. But I'm willing to try if you are. They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he killed almost everybody he's met."

"I heard that."

"I don't trust charity."

A pair of boots in his vision snapped him back. He blinked and looked up to see Nic standing in front of him.

"Sorry. Kind of need that." She pointed at the chest that was on the table.

"Of course." He gave her a polite smile and moved his chair to the side so she could grab it.

He gulped as the perfume hit his senses again. It felt weird. Wrong. His Nic always stole Ivana's perfumes that had some sweet combination of coconut, vanilla and touch of floral notes. She had a habit of spraying just a touch too much.

This was too harsh of a scent on her.

Not her. A stranger. Nic was dead. He should not compare how this woman smelled to how she used to. He had no business judging.

His eyes followed her as she walked off with the chest in her arm as if it weighed nothing and stopped by the stairs.

Sharon put her drink down with thud and straightened up.

"Well, I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay outta trouble. I'll see what I can find."

"Trouble." Helmut blurted out sarcastically and shrugged. He watched as the two women climbed up the stairs and left his sight.

"She means you." Sam gave him a pointed look.

"Why is she mad at me again?" Helmut asked as he got up and moved back to the yellow couches. Sam sat down beside James with a drink in hand. They had some time to kill before the party began.

"You don't remember?" Sam scoffed into his drink.

"Sam, if I tried to remember every single person that I may or may not have inconvenienced directly or indirectly, it would be a very long list and we'd spend a long time sitting around."

"Can't believe I'm saying this again. But it's not the time for arguments." James groaned out and let his head fall onto the back of the couch, almost like the idea itself was paining him.

"Alright. But I swear to God if you even move out of our sight for one second. I will send your ass right back to jail before you can make some stupid remark."

"I have no intention of inconveniencing you that much." Helmut smirked. "But be my guest and enjoy the party, I'm simply going to observe some individuals. No tricks."

"No. See, if we are doing this," Sam protested pointing to the three of them. "We need to know that you are not going to stab us in the back the first chance you get. So you gotta be honest with us, and tell us what the hell you're playing at."

"I told you before, I'm here to end the Super Soldiers serum. Nothing more, nothing less." Seeing the doubt on their faces, Helmut sighed in defeat. "And also figure out who the hell the woman your friend hanging out with is."

"You suspect she isn't just Sharon's friend." James guessed, crossing his arms as he stared at him.

Helmut threw back the glass, swallowing the last of it's contents. With the familiar burn that went down his throat, he pulled out his phone from the inside of his jacket and unlocked it. It didn't take long to search up his personal ICloud storage and enter the password. His phone lit up with multiple folders of pictures and documents that he had on his old phone. He clicked on the 'Pictures' folder, somewhat grateful that the contents of it were grouped by dates and had random strings of letters for its names instead of the actual pictures itself. It wasn't something he could deal with today.'Or ever' his mind supplied ever so helpfully.

He didn't need to scroll far to find the pictures dated back to February 2015. Mainly because he stopped taking pictures past May 2015.

In that February, he managed to pull enough strings with his Lieutenant General to get a couple of weeks off at the same time that Nic and Carl had holidays off school. Ivana wanted to go to Switzerland for the ski season while he wanted to go somewhere warm. After a few days of deliberation, they settled on and ended up flying out to Barbados for couple of days.

Helmut hesitated. It had been years since he saw their faces. Dread settled in his gut as he pressed to open the pictures. He did not give himself enough time to look at the pictures. Just tiniest of flashes as he scrolled through the few landscape shots before he found a picture where Nic was in it.

"This was my daughter, Nic," He told them, raising his phone away from himself and for them to see. "Looks familiar?"

Ivana had her arms wrapped around Nic's shoulders while Nic made a face at the camera. In the picture, Nic was with a mess of brown, wet curls that dropped down her back. She was younger, scrawnier, still with some baby fat in her cheeks but it was impossible not to see the similarities between the girl in the picture and the woman that they just met today. Apart from the haircut and the years, they were identical.

"Oh shit." Sam swore, zooming into the picture.

"Any chance it is her?" James asked looking up from the phone to him.

"I buried what was left of her years ago James. Collapsed buildings and flying ruble do not leave much behind." Helmut clenched his jaw. "But I am pretty certain that it is impossible."

"So either it's the biggest coincidence in the world that we met someone with exactly the same looks and name or either someone is behind this." Sam concluded passing the phone back to him.

"My thoughts exactly." He pocketed the phone back. "I simply wish to find whoever thought this was a funny joke and have a chat with them."

James and Sam shared a look. They did not believe a word of that.

"Alright," James sighed. "We'll see what we can find out before we leave this place."

====

Thank you so much for all the notes. I'm so glad you liked the previous chapters and hope you'll enjoy this too :) xx

When You’re Gone - An Asra Lucio x Female Reader Angst part 3

Part One (Lemon), Part Two, Part Four, Part Five

(Okay so, the reason I took so long writing this is because I was projecting myself onto MC, and writing a story that was too similar to something I recently went through. I was having trouble completing the story line, because my own story was unresolved. So here you go.)

Second submission for The Terrifying Ten challenge posted by @vesuviannights​ 

Smut (under the cut), Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Asra could almost feel you slipping away from him as the days went by. But he couldn’t help it, he had to go. He thought you understood that.

It hurt him that he had to ask others about you just to find out how you were. You’d gotten upset with him before, but this was different.

Since that day at the fountain, he had sent several letters, and all of them had gone unanswered.

As a gentle wind blew across his soft white curls, he sat cross legged on the grassy mountain path several hundred leagues from Vesuvia and silenced himself sending his consciousness out to search for you. 

It took several moments before he saw you, your back turned to him as you gazed into the palace’s reflection pool. Although Asra longed to see your face, he daren’t get too close. He knew if you sensed him, you’d push him away again, and he couldn’t bear another rejection. Silently he watched you burning bits of paper and then scattering the ashes into the water. It only took him  a moment to realize what they were: his letters. Angry and upset he broke the connection, resolved to hurry home and make things right.

You spent your time at the palace burying yourself in work, attempting  to put Asra in the back of your mind. You thought the busier you are, the less time you have for your thoughts to drift to the smell of fresh brewed tea, flowers blooming in the sunlight, violet eyes and a warm smile welcoming you home after a long day.

“Shit,” you curse. You were doing it again. It was so easy to remember the parts of Asra you loved, and even easier to forget the parts of him that caused you so much grief.

With a bundle of his recent letters in your hand, you lay lazily along the reflection pool, burning each one as you read them. When the first one came, you were happy your heart thrumming with the possibility of his return only to be disappointed when you realized it wasn’t. 

