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smittenroses · 11 months

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— Spearing a Kiss

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Fandom — Honkai Star Rail Pairing — Jing Yuan/reader Summery — Your temper was known for being fierce, but so was your heart and your determination. Content Warnings — none Word Count — 1,281

Sparring with Jing Yuan was never an easy task; from the fact he was well-practised in the art of war to the fact that the man knew you like the back of his hand, the man was a formidable foe. From spears to swords to everything in between, Jing Yuan had bested you in every form of wit of mind and will.

Today, however, you knew would be the day that you would best the general — well, that had been what you had told yourself many times before. The sparring ring was empty for the late evening beside your presence, weighing up the different weapons that sat on the rack as you tried to decide which one you would pick up that day, each tip being as blunt as a spoon as you examined each. It wasn’t like you were going to be aiming to spill blood, after all, he was still your general, just a sparring partner that you wanted to see on the floor for once.

“Ah, I see you got here early.” The general spoke from the entryway of the sparring arena, his golden eyes only seeming to shine brighter in the dusk of the evening, especially with the way he had dressed down for the evening, his blouse on full display without his armour, his hair halfway ready to fall from its ponytail as he easily crossed the gap between the two, coming to brush shoulders with you as he stood by the rack. “I must say, it’s quite exciting every time you invite me to one of your sparring sessions.” His voice crackled like fire as he laughed, looking at the weapons on display.

“Exciting?” You couldn’t help but scoff, resisting the urge to roll your eyes to the time of your tongue clicking on the roof of your mouth. Exciting, for him? It had to be a joke considering he rarely broke a sweat during these matches, but yet as your hand came out to graze at the handle of a spear, you felt your eyes half lid themselves, your shoulders slumping as you felt the grooves of fingers from use. “It’s the last thing I expect from you, General Jing Yuan.”

Jing Yuan’s fingers came to grab another spear from the rack, his scarred and nobby fingers working at the handle as he twirled it around as if it were an extension of his body, an extension of his soul. “Just call me Jing Yuan. There are no formalities here.”

“Of course, Jing Yuan.” You softly muttered as you picked up the spear you had been eyeing, feeling the weight and the coolness of the wood that had been chosen for this spear. It felt too warm in your palm as you weighed it against your own body. It would be too heavy for you to use in combat for too long, but you knew that you weren’t going to need it, watching from the side of your eye as Jing Yuan loosened his hair from his ponytail, allowing for it to flow around his head. “Not going to keep it tied up?”

“I feel like you won’t even get close enough to grab it.” Those golden eyes of his glittered with mirth, like a golden coin in the sun. You wanted to get lost in their warmth, in their light, but yet you knew that it would be a distraction from the goal you had in mind, you had to keep focus, you had to focus on the job that needed to be seen to completion.

As the sun continued to set in the distance, the two warriors took their places in the arena. Armed with their spears, armed with their determination, the wind kicked up slightly as the two stared each other down. It was like a moment frozen in time, the two of you locked in a staring contest, daring not to move less you wanted to be struck down first — the only indication that this wasn’t a moment frozen in time being the long hair of Jing Yuan swaying in the breeze.

He struck first. Like the lightning he willed, like the god he called to his aid, the man was quicker than lightning and struck harder than thunder, barely able to counter his attack before it made contact with your side. You had barely seen him move, barely seen him breathe until he was finally next to you, your eyes locked together in an all too familiar dance. Wood against wood, steel will against steel will, you two danced a dance that you had become familiar with, that you two had practised over and over again. To know your enemy was the first step, to outsmart them was a whole other battle in its own.

“The General has been acting a bit funny since the first time you started sparring with him.” Yanqing’s voice echoed through your head as you ducked and weaved through attacks, barely able to get in a few of your own as you focused on not getting hit, on not stepping out of the ring. Yanqing’s finger came to his bottom lip, the young boy almost seeming to think hard about what he was going to say next. “He doesn’t get this way unless there’s something on his mind.”

Or someone.

It hadn’t taken you long to put two and two together to figure out that the General may have grown feelings related to respect for you, the staff and other soldiers seeming to mutter about it when they thought they were out of your earshot, but yet you had learned, yet you had listened. Yanqing had only been a piece to confirm the suspicion that had wedged itself deep in your mind.