More letters came, but you were still too angry to answer. Too hurt. 

Every so often couriers would arrive with messages from Asra. When you hadn’t responded, his letters increased.

“Love, I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset with me. I’ll be back soon.”

“ I hope your doing well. Faust says you’ve been working hard at the palace. Please take care of yourself.”

" The sunsets here are really beautiful here. They make me think of you.”

“Please answer my letters, dearest. I miss you.”

And the final,

“Please.”

The worst part of it was the guilt you felt at not answering. But you just couldn’t now. Deep down you believed you never would. 

Sitting in the garden, you burned his latest plea in the palm of your hand, scattering the ashes to the wind as you sat staring at one of the lilies in the reflecting pool, studying the dragonfly resting on the soft pink petals. The white marble felt cool against your skin as you sat with legs folded along the edge.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the sound of footsteps behind you, or the glint of a golden arm reflecting in the gentle waters.

“Still brooding over your master?” Lucio broke in as he leaned casually against a nearby column.

 You scatter the last bit of ashes out of your palm before turning to face him. “Is there something I can assist you with, Count?” you ask, your tone conveying that you’d wish to be left alone.

A charming grin graced Lucio’s face, his twinkling eyes meeting yours. “Help me? No my dear, sweet magician, I was thinking maybe I could help you.” he answered.

“I’d be interested in knowing how,” you retort,  a laugh catching in your throat. “The only way I’ve seen you solve problems is by throwing money at it.” It was a joke, but it did have some truth in it. Lucio had changed much since he’d made and broke his deal with the devil, but there were still parts of him that would always remain the same.

“Well in a way, that’s what I am doing,” he continued as he stepped closer to you. ”Starting with paying the five coin citation for throwing litter in my pool.” he teased, offering you his right arm to help you up. “And lastly, by giving you this.” He uncoils an invitation placing it before you. “There’ll be a party tonight. I’ll take your attendance as repayment for the fine.” he said smiling.

You’re up on your feet in an instant as he gives you a moment to smooth out your clothes.

“I think I’ll pay the 5 gold.” you quip.

Lucio’s throaty and genuine laughs fill your ears as his hand closed the invitation into your palm. “You’re always so funny, my dear,” He sighed, “Be there at 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.” there was a bit of urgency in that he quickly covered with a confident smile as he squeezed your arm.

“I won’t be.” You say, your tone a bit more serious than you meant it to be.

 “Don’t be so grim! It’s a party not, a death sentence.” Lucio coaxed.

“One never knows when it comes to your parties, Lucio.” you shrug as you glance at the ornate invitation.

“Oh you’ve got nothing to worry about, I swear you’ll have the time of your life! You might even meet someone new.” He winked before turning to leave you standing in the garden with the invitation in your hand. “See you at 8.”

Looking at the invitation, you noticed something curious. 

“Lucio,” you shake the invitation in the air. “This says seven!”

The count turns, his smile as wistful and mysterious as the answer he gives you. “I know.”

Confused, you watch his proud and confident gait as he walks away.

Lucio had been hunting you the moment he heard you and Asra were done with.

Well, that's not exactly how Portia had put it: during their weekly card game she had let slip that you two were going through some ‘issues’. Whatever that meant.  For Lucio he decided it meant that Asra was gone and now Lucio finally a shot with you.

Tonight's party was all a part of his elaborate plan to woo you. He had made sure the food, the music, everything would be to your liking.

As he dressed for the evening, he thought about exactly what he would say, what he would do to make sure you were his tonight. Sitting in front of his vanity with his legs crossed, he made sure his eyeliner was as sharp and dramatic, with just a bit of a silver dusting that you remarked at his last party really brought out the silver in his eyes. He’d worn it many times since then, hoping to catch your eye, but so far he’d hadn’t received further comment.

 He wanted his makeup to be perfect, for it to draw you into his eyes and never look away. Applying the finishing touches, he looked himself over appraisingly. There was no way you wouldn’t want a piece of him.

When you get to your room, there's several boxes on the bed, wrapped in gold foil and tied with red ribbons. You read the tag on the largest package, already knowing who it’s from. "Compliments of his highness count Lucio" 

Sighing you opened the box. Not only did you have to go to a party, you had to wear some faddy costume that was-

Your last thought was stolen away from you as push away the white tissue paper to reveal the most beautiful gown you've ever seen: midnight blue, with twinkling moons and stars. Lucio knew your tastes well. Smiling, you walked over to the mirror and pressed the dress against you, swaying as you imagine how you’d look tonight. Ah, it was stunning - just looking at it made you feel beautiful as the first flutterings of happiness radiate within you.

At seven o’clock you’re surrounded by glittering lights and elegant guests dressed up in their finest. Heads turned as you entered the ballroom. You’d gotten used to it by now, your appointment as royal magician gave you some status. It wasn’t unusual for you to garner attention. But you knew it was more than your court appointment that had them staring. No, it was the fact that as you crossed the ballroom floor you looked like the queen of heaven.

 It wasn’t long before you were asked to dance by a visiting dignitary, and as you dance you tried to forget the longing in your heart. As the music played your mind wandered, and your body moved with practiced steps and gentle nods as your partner blathered on about some important business deal before he asked ‘wouldn’t you like to come sailing on my yacht this weekend?” You shook your head no, bowing low to excuse yourself. You needed a drink. 

Leaning against the wall, you relaxed as you drank and watched the other guests. Normally, you wouldn’t mind one of Lucio’s parties. They were always wonderful, and to be honest you needed a break. But tonight, all the glitz and glam seemed to fall flat. Being a wallflower was more familiar to you, and you were glad hardly anyone noticed you. Everyone except the count. Although he hadn’t said a word to you the entire evening, he’d been watching. You looked exactly as he envisioned as you entered the ballroom. He watched as you initially looked around and got your bearings. When he saw you noticing the flowers, he smiled exactly when you did in the exact same way. He watched you ferret out an empty table to sit at before you were asked to dance. And then laughed when you rebuffed their advances. “Nice try pal, but she’s taken. I’ve got her all figured out.” He muttered to himself.  After your fourth dance partner, he watched as you quietly excused yourself and grabbed a drink. Now was his chance. “See to everything, will you Valerius? I’m going to check on our guest of honor.” he said with a tap to the Consul’s shoulder. 

Although you’ve stopped dancing, you find your heart racing the closer it gets to 8 o’clock.Your eyes occasionally look up at the large golden clock on the far side of the ballroom, and although it’s silly you can’t help but wonder why Lucio said he would see you at eight. He was there when you arrived, but something about the smile he gave you told you he was up to something.

Anticipation builds, and your heart continues to race until the clock strikes eight and you feel yourself releasing the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. 

But you soon learn that you relaxed too soon, as a cool metal arm slips into yours and you find yourself side by side with Lucio.

“Enjoying the party?” Lucio purrs. 

“Yes its-” 

“You don’t have to lie.” Lucio interrupts. “It’s Asra isn’t it? Pity even all this isn’t enough to distract you from your heartache.” He says waving an arm to the extravagant celebration going on around you.

You sighed in defeat, hoping that it wasn’t that obvious. “I’m sorry, Lucio. Everything’s wonderful and I’m glad I came it’s just-”

Lucio brought a finger to your lips to silence you.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” His low, wistful voice interrupted. “Don’t worry I have something else that might help.” He nods his head forward, and after giving him a skeptical look you let him lead you through the ballroom, curious as to what he had in mind.

With a straight backed, regal stride he guides you somewhat further away from the crowd to one of the ornate tapestries hanging along the ballroom walls. He takes a quick look around before peeling back the tapestry and motioning at you. “Come on, hurry up before anyone sees.” he urges, his golden arm gently ushering you in.

It’s dark but as your eyes adjust you can see you’re in an alcove behind the tapestry.

“So this is what you wanted to show me?” you scoff. “There’s nothing here but a blank wall.”

With an impish grin, Lucio leaned in to whisper in your ear. “No, pet. This is what I wanted to show you.”

Without warning his lips crash onto yours, teeth gnashing on teeth, a bit bloody as he bites your lip. His kiss leaves you gasping and breathless as he pulls you in, his tongue slipping into you mouth as your lips part.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll never think about that magician again,” Lucio growls.

And that’s what you want isn’t it? To finally forget? No more tea leaves, and the smell of rain or moonlit nights sprawled out on the rooftop.

Now it’s fire and soft fur, the sweet musky smell of roses in the summer sun, and the promise of living deliciously as your hands explore the smooth, superior muscles of his chest. Your fingers tangle in the golden curls as along his pectorals, as your own dress is pushed down to your waist, the shoulder of your dress now snug against your elbows as Lucio cups your breasts, rolling them beneath his coarse, practiced fingers as you keen into his every touch.

"Lucio...Lucio," you whisper as he ravishes your body, his feverish kisses covering your neck and chest, before his canines ghost around your areola, making you shiver. 

"You like that, doll?" He groans as his tongue circles your nipples.

"Y-Yes" your voice shakes while his deft tongue strokes over you again. The fingers of his flesh hand find his way to the folds of your sex, teasing you and touching everywhere except your aching clit.

Impatient, you push his hand to where you want him, but he holds firm, nipping your neck in warning. 

"Not yet, kitten. Daddy wants to play first." 

Teasing your entrance with his fingers Lucio chuckles at hearing needy whines leaving your lips. He slips one, and then two fingers in, growling low at the wetness slicking your thighs and the noises you make for him. Bracing his shoulders, you arch up into his touch,his fingers pumping into you as he devilishly ignores your aching clit. 

“Lucio, please…” You let out a deep frustrated moan,as you rock into his hand. 

“Shh…” Lucio whispers, “Try to stay quiet. At least until we’re alone.”

 He'd pictured making you come undone so many times, and he wanted to savor every moment as he studied your soft features. With your back pressed against the alcove and nothing but a tapestry keeping you from being seen you nod silently, biting your lip as Lucio curls his fingers into you and his thumb flicks across your clit.

“Touch me,” Lucio groans as he grinds against you, pushing you further against the wall. You can feel how hard he is as you palm him through his clothes, making him hiss. 

“Again Lucio," You breathe as you undo his pants, his proud cock presenting itself into your hands, “Tell me again.”

He begs you to touch him, before you start stroking his cock in time with the movements of his fingers inside you and watch him unravel under your touch. This way of making love was different from Asra’s - it was so fervent and needy. Lucio's whimpering, hips thrusting into your touch as you stroke him. “Good...it’s too good,” he growls, his lips never leaving yours. It doesn’t take long for his stuttering thrusts turn into raw unsteady breaths, and those breaths into muffled, masculine groans.

The noise of the party is just outside the rich purple and gold tapestry that created a secret world of passion under its shadow occupied by only you and your Count, his low, distinct voice a heady whisper in you ear.  

 "Please... please let me fuck you my beautiful Magician."

You open your legs in silent approval and with one quick movement he's inside of you. Humping away like a desperate animal. 

"Thank you thank you thank you," he whimpers as he fucks into you murmuring praises and sweet promises."so good, so beautiful."

"Lucio...please. more." You sigh arching up into him.

"Yes, pet. Anything you want. Always what you want" he groans as he fucks harder,

Moving his arms around your body, he brings you close to his chest. His hips slam into you, causing you to bite into his shoulder to muffle your cry at the feeling of his wide head hitting your g-spot. 

“I want you so much, you’re all I fucking think about.” 

He comes, silent and intense as your own orgasm finds you. 

Hurriedly Lucio pulls out of you, quickly helping you dress before arranging his own clothing.

"Follow me, quickly." He growls, his arm locking around your waist as he leads you both from under the tapestry and into the crowd of the ball room. You can only hope you've put your clothing back where it should be. You squeeze your inner muscles tightly when you feel his seed starting to slip out of you, and you blush at the lewdness of it.

Thankfully the bustle around the palace has died down and the corridors are silent as you both made your way to Lucio’s wing. His room was dark and cold when you entered it, and he cursed the servants for their superstitious nature. Although several years have passed since his return, the staff still feared entering his wing.

"Hold on Lucio, I've got it." With a flick of your wrist a roaring fire appears in the fireplace, and you smile in satisfaction.

A blur of white rushes you and in moments you're in Lucio’s bed, naked and breathless as he trails kisses over every inch of your skin. Making you writhe and moan on his fingers once more.

Smirking he removes his fingers, licking them clean while you whine disappointment. You are not empty for long. His cock is nudging at your entrance and you push back onto him, feeling the tip slip in.

“I’m the one giving you all you need. I want you to be mine.” he growls, “Forget Asra, Forget everything else except me.”

He slides into you, pressing a low purr out of you as he bottoms out. His eyes are focused on his length buried inside of you, as Lucio enjoys the mewl leaving your lips.

“Please…”

Gripping your waist Lucio starts moving. He’s sliding slowly in and out of you, letting you savor the feeling of his cock stretching your walls.  Nothing is rushed, but no time is wasted in his lovemaking. 