Your spear broke in two as Jing Yuan split it in half, the two pieces remaining firm in your hands. “Seems like this battle is over.” No, it wasn’t. Turning the pointed ends away from your outside, you used the newfound duel-wielding weapons to take a swing, watching as Jing Yuan took a step back, then two. This was your chance, he was off balance.

You leapt forward, your weapons gripped firmly in your hands, but yet as Jing Yuan focused on the one that was heading towards him in a swing, he removed his eyes from your face and your other hand as it dropped the other half of the broken spear, tackling the General to the ground as your lips collided into one another. Even if the padded mat was there, it did little to cushion the fall of two bodies as they tumbled to the mat, the thirty-two-year-old underneath letting out a grunt as his back hit the mat. Though he did not push you off, he did not think to reject this, his golden eyes fluttering shut as he allowed his spear to fall, allowed his fingers to come to your waist and kept you close.

“I win.” You muttered against his lips, the blunt end of the staff pressed against his chest as he chuckled, your breathing coming out in short pants the moment you pulled away. “Good spar.”

“Hm,” The General muttered from beneath you, golden eyes twinkling with delight, “kissing me as a distraction…?” his voice trailed off slightly, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin that your shirt had exposed, “I’ll allow it, as a tactic.” Even after fighting with you, even after giving it his all, Jing Yuan had a lot of energy to spare as he rolled the two of you over, your back coming to hit the mat this time with an ‘oomf’.

“But next time, I will show no mercy.”

#x reader #gender neutral reader #one shot #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #star rail #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #star rail x reader #star rail x y/n #jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan/reader

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thefangirlofhp · 7 months

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9. fortune

“What would I do if I had a fortune?” Cassian repeats, a little bemused, pausing his fork spearing a hard-boiled egg halfway towards his mouth in the air.

Nyx bobs his head and kicks his feet beneath his chair rhythmically.

“Well,” Cassian puts down his food, and blinks roughly before staring off for a moment. “I’d spend it on my family. Go on holiday and do anything to my heart’s content.”

Nyx’s upper lip curls up mildly before his eyes turn to his aunt with her book propped up before her plate against the salt and pepper shakers, idly stirring her oats while the pages turn on their own.

“What about you, Aunt Nesta?” Nyx prods, poking his eggs and sausages with a disinterested fork.

“Hide it away, put a fierce monster to guard it and spin a tall legend about its contents,” Nesta replies instantly without thinking twice. “It will be the first time in history someone is ever disappointed in discovering gold.”

“Hm,” Nyx twists his mouth, mulling over her answer—quite more interesting than Cassian’s, that is for certain. But modest: his aunt’s idea of a fortune is gold that fits in a treasure chest. Admirable, but disappointing. One would be excused in thinking that a Valkyrie would have higher ambitions. Still, he likes the idea of putting a fierce monster on guard.

“What about you?” Cassian asks. “What would you do with a fortune?”

Nys draws in a long, long breath.

“..and I’ll buy all the ships in the world and fill them up with my armies and then go searching all over the world for the dragons and I’d buy a fire-breathing dragon that could cover Prythian with its wing and then I could buy the continents and eat all the sweets in the world because I’d have it all and no-one else but my friends and I’d—”

“Who put two coins in the idiot?” Azriel interrupts his rant, striding into the dining room with his leathers and blue siphons. He rubs Nyx’s head in passing before sitting down next to him.

“Good morning, Uncle Az,” Nyx greets, beaming. “I slept over here tonight.”

“Yeah,” Azriel glances at him out of the corner of his eyes, raising his brow high. “I heard the three wishes you’d ask a genie and remembered I have an assignment.”

“Well you missed out on a lot of fun,” Nyx says, as a matter-of-fact. “Nesta told me so many stories they were all I could dream about, and Uncle Cassian and I fought with pillows and I struck him down and—”

“Try this toast, Nyx,” Azriel doesn’t give him a chance to agree, before he sticks a piece of toast with honey into his mouth. “Chew it really good now.”