Hands fisting the sheets, mouth hanging open you cry out in pleasure when he starts dragging you onto his cock with every powerful thrust.  His golden claw digs into your hips, cutting into the skin as he claims you. It’s a slow and desperate burn as the two of you collide.

Lucio watches your reaction when he starts moving faster, going harder to make sure you will fall over the edge once more. He loves the way you lose control when you come, totally falling apart for him.

A lovely and breathless silence fills his chambers as the two of you lay in post coital bliss.

It lays unbroken until you feel him leaving the bed, and your heart sinks. Of course you’re just a one night stand. It was foolish to think any different.

“Please don’t...don’t leave.” Your hand reaches out for him, your eyes clouded with building tears.

You hear a quiet sigh as his fingers slip into yours. “I’m not going anywhere pet,” he soothes. “I’ll stay forever if that’s what you want. I just need to take this off before bed. I’ll tear up the sheets in my sleep if I don’t.”

With one practiced motion he removes his alchemical arm, placing it on the nightstand before returning to your side. With his right arm, he pulls you against his chest before you slide the covers over both of you.

Sleep finds you soft and warm as Lucio holds you. The last thing you see before you close your eyes is his gentle dreamy smile.

The morning afterwards, it feels strange waking up next to someone after spending nearly a month alone.

Even when he isn’t traveling, Asra's usually gone when you wake up--either downstairs working in the shop, trading in the marketplace, visiting the palace or just plain gone. The last time you remember waking up next to someone was your birthday. Asra stayed that day.

But Lucio didn't need a special reason to stay. You were it. "I'll stay forever if you want me to." You remember him saying. The words pulled at your soul, and it felt good even if it wasn't from the person you wanted it from. 

Your newfound desire for the count was a strange feeling that worried you. Suddenly you were panicking, and you began questioning yourself. ‘Oh gods,’ you whisper, careful not to wake the man sleeping next to you. 

 Silently, you slipped out of his bed, white silk sheets slipping away from you as your feet hit the marble floor. Dressing quickly, you stuck your head out the door to peek down the hallway. 

Thankful the coast was clear, and with one final look behind you, you leave-your steps brisk and light as you made your way down the hallway and back to your room, chest pounding as you wondered if last night was a good decision, searching for meaning in every act, every word that was said.

Thank you for reading, and as always your comments are always appreciated! 

P.S. Sorry I didn’t tag anyone who asked. Frankly I have no organizational skills, and my memory is terrible. Please forgive me.

Inheritance (Shelby!Reader × Peaky Blinders Oneshot)

Character/s: Arthur, Thomas, John, Ada, Finn

Word Count: 1,393

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomrecs @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @captivatedbycillianmurphy @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87

A/N: I'm feeling insecure about writing and when I do, the only thing that helps is to write, even if it's god awful lol. I started with the first paragraph, just writing whatever, and it turned into this. I had plans for a completely different fandom/fic tonight, which I hope to post sometime this week. I'm sure this frustration will pass, it's just hard to get through. I feel like a mess with everything. I know its probably just the stress of school, and family, and August coming so soon. June lasted years, but July was gone in a second. Still trying to wind down from the panic I've gotten myself into. Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @eylins :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

You want to believe you're different from them. That your words, your writing, your work is anymore extraordinary, that somehow the thoughts in your head have not been repeated through history, stamped from one cracked skull to the next. You want to believe your eyes have seen something more, something hidden, that the trees deeply rooted, there long before your birth, and around after you're gone, have not witnessed the same blue birds or soft, summer storms. You think, for an instance, that there us a separation in what makes you you and them them. That the loneliness in your gut, the screams and cries gurgling in your throat, that this pain layered beneath every cell in your body somehow draws a line between you and them. Making you human where they are not. Giving you feeling where they lack. You hoped, and prayed, by some miracle, that whatever it was that created you wasn't in anyone else. Foolish and young, too naive for your own good. Where they bled you bruised. Where you collapsed they stood like stone. You could stare down the same Devil and see two fraternal beings, both wearing a wicked smile.

The funny thing is, you were more like them than you could ever tell.

Passed down from generation to generation, kept warm and safe cupped into two hands. The anger. Dangerous, bloody, boiling. Pricking beneath your skin like bees, tinging, numbing the sharp things that tore through it. It made your gums bleed, hateful words like knives sling your mouth up through and through. A sickening, twisted laughter bubbling, bursting out of you before you have half a mind to stop it. It made you cold, invincible, scowling at the earth beneath your feet and the sky above, somewhere in the middle this god everyone turns to in their time of need. He never showed up for you, though, instead hiding. From you, and from Arthur. The fire in your veins, swollen by gasoline blood and matches for breakfast. Your big brother caught fire with the slightest annoyance. Cagey, unyielding, a force that tore through him until he let it all out. A corrosive being stripping him of skin and bone, making man into monster. You too had been subjected to stares and glares, deemed more weapon than person. A hazard, too dangerous to be around. One more thing you had to watch out for, the bitterness in that Shelby blood.

That anger seething, turning in on itself. Imploding. Not wanting to hurt others, you hurt yourself. Bit the bad end of a barrel, a bullet sitting on your tongue, the broken bits of a bottle. You liked the way you felt when the only thing standing between you and that dark abyss of an end was yourself. That sense of control, of power, came too few times. A high you tried took chase as much as you could in this big messed up world. Hold these standards of yourself on your shoulders only took be crushed beneath them. Falling into a pit of all the things you bottled up and kissed goodbye, setting each jar on the shelf with its own special label. Grief. Guilt. Greed. Building up walls around you, a tomb to crumble in, afraid to let the rest of the world there were feelings beneath your cold complexion. Tommy always had a way of locking things up and never letting them see the light of day. Learning from the best, you guessed. Let them see your pain, your weakness, and it would be used against you. Weaponized. You couldn't survive another loss.

Boarded up, an abandoned home needing someone to crawl in and make it their own. Tidy up the place, see the potential you had beneath those rotten floors and broken bricks, chipped paint and peeling wood. A want, a need, an ache to be wanted, to be loved and accepted. John never could stand on his own, never wanting to face a bed half empty. Tripping over himself, falling too easy for the next set of wandering eyes and slim legs. He loved like no one else. And you did, too. Unrequited. Given the slightest bit of acceptance, lead into another persons word by free drinks and shameless flirting. You wanted to find the one, your other half, the same way he had, once believing the only way he could ever feel whole was with someone by his side. There was someone out there for everyone, there had to be. You weren't sure how much longer you could live so alone. Part of you wanted to think it was a lie, something you'd grow out of eventually, but John never seemed to, and you'd followed that path too far to turn back.

One day, you hoped, despite the anger, the walls, someone would find you, and love you regardless. You hoped for a lot of things. For the rain to stop and the clouds to clear. For the fog of your thoughts to disappear. For this life to be a little easier for everyone. Forgiving, motherly, nurturing, it's sharp edges dulled. To one day find your way out of all this, start fresh, start new, the potential of a freshly healed scar. Your sister had a way of whispering things in your ear, feeding into these delusions. She too wanted something more from what she saw everyday. Lost in a dream world she crested for herself. Often it was the only thing that kept you going, kept you upright. Eyes burning, sobs choking, too fragile for this world, you wanted to crawl inside the one you made from scratch and never leave. Ada told stories, too young to tell the difference between reality and imagination, her spirits high, embedding itself within your bones. The Shelby's were nothing without their dreams, their drive, their want for a perfect world just out of reach.

Without dreams, there was only dread. Fear of the future, the past, the footsteps you'd one day have to follow because that's what was expected of you. Stand tall, gun in hand, vertebrae stacked atop one another. There was no looking down, no flinching. If you weren't the best you weren't anyone. Turn a blind eye to the bad, to the meek, step on anyone who ever got in your way. Placed on a pedestal with broken knees. The baby, the one you helped raise, from cradle to grave. Never seen a second war, thrust into the one your brothers brought home. You both were. The lurch in your belly at the thought of so much red on your hands, of grief being associated with your name. You couldn't bear the thought of taking another soul from this world. Finn jumped at the pop of a gun, cringing at the cries of others. They could get used to it. Desensitized to it. But the both of you? This was new, and scary, and you were sure the softness they'd lost too long ago still lived inside you. The guilt they forgot chewed you alive, haunting your dreams. They could do as they pleased, but you couldn't. You refused to be as destructive as the rest of your siblings.

As much as you wanted to keep your distance, make some definition between you and them, there was too much of them inside you. Their faces staring back at you in the mirror. The sorrow, the hurt, the hate, the ups and downs of a life like yours, like theirs, there was no escaping it. You could run, but you could never hide. Like a shadow, it clung to your soles, dragged across the cobblestone. Escape however you wanted, however you pleased, there was only one thing all of you had in common: no matter how much you tried, no matter how hard you talked yourself into denial, that Shelby blood was a particular kind poison only the worst would become accustomed to. Try as you might, the thoughts, the feelings, all of it would follow you. Stepping on your heels. Breaking down you'd doors. It would bleed when you did, and dream with you, and hide deep within the cage of your ribs when you were too ashamed to admit it. You were of them. Always had been, always would be, no matter how much you prayed you were different.

Pseudo Princess Pt.01

Among the Muck

09/27/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 4,835

Warnings: Language, future smut, future dub-con (because of the time period this is set in), future angst, future violence

A/N: I’ve been watching a lot of the Tudors and inspiration struck. I’ve been wanting to make a Medieval AU but this will be different to those I’ve read. These characters will still be them. Tony is still Iron Man (you’ll see how I do that), Bruce will still be Hulk, Steve and Bucky will still be super soldiers. So this falls under more Medieval Fantasy than just pure Medieval. As such, this will not be historically accurate but hopefully within the historically accurate bubble in all other aspects. This will not be a fluffy story. There will be some fluff (I love soft moments and I do them often) but there will also be some major angst. Anyway, I hope you like this first chapter. xoxo

If you would like to be tagged. Please, send me an ASK. I will not add you if you send me a private message or if you do so in the comments.

Coarse dirt is caked underneath your fingernails. Your feet squish against the wet gloop of mud. With a gasp you falter, losing your balance, and throw out your hands to catch yourself.

They sink in all the way to the elbow, stretching the muscles on the back of your thighs until they burn.

Labor is something you are familiar with, but this. This searching is exhausting.

“Are you alright, dear?” An old woman croaks, voice quaking with age.

Glancing back at her with her withered white skin, caked in grime and dried sweat, you smile.

It’s meant to be reassuring but you feel as if it’s really a grimace.

“Yes.” You answer simply, as she worries, watching you struggle.

She’d been walking along the side of the uneven dirt road when a group of teens—from the village because you’ve seen them before—rushed by on stolen horses. They avoided the lady easily but the guard chasing behind them did not.

They barreled towards the old woman and she’d had to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled.

She’d landed in this mud puddle, losing her purse in the process.

Watching it all happen, you’d dropped your pails and raced over to help her.

Grateful, she’d accepted your offer of assistance and you’d sat her on an overturned tree stump to wait while you looked for her bag.

Well, since your hands are already in, you might as well take advantage of it. You reach around freely, searching. Making small groaning noises in the back of your throat from the effort it takes to wade through the viscous muck.

“Thank you for helping me, young lady.” The old woman sighs. Probably tired.

“My name is Y/N, grandmother. Feel free to call me as such.” You tell her, peeking once again with a reassuring smile.

“Not many young people would help a fallen old woman.” She continues, as if you hadn’t interrupted.

“Then I guess there ain’t many decent young people then, is there?” You ask rhetorically.

“No.” She answers sadly. “There ain’t even much in my purse. Maybe you shouldn’t bother?”

“Nonsense, grandmother. I will find your purse and return it to you, and I beg you to keep off the roads in future. We don’t need you breaking your neck on account of the guard.” Just then your fingers make purchase, a small string of rope passes between your fingers and you grab it. “Gott’it!”

It takes a mighty tug to free the small ratty bag from the muck. You nearly lose your balance again and fall back onto your behind, but you manage to catch yourself and once you’re steady you turn and traipse back towards the old woman. By the time you reach her, you’re sweating.

“The string is still tight.” You tell her. “Your money is safe.”

You hand her the bag and she takes it, opens it—quickly wiping off as much of the mud as she can then smears it onto the grass beside her to clean her hand—then reaches in for a large silver coin.

“Here. You deserve it.” She says.

With a furrowed brow, you pull yourself out of the mud fully. You wipe your hands on your long tattered brown apron, but you know you’ll need a bath to get all he mud off. “No. I’m alright, grandmother. I don’t need payment. I’m happy to help.”

“Take it, young woman.” She shakes her fist at you, silver coin dangling between her thumb and forefinger.

You shake your head, dropping your apron before you move to her and squat down beside her. With the skirt of your woolen dress still pulled up and tucked to create a pair of makeshift pants, you take the silver coin and her dirty purse and shove the coin back into the bag.