By the time Nyx swallows, silence has reigned heavily for quite some while now. Cassian is a little bleary-eyed, constantly blinking and rubbing his eyes. Nyx did stay up well past his bedtime, with his aunt and uncle, and he’s even slept in but Cassian was awake before he was. Nyx didn’t see the sense in it, per se, but had no idea about internalized clocks and sleep-schedules that forced someone out of bed even with less-than-optimal sleep hours.

Azriel, however, whose eyes seem to have taken on a permanent shade of redness and exhaustion, has no notions of any clock whatsoever. Nyx has seen him sleep standing up one day, his arms folded and leaning against the wall while Father was tearing into him for something. Nyx has seen his uncle stay awake for seven consecutive days without a fault in his step. His uncle is interesting—a far cry from what Mother would cite as the inspirational model, but he has seen things.

“What I’d do with a fortune?” Azriel mulls over the answer as he butters his bread. “I already have one.”

Nyx blinks. “A bigger one. Like—like really huge fortune.”

Azriel lowers his bread and looks out the archways and the streaming sunlight inside. Tilts his head. “Buy the most powerful spell a witch could make and fall asleep for eternity.”

Nyx blinks. And then again.

What a disappointment.

“What?” Azriel frowns at the judgmental look he receives. “I have a fortune I don’t use, it sits in the bank and I use it to buy expensive gifts for people who don’t look twice at them. What’s the use with more?”

Nyx sighs and turns back to his breakfast shaking his head. “Aunt Elain at least gave an interesting answer.”

All three heads turn to him instantly.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. Apparently having a fortune meant she would no longer need anything as long as it was the good kind of fortune. She’s part of my plan, actually, to take over the universe.”

Nesta snorts. “Good luck with that. Teatime will roll by and your aunt will be abandoning everything for cake and a cup of tea.”

#fictober 2023 #fluff #nyx archeron #cassian #nesta archeron #nessian #azriel

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ecoamerica · 25 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

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blutopaz15 · 10 months

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rayllum week 2023

prompt: swords/coins

2k, rated t

Callum loves her.

He hasn’t said it yet, but…Rayla knows.

She doesn’t need him to say it, she’d decided yesterday. Once he’d pulled her from that pile of rubble and finally—finally—held her again, she’d known. She’d known what that urgent, unchecked rush towards her had been about, what the crack in his voice meant, what his nose buried against her neck was…and it’d only gotten more obvious from there. He’d hardly let her out of his sight back at the Spire, insisting on fussing over new bumps and bruises, on filling her water, on finding her food…and she’d known.

It’d been clear when she’d shown them all the coins too. He’d been right there beside her the whole time, his hand heavy and constant on her back while she wept…and knowing Callum loved her had made it all a little easier, at least.

Not that she’d ever stopped knowing, really.

No way could she have gone on without him as long as she did if she hadn’t been sure he’d love her still. She couldn’t have let herself believe any different—not when she’d been sobbing all over that letter she’d left him, not when hunting for answers alone had turned hopeless, not when she’d been all edge-frazzled on the outskirts of the city a week ago. Even when he wouldn’t talk to her that first night, even with how cold and snippy he’d been the whole way to the mountain, even when they’d yelled at each other in the woods…she’d known that underneath all the hurt was love.

She’d always had faith in that—that nothing she’d done could make him stop, that he’d understand no matter how hurt he was, that he’d care enough to forgive her, that his love was just as true and deep as hers—

…and he’s done nothing but prove her right since Umber Tor.

Even if he still hasn’t said it.

It’d been the same today, back in Katolis. Since they’d landed, he’d been there, constantly near…even if any affection was a little stilted still. He’d kept close in their hurried little council meeting, held her hand while Soren pried open the sealed door to the dungeon…

…given her his shoulder when pulling Runaan’s bow out from the dust had been just…too much.

And all of that is more than enough for her to be sure.

He loves her.

So, she’s trying not to dwell on the quiver now strapped to her back or the gold pieces tucked in her pocket. She’s trying not to think about the home she can’t ever go back to, or her torn-apart family, or the mission they barely know where to start with…and to focus on Callum instead.

He makes it easy, of course, Rayla thinks, letting his rambling about supplies soften the pit in her stomach as she watches him a pace ahead of her, halfway down the castle corridor connected to his own.

His footsteps still keep the pace of their day, never mind that they’d reached the end of their castle errands before setting out early tomorrow, but…his quick steps don’t fall all over themselves like they might’ve before. He rambles like he used to, listing off things they’ll need, still to be collected in the morning…but his voice is deeper, controlled, steady. Best of all, of course, is how he looks back at her, eyes warm and attentive and so very sweet…even if they’re a little less bright than before.

If his attention alone hadn’t made it clear enough how much he still cared, their errands all over the castle certainly had. Even when she was gone, he’d loved her, it seemed, judging by the drawings of her all over his office, his well-practiced tending to her shadowpaw in the stables, her favorites still on hand in the kitchens where they’d left Ez with Bait and Stella, this bedroom he’s leading her to that’s—apparently—specifically hers…

…that no one but Callum could’ve put together.

Rayla’s a little stunned, honestly, once Callum’s done fiddling with the lock. He steps aside, holding the door for her…and all she can do is just blink at all of it at first.

He definitely loves her.

…and she absolutely loves him, but…

He won’t say it, so what can she say?

Slowly, she steps in from the doorway, feeling Callum hovering in the entrance behind her, and turns to him, still not sure what’s going to come out of her mouth…but he beats her to it.

“I…kind of had a phase last summer?” he explains, the new steady timbre of his voice raised with nervous laughter. “I think I thought you’d come for my birthday. I wasn’t sure how we’d feel about sharing anymore, and I wanted you to have somewhere comfortable, so…”

Callum trails off with a shrug, one hand gesturing to the room he’d clearly spent so much care and effort on, the other at the back of his neck, which she’s sure burns just as red as his face…and Rayla swivels back around, setting down her weapons, still beaming and still not quite knowing where to start.

Maybe with the pictures posted up on the walls? Some of them she’d seen before—her and Callum, Ez, Bait, even that picture of her parents from up at the top of the Spire—but most of the assortment are new—things they’d done those weeks here in the castle, things they hadn’t in Xadia.

Maybe with the table in the corner? He’s set out more than he’d bought her from that shop in town they’d gone to, plus things she’d confided about longing for from home—a horn buff, those little magically stretchy hair ties that apparently aren’t a thing in Katolis…even the moonberry balm she’d thought was Silvergrove-exclusive.

Or maybe with the ridiculous monstrosity of a bed? She tries not to roll her eyes—the sheets are the same shade that Callum had called her eyes that afternoon they’d gone to the castle seamster, the open canopy dark enough to block out the sun like he’d joked she’d needed every time she’d slept late, the pillows fancy and soft and huge, and—

“Are these—” Rayla starts, unable to help the upward pitch of her giggling, pointing to the fluffy-looking rainbow row of button-eyed puff-balls arranged against the pillows.

“Giant adoraburr pillows? Yep,” Callum shrugs, flushed bright still, and, oh, it’s an effort to stifle the squeeze that all this sweetness deserves.

She can see it now: hopeful-if-still-hurt Callum channeling all that consideration and care he’d had for her here at the castle into this little sanctuary, spending weeks and weeks drawing and shopping, searching high and low for everything little thing, all for her…only to realize maybe a week out from his birthday what was obviously missing. He’d been adorable, she’s sure, all lit up with inspiration, scribbling out a rushed and messy sketch, tripping over himself to find whoever in Katolis could sew them…and fast.

Rayla picks up a yellow burr, cheeks aching from keeping her smile low and fond instead of tackling him the way she wants to.

“Like I said,” Callum goes on explaining himself, “I got a little, uh…obsessed. I wanted it to be perfect so you’d…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but it sobers all the lovesickness anyway.

“Stay?”

Their eyes lock, level and steady, for a long second before he answers, eyelids barely fluttering over a layer of not-quite tears.

“Yeah.”

He looks away.

But…he loves her, Rayla reminds herself, finding the familiar-looking pile of folded clothes opposite the adoraburrs. He’d wanted her here, obviously—he still wants her here—and she’d only been alone because she’d left, not because he didn’t care, not because she couldn’t be here, not because he’d been taken from her.

Rayla can’t look at him either.

She skims over the smooth, stitched, red towers she’d worn instead, embroidered over the heart of his borrowed pajamas.

“Those might be a little small now,” Callum adds, his voice lowered again, less likely to crack like before.