“I said, I don’t need it. You keeping well is all the payment I require.” You draw the string closed and then reach out to shove it into the pocket of her own dark gray skirt. “Your skirt is torn here, and your bodice needs mending too. As does that shamble of a hat you’re wearing. Why don’t you get yourself a decent set of dresses with this money before winter comes instead of handing it out?”

“At my age, what does it matter what I wear when I freeze? I’m going to die sooner rather than later. New clothes would only be a waste of money.” She sasses you.

“Even so.” You put your elbows on your knees and smile at her. “It would make me much happier to know that you’ve spent the money taking care of yourself. I can’t always be here to help you when the world takes a bitter turn.”

The woman cackles. “Oh, sweet girl, you’re much too late.”

A sudden rumble pulls your gaze up towards the road. Through the tall rows of trees that make up the outlying forest, you see a distant coach and six horses riding hard and fast.

“What’s that?” The old woman asks, “Help me up.”

You get up, untying your dress so that it falls around you again to shield your legs, then help the old woman up. Keeping your hands on her elbows until she’s steady, you observe the smaller details of the approaching carriage.

“It’s a royal carriage. There’s gold and silver fixtures upon the horses' harness.” You observe.

“You can see that from here?” The old woman gasps. “I really must be old. I can’t see shite.”

She squints in the same direction that you’re staring and as the carriage gets closer, the sounds of hooves, a whip, and the call of the coachman becomes louder.

He’s dressed in a fine black tunic, a singular bright baby blue circle at the center of his chest that slowly grows out in smaller circles darkening in color until it reaches the edge of the circle. The pattern makes it look like it’s glowing. From the circle crop out several silver lines of thread that line the seams and edges of the rest of his uniform, tunic and all.

On his head he wears a hat. Simple. Nothing too exciting. No feathers at least.

“It’s the King’s carriage.” You whisper at the old woman and as the carriage grows closer, you and she drop your heads and curtsy as it passes.

“We can’t give up.” A male voice says from inside the carriage. It floats out and reaches your ears and while you try not to listen, you can’t help it. “We’ll find a girl that’s suitable if we have to search every village in my Kingdom until-wait…did you see that?”

“See what?” Another male voice says.

This one you recognize. Colonel James Rhodes. He comes into the village every few months to look over the new recruits for the king’s army.

Polite. Nice. No time for funny business though. Stern.

“That girl. Stop the carriage.” The other male voice—the king you suddenly realize—calls.

“WHOA!” The coachman says. “Whoa…”

The carriage rustles to a stop, gravel and dirt grinding against the thick reinforced wheels. The footman jumps off the back of the carriage and hurries forward pulling open the door. He saunters out with sharp movements that you observe for all of one second before you avert your gaze again, legs beginning to ache from your held curtsy.

You’ve never seen the king up close before and you did not expect him to be so young. Well, not young, but he wasn’t old. He might have been an older uncle or your father.

“This one.” He says, and you can almost feel him pointing.

You peek up at him, take in his leathered tunic, dark and supple. His sword resting at his hip, a deep blue cape with a black bear’s pelt around the collar to keep him warm as the last vestiges of summer slip into autumn. His hair is dark brown, only the slightest hint of gray along his temples.

His body is lean. His gloved finger pointed at you, just as you’d thought. His deep brown eyes watch you with curiosity, eagerness, and surprise. Happiness too. He’s excited.

His travelling crown is a golden three-inch band with very little jewels. Only about four or five red rubies are set within it and they dazzle you in the midday sun before you avert your gaze again.

“That one? Really?” The Colonel has joined the king.

“Yes. She’s the right age.” The king asserts. “Come here girly, stand before me. Here.”

He makes an X in the gravel of the road, but you can’t seem to find the strength to move. You’ve never been so nervous in your life.

Here you are, face to face with the fucking King of Malibia, and you’re covered in mud. Your hair is falling out of its braid. You’re sweating and haven’t bathed in almost a week. You look worse than you’ve ever looked in your life.

“Hey, girl, are you deaf? Did you not hear your king?” The Colonel asks, military voice hard and commanding. “His Majesty has given you and order.”

It takes you another half second to urge yourself out of your curtsy and move to the spot marked on the ground.

“Stand up straight.” The king orders.

You do.

“Head up.”

You lift your chin.

“Shoulders back. Don’t slouch.”

You push out your breasts.

“She’s perfect.” The king says.

“Your Majesty…” Colonel Rhodes begins. “…Tony, she’s a peasant. Look at her. She hasn’t bathed in almost a month.”

You glower at the Colonel, unable to help yourself. You’re not that dirty. Not a month’s worth. Jerk.

“We can easily fix that. She’s the one, Rhodey. Our search is over. Problem solved. What’s your name, girl?” The king suddenly asks, moving to stand closer to you, his hands behind his back.

You bow your head, not meeting his eyes. “M-My name is Y/N, your Majesty. At your service.”

“Do you have any family?” He asks, worried suddenly.

“No, your Majesty. I don’t have anyone.” You don’t mean to sound sad about it but not many people as you that question.

Everyone in the village knows your story so you have no reason to retell it.

This is the first time you’ve realized that you’re alone in the world. No one will miss you if you die.

“Perfect. Excellent. Magnificent. Get in the carriage.” He turns and leads the way back, disappearing into the mouth of the open door.

“P-Pardon me, your Majesty?” The shock in your voice is apparent and you find your limbs frozen and locked again.

“You heard his Majesty.” The colonel says with exasperation. “Get in the carriage.”

“B-But where are we going?”

“Will you just get in? We don’t have time for all your questions. His Majesty will explain everything on the way.” The colonel moves to you, grabs you by the elbow and drags you away from where you stand to the carriage door.

One foot up on the step in, you look to the old woman with large, terrified eyes and she’s staring at you with an utterly worried expression. She shifts from foot to foot, hand at her throat as she watches you get taken away.

Strange that she’s worried about you when she’s never shown such emotion before. Guess there are some good people in the world.

“Goodbye…” You mouth to her and she gives you a tiny wave before the colonel is pushing you into the carriage.

You find your seat on the far corner, opposite the king.

As the colonel sits down beside him then hits the roof of the carriage twice, the king can only smile.

No. It’s a smirk. A grin. A pleased one. He’s so damn happy that he’s kidnapped you.

You suddenly remember rumors about the king. Whispered secrets in taverns from drunken lips, spoken with shifting eyes and pounding hearts.

The king devoured young girls. He’d steal them away from their families and towns, trap them in his castle and have his way with them. He’d been with many. Hundreds, they say.

Is that what this is? Are you being taken to be the king’s fodder?

Too afraid to ask, you mash your lips shut and stare at your mud caked hands.