“They were a little big then,” she shrugs, knowing that if she turns back to him like this, there’ll be tension she can’t take.

So…she flops down on the bed instead.

“Uh…you alright?” Callum asks, his footsteps shuffling farther into the room as she unburies her face from the adoraburr pile.

“Just getting reacquainted with freeloading off my favorite fancy-pants royal family,” she smiles, hoping that maybe rehashing a joke from back then will melt the icy mood.

He doesn’t tease her back though…he just gives her the look that that bit had always ended with. Callum tilts his head, brow lifted, looking at her through his lashes, and he doesn’t have to say any of it—that she’s their guest, that this is her home if she wants it to be, that she belongs here.

She knows.

He loves her.

Rayla pushes up to her elbows.

“Thanks for all this.” Rayla looks all over again, smiling softly; Callum thaws even more. There’s even a little swell of satisfaction glimmering in his eyes…and Rayla’s heart squeezes in her chest.

“No big deal,” he shrugs, and it’s not tension anymore—not that kind of tension, at least—in the silence that follows, she thinks, seeing how he blushes and fidgets in the quiet, shifting his weight, not quite looking at her.

He breathes in a sharp breath, like he has more to say, and…it’d fit, she thinks, to say it now—

“What is it?” she asks, letting herself ask but not quite letting herself hope.

“I just wasn’t sure if maybe you wanted to…talk?”

…and Rayla deflates.

But only just a little: this was its own Callum kind of love confession, anyway.

“The past few days have been kind of a lot, and—” Callum pauses. He knows—of course he does—the reason for her kidding around, obviously. He knows what she’s avoiding. “It doesn’t have to be big feelings time for us, Rayla. Just…for you. If you want.”

She’s never answered as automatically as this: they’re big big feelings, but…he’s right that she should and she’s missed even what she used to chafe at.

He loves her, and…she hasn’t had this.

“That’d be…nice,” she nods.

“Really?” he cracks again, and she expects the way his eyebrows bolt upwards, expects the renewed flush that settles across his cheeks when she rolls to her back, expects how his steps stutter closer when she pats the spot beside her…and, clearly, he realizes the reason she’s given in so quickly to big feelings time like this too. “I mean—good.”

Callum settles at her side, their elbows alone touching, and all of that melted tension from before is a flood now—wetness flowing down her cheeks, confusion and hurt and doubt coming in waves. All that she can manage to keep welled up is how much loving him has to do with it all—having him and him alone to rely on, having risked that—and she trembles long after she’s through talking.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly when she’s done, voice small—not that customary I hear your feelings that hardly ever seemed to actually be his answer.

“Thanks.” Her voice shaking, she stares at the purple silk above their heads, hand over the pouch in her pocket…until Callum shifts beside her, rocking up to an elbow.

“No, I mean. I’m sorry.” His brow is furrowed, the light sheen of not-quite tears over green again, and Rayla matches him, confusion mirroring his apologies. “I didn’t believe you back then and I kept pushing you to move on, and…maybe things could’ve been different.”

She’s shaking her head and sitting up before he’s even finished speaking, and then he’s upright too.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Callum. I just…didn’t want to lose anyone else.” She twitches to touch him, but…stops. She…shouldn’t, so she bunches her knees up instead, busying her hands with holding them in, to her chest. “I had to keep you safe. You especially.”

“...I know.”

Callum breathes, and she can’t bear to look at him, sure she’ll find the space between them just as strained as before…but then—

“Rayla? Can I…? If it’s not too weird?”

His hand lands on her shoulder, his other arm open too, and—

“Oof.”

Rayla whispers an apology but nuzzles in against the crook of his neck anyway, and he sighs, wrapping her up tighter as she loosens—only a little—the loop her arms make around his waist.

He loves her.

“We’re going to figure out how to fix this—all of this—okay?”

He doesn’t have to say it.

Rayla knows.

#rayllum #rayllum fanfic #s5 speculation #rayllum week 2023 #rayllum's bad vibes rodeo #swords/coins #but only very LOOSELY #this prompt has no right producing something this fluffy but here we are i guess #also callum spoiling rayla my beloved

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scribbling-dragon · 11 months

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Watcher’s Nest Café

Chapter 7

summary:

“I don't know,” Tango stands by the door, both drinks in hand as he waits for Jimmy to finish his conversation. He smiles at Scott when he catches his eye before looking away again, watching the people outside, on the street. “Maybe you will! How am I meant to know? I don't think you even know what you're gonna do half the time.”

“I’ll be there,” Scott settles a hand over the back of Jimmy’s hand, patting it a few times before pulling back again. When he looks up, Jimmy is regarding him with suspicion.

“I know where you live.”

“I am well aware.” He smiles at Jimmy’s frown deepening, bordering on the edge of a scowl.

“I have nothing against dragging you, kicking and screaming, out of your apartment.”

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(6,239 words)

super quick reminder that this is The Party Chapter- and there’s alcohol consumption! and they’re silly so they don’t do it entirely responsibly :]

“And you’ll be there?” Jimmy leans against the counter, on the opposite side than he normally is. He stares at Scott, watching him carefully. The tips jar is rather full today, the coins stacking up inside are just peeking over the edges of the label, well over halfway to being full. “Definitely?”

“Well, I'm not about to let the cider I bought go to waste, am I?”

“I’ll be there,” Scott settles a hand over the back of Jimmy’s hand, patting it a few times before pulling back again. When he looks up, Jimmy is regarding him with suspicion.

“I know where you live.”

“I am well aware.” He smiles at Jimmy’s frown deepening, bordering on the edge of a scowl. “You show up uninvited every few days, it’s rather hard to forget.”

“I have nothing against dragging you, kicking and screaming, out of your apartment.”

“We’d both fall down the stairs and break our necks,” Scott notes. The café is quiet, with most students either in exams, sleeping off a hangover, or already preparing to go home for the holidays. The customers left behind are their regulars, or far too tired to listen to their conversation, so no one spares them a second glance. Tango glances back at them again, tail twisting behind him before it stills. “Knowing your luck.”

Jimmy does scowl then, face scrunching up and feathers ruffling.

“I’ll be there,” he promises, before Jimmy can say something else. “For now, I think there’s someone waiting for you,” he glances pointedly in Tango’s direction, “with two slowly cooling coffees.”

“Fine,” Jimmy pushes back from the counter. “I will bring other people to your apartment, and then they’ll know where you live.”

“The horror.” He replies, deadpan. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy waves him goodbye as he leaves, already caught up in Tango again, the bell twinkling behind the pair. Tango tucks his nose into his scarf as soon as they leave, pulling his winter coat tighter around his shoulders. He looks like a middle-aged mother, with a coat that long. But Jimmy refuses to hear a word against it, quoting that Tango gets colder during winter than he normally does. Tango’s hair catches on fire on the regular, so Scott is less inclined to believe him.

His front bar is empty today, all of his friends abandoning him for some random thing or another. He tries not to feel too upset by their absence, reminding himself that it’s an unusually intense period of the year for them, even if most of it is already over. And he’s going to see them later anyway, so there’s no point in missing them.

He pointedly does not think about Martyn. He doesn't.

He’s never been to Grian’s house before, despite being friends with the man for several years. He knows he shares it with his sister and several of his friends, all of them living in different areas of the house. It’s not particularly big, but he vividly remembers Grian telling him how he thought one of his friends was dead because they didn't see him for two weeks. When he did find the friend, they were asleep in a wash basket. Scott learned not to question it.

He’s heard more than enough rumours about the Zedaph character that pops up every now and again in the various stories he gets told. From what he’s gathered from other people (because he’s never actually met the guy- he’s doubtful that the guy even exists) the man is insane. He’s friends with Tango, apparently, and Jimmy sees him every now and then. Apparently he fell asleep on a lamp, once.

He barely has the opportunity to knock a second time before the door swings open and he almost smacks Grian in the face. Warmth and light spill out onto the street, a gust of warmth sweeping over him and beginning to thaw his frozen scales out. Then he’s being grabbed, manhandled through the door as though worried he’s going to turn tail and bolt. It’s so abrupt that he almost drops the drinks he brought with him, stumbling over the threshold of the house.

It’s still beyond him how Grian manages to afford this place, even with his host of odd roommates.