It’s dried and when you twiddle your thumbs, your skin pulls against the stiff coating of dried muck. It cracks and dusts, but you don’t dare look up, afraid you’ll get your answer in the king’s piercing gaze.

~~~~~~~~~~

You ride in silence for what feels like hours. Head down, thumbs twiddling away.

There’s a slow inhale of breath, the click of a tongue draws your eyes up.

“Do you always come silently when you’re abducted?” His Majesty asks, leaning his elbow against the small window’s ledge, fist resting against his chin.

“No, your Majesty.” You reply, somewhat meekly. “I mean…I ain’t-”

“Haven’t.” King Anthony says.

“Your Majesty?” You peer at him with confusion.

“Haven’t. It’s I haven’t. Not I ain’t. Better start speaking properly from the get-go or you’ll fall into bad habits.” He orders.

“Oh.” You lick your lips, feeling a slight bit of shame.

It’s not your fault that you’re not exactly eloquent. You’ve never been to school. Not once.

“I haven’t ever been kidnapped before, your Majesty.”

“I haven’t been kidnapped before.” He says, editing your reply. “Keep it simple. Have you been taught? Did you go to the school in the village?”

You shake your head. “Before they passed, my mother and father said that my place was at home where I could help mother take care of the house. My father was away a lot.”

“Mm.” The king nods. “And where are your parents now?”

“They’re dead, your Majesty. Sixteen years ago now.” You’d been a child when they died.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did they die in the famine?” He checks, giving your body a quick up and down almost like he was checking to see if you had been marked by death too.

“No, your Majesty.” You shake your head.

“War?” He wonders. “Accident?”

“No. The plague took my mother first, my father followed shortly after. I’ve been alone ever since.” It’s funny, you rarely ever think about it like this. Like you’re alone and orphaned.

“The plague?” His Majesty asks, confused by their deaths and you know why. “But the plague didn’t take many lives. We were well prepared for it.”

“Yes.” You nod. “My mother was the first to die. Her death raised the alarm and my father’s death came shortly after. Too quick before his Majesty’s medicines made it into the village. It happened very quickly. They didn’t suffer long.”

A peachy gloveless hand reaches out and settles over your nervous twiddling thumbs, preventing them from fidgeting.

You look up, startled by the gesture, and meet his stunningly bright brown eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The king says. “And your parents are heroes. Without them, we wouldn’t have been able to prepare as quickly as we did and the losses to my kingdom would have been much greater. Thank you.”

You don’t know why you should be thanked for losing your parents, but you understand what he’s saying.

There’s kindness in his eyes and he means nothing by it. You didn’t know that the king could be so nice, and he speaks in an offhandish tone, but there’s feeling in his expression.

“Your Majesty.” You say, thanking him for his kindness. With a look back down at his hand over yours, and because it’s what people do, you pull his hand up to your dirty lips and kiss it in gratitude.

This is your king and he’s surprisingly nice.

The colonel suddenly clears his throat and you lower his Majesty’s hand back to your lap.

He gives you one more squeeze then takes his hand back, regloving it.

“We’ve still got a few hours before we reach the castle. If you want to sleep, you should sleep. Once we arrive it will be some time before you can rest.” His Majesty says.

It takes you a while but eventually you do doze off against the side of the carriage.

When you wake up, you find that the king is also not a liar. You’re awoken by a young man, the footman from before, shaken gently who then wraps your shoulders in a long black cloak. He pulls the hood over your head and then double-checks to make sure that you are properly hidden beneath it before he leads you through a side door of a tall dark gray stone wall.

You’ve never seen the castle before, and you attempt to take in as much of it as you can while you’re led in but all you see is the cobblestone walls of the lower floors. Servant’s quarters usually, and a large parapet wall, that stands at what must be twelve feet in height. Maybe taller.

It’s too dark to make out much more than the distant illuminated windows of the upper floors then you’re weaving your way through a confusing array of twists and turns.

“Where are we going?” You ask the footman and he sighs.

“His Majesty told me to show you to your quarters and say nothing else. I’m sorry, miss. His Majesty will explain everything later.” He gives you an apologetic look.

“Where is his Majesty?” You wonder, since he can’t tell you what’s going on, clearly, maybe he’s willing to tell you about the castle?

“He and the colonel have gone to take care of some business. Queen Virginia has been waiting all day for his return. I’m sure he’s greeting her too.” The young man says.

The way he smiles makes you think that he’s right. You’ve heard that King Anthony Stark loves his queen more than any King has ever loved his Queen in the history of the kingdom. Any kingdom.

She’d been his right hand, and best friend, long before she was queen. After courting many women, his Majesty had seen the light and pursued Miss Potts until she’d given in and agreed to marry him.

Shortly after, they’d had their daughter and the Kingdom had rejoiced. With an heir to the throne, prosperity in the kingdom doubled.

“Wait,” You reach out and grab the young man’s wrist and pull him to a stop. “Are we going the right way?”

He’s leading you upstairs. It’s a small narrow staircase that winds up and up and up. The servant’s staircase but one that no doubt leads up to the nicer bedrooms upstairs.

“I am only following orders, miss. Come along. I have other things to tend to after I drop you off.” He pulls his arm from your hold and leads once more.

You follow in silence, growing more and more nervous.

Were the rumors really true? Is the king going to have his way with you? Are you going to be taken in as his mistress?

No.

Your mind flashes back to the kind look in his eyes in the carriage and his gentility with the news of your parents. You can’t link the sweet and noble king in the carriage to the rumored philandering king that those rumors paint.

He loves the Queen. Why would he stray?

The hallway you are brought out on is a surprisingly light. Gleaming limestone above a floor made of alternating black and white marble. Gilded chandeliers with flickering candlelight illuminate the darkened hallway.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” You ask in a whisper, afraid to wake up some nobility sleeping over.

“Yes, Miss. This way.”

He leads you down a second hallways, this one nicer and lined with stunning paintings of the various landscapes in the kingdom.

King Anthony must really love his homeland.

Finally, the footman stops before two large, steel reinforced oak doors. He pushes them open inside the small entryway is a chair and a decorative table, beside another set of doors that already stand open.

You move in, gawking at the light blue and white damask wallpaper. The golden vanity with a tall ornate golden mirror to match, both beside a tall four post bed with baby blue sheets, fluffy gray pillows, and a beautiful canopy made of heavy white draping. At the end of the bed is a pink chaise lounge, a soft fur blanket waiting to be draped over a shivering body.

Several candles have been lit to illuminate the large space which is big enough to fit your small home in it thrice. A floor to ceiling window has been drawn closed. There’s a desk with a letterbox for writing. Comfy chairs and a small table for card playing. Another two cushioned chairs by a big fireplace for reading.

Beside the chair is a smaller table with a plate of fruits and bread.

Your stomach growls and the pain of hunger hits you suddenly.

“This is where I leave you.” The footman says.

“Wait!” You gasp, turning to follow him into the entryway of your room. “Wait, are you sure this is where the King asked you to bring me?”

“I’m positive. Have some food. That’s why it was brought. Then wait for his Majesty to come find you.”

He gives you a quick head to toe.

“Maybe stay out of the bed until you have cleaned up? Mrs. Parson would not be happy with you if you ruined the sheets.” He gives you a smile then leaves you there, shutting the doors behind him.

At first you hover around the entrance, hesitating each time you’re tempted to go back into the large bedroom.

When you finally give in, instead of racing for the food immediately, you wander around the room looking at all of the fine furnishings and the items having been left for you.

Your favorite by far is the large wardrobe. Full of dresses and outerwear made of fine silks in every color.

When your stomach growls again, you give in and move to sit at the very edge of the chair by the small table in front of the blissfully warm fire. It crackles and dances as you munch on grapes and apples, then bite and tear into the bread. A small pitcher of wine has been set aside for you and you gulp down a small glass before pouring yourself another.

The food hits your stomach painfully. Too hungry for too long. Now that you’re filling it, your stomach stretches uncomfortably.

You put your hand on your stomach and groan, still chewing on an apple slice.

The sound of your doors opening startles you up. You set your food aside as his Majesty suddenly sneaks in and quickly shuts the second set of doors behind him.

Heart pounding, nervous, and suddenly worried that you are about to be ravished by force—well, sort of…if your king wants you, then you’ll surrender yourself to him. He’s your king!—you back up until your back hits the post of your bed.

“Were you eating?” He asks, smiling happily as he looks from your terrified form to the plate you’d just abandoned. It’s almost empty. Only a few grapes and an apple slice left.

He looks back at you and seems to realize that you’re scared. He holds his hands out to you and beckons you forward.

Because you must listen to your king, you move towards him, avoiding his gaze.

He reaches down and takes your hands, dirty as they are, then leads you to the chair you’d been sitting in again.

“Please, sit.” He urges you and once you’re seated, takes the other. “You must have lots of questions.”

You nod.

“Tell me.”

“Why am I here?” You look up at him, swallowing past the nerves loudly.

“Straight to the big one, huh?” He smiles. “Very well, we’re taking you in.”

“What?!” You ask in shock.

“Pepper—that is, Queen Virginia—and I are taking you in. We…where to start?” He wrings his hands, sits back and looks up at the ceiling. “Three months ago, the King of Broklin sent me a letter. He asked if it were reasonable, that I introduce him to my daughter. He wants to marry her as his own Queen died a year ago and he is called upon by the duty to his people to give them not only a new queen but an heir to the throne.

“Because Princess Morgana is heir to my throne, I wrote back to him and told him that I would need to discuss it with my own queen and after much deliberation, since the two kingdoms are neighboring, we decided that with their marriage and upon my death or his, we might combine our kingdoms for good.”

He smiles a little tightly, a frown you realize.

“What happened?” You wonder.

“Well, Morgana is very young but either way she has always been a woman of her own. She’s strong minded and strong willed and she wasn’t raised to expect to share her kingdom. Not only that but she has since declared that she will only marry a man whom she loves. She will not marry for political purposes and when I told the King this, he took offense.

“War hasn’t threatened our Kingdom in almost sixty years. Even if I have the means to defeat his kingdom, I would rather not have it come to that. So…against my wife’s wishes…I may have told Morgana that she will marry the King of Broklin whether she likes it or not.”

That seems…well, not reasonable but understandable considering the consequences if she shouldn’t.

“And what did the Princess say?” You ask him, leaning forward and completely invested in his retelling.

“She ran away.” He smiles at you, eyes sparkling. “She’s like her mother. A strong woman. And she gets her iron will from me.”

“She ran away?” You gasp, shocked by the Princess’s behavior.

“She did.” King Anthony nods. “And we can’t find her.”

Okay, so all of that makes sense but what exactly do you have to do with it all?

“Since I am not going to be able to marry my own daughter to the King of Broklin…I concocted a plan not to deceive him but so that we might both be happy. You will be my eldest daughter.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a crazy plan, but we’ve already begun to spread the news and I wrote to the King this morning that I have an elder daughter. One who I sent of when she was very young because she suffered from emotional problems.” He explains. “And was obviously a daughter born from an unfortunate tryst in my youth.”

“What?!” You rise to your feet, shocked beyond reason.

“A special school up north has reformed you and you are recently returned to us. And now that you are cured, we’ve welcomed you back into the castle with open arms. Since Morgana has been trained to rule our kingdom, you would make a lovely queen for his. Or…something like that. I can’t remember how I worded it exactly.”

“Emotional problems?” You demand again. “A tryst?”

King Anthony winces, but he smiles at you.

“It happens. Lots of royals have them. Both the emotional problems and the affairs. Anyway, that’s why you’re here. We need an older princess to send to the King of Broklin and you are the lucky winner.” He says, almost laughing, congratulatory as if you’ve really just won a prize. “You will be the queen of an entire kingdom. Lucky you!”

“Your Majesty-” You begin, shaking your head because you can’t be a queen! You don’t know how queens act or speak or move or think. You’re an orphan from a small village where you’ve taken to sewing to earn a few coins just to get by.

“Please?” King Anthony reaches over and takes hold of your dirty hand. “I…can’t bring myself to condemn my only daughter to a life in a loveless marriage. I married for love and I want her to be able to do the same. I’m sorry to ask this of you. It’s not fair to you either but without you, our kingdom might have to go to war.

“Lost lives can be prevented simply by your marrying the King of Broklin. Please, please do this for us. For the Kingdom. Please?” And his begging is genuine.

You. A nobody from nowhere has brought a king, your king, to his knees to beg.

“I-If I marry him, it will prevent a war?” You double check.

“Yes. You’ll be keeping the lives of the young men in our kingdom safe.” He urges.

You stare at him, wondering if you’ll really be able to pull this off. You’re going to have to work harder than you’ve ever worked before and that’s because you work with your hands when you can’t earn enough money with the sewing.

Calloused hands. Not the hands of a royal.

King Anthony massages those hands, staring at them as he waits with bated breath.

“Okay.” You relent. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry him.”

This time, King Anthony kisses your hands. Dried mud and all.