Grian bounces in place in front of him, giddy with excitement and beaming. It’s jarring, and Scott finds himself leaning slightly backwards, away from the energy Grian is exuding. His arms are being yanked up and down from the grip Grian still has on him, and it’s entirely possible that he’s just forgotten he’s holding onto Scott.

“Good evening,” he greets, allowing Grian to jerk his arms about in his excitement for a few moments longer before he carefully extracts himself from Grian’s grip. “Seems the party’s already started.”

“Started an hour ago,” Grian sounds breathless, and more than a little drunk already. “We were about to send out a search party for you, was drawing straws to decide who should be the one to drag you out.”

“I made my own way here just fine.” He scans over Grian again, taking in the slight flush of his face. “And I doubt any of you should have been out on the streets if you’re all like this.”

“We aren't,” Jimmy pokes his head around the doorway, leaning forward slightly with the weight of a clingy boyfriend. Scott’s seen the way the two cling to each other many times, especially when they were more in the habit of both coming to his apartment to hang out with him. He has to smother his laugh at the sight of Tango’s arms slowly tightening around Jimmy’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist. He looks like an oversized, flammable koala. He smothers his laugh by disguising it as a cough into the crook of his elbow. He does a pretty poor job of it, based on Jimmy’s responding glare

“You alright there?” He asks. Jimmy’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkling in irritation. “You seem a little…burdened.”

“We were drinking before everyone else got here,” Grian informs him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him down. Scott almost thinks he’s going to whisper in his ear, but when he speaks it’s closer to a shout. He has to fight not to wince and cringe away as Grian continues, “Just a little bit, and then a little bit turned into actually quite a bit, and then Tango was sad. Because Timmy wasn't here! And so we then had to wait, with a sad Tango, until Timmy arrived. And then we were all fine again!”

“Easy for you to say,” Tango grumbles. His tail sweeps across the floor, dragging over the carpeted entryway. Scott’s still in his winter coat, and it’s beginning to get too hot to wear it. But Grian also has a tight grip around his neck, and he knows the man did some kind of fighting classes as a kid. He’s not escaping this hold any time soon- at least not until Grian lets him go. “Your boyfriend is right there. You live in the same house as him.”

“Timmy also lives in the same house as you,” Grian frowns, taking a step forward, pulling Scott with him. “You share a room. You share a bed.”

“Oh my god!” Tango twists, releasing his hold on Jimmy. He almost slips to the floor, and Scott can see it now, the long drive to the nearest emergency room. Jimmy fumbles, but manages to keep him from that fate by grabbing him and holding him tight to his chest. Tango doesn't even seem to notice, more focused on trying to glare at Grian. Which seems to be taking some effort. “You can't just yell about that! What if there’s someone…homophobic.”

“There’s no one homophobic here,” Jimmy says. He pats Tango on the head, running a hand through his hair. Tango makes a huffing noise, sounding scarily like the street cat Scott befriended when he was twelve. But instead of hissing and lashing out, he just turns and wraps his arms around Jimmy’s neck again.

“How much did he have to drink?” He asks.

Jimmy makes a pained face, a small noise dying in the back of his throat before he speaks. “One shot of vodka.”

“He’s almost as bad as you, you were just made for each other.” He teases, voice light.

“Thanks, Scott.” Jimmy disappears back around the corner, back to whatever party is currently going on. It’s quieter than he expected it to be, but he can still hear the slight sounds of music from the next room over.

Grian doesn't release him, turning him around until they're face to face, until Grian’s face is inches away from his own.

“Careful,” he nudges Grian back an inch, until they don't look like they're about to kiss. “You're great and all, but I don't want to kiss you.”

“Ew,” Grian shoves him back another step, shaking his head. It loosens his grip just enough that Scott manages to slip free, pulling his coat off. “I don't wanna kiss you. I have a boyfriend.”

“I know.” He hangs his coat up beside the others, confident that it won't be stolen. Or at least not taken on purpose.

“I wanted to say something,” Grian stares at the floor for several long moments, and Scott waits. He’s curious about how much Grian’s had to drink, if he’s already drunk. And how much of a lightweight he is in comparison to Tango. “Oh! Yes!” He’s grinning again, pulling Scott closer. The curl of his lips does not fill Scott with confidence. “Martyn is here,” he whispers. Like it’s a secret.

“I know.” He whispers back, deciding to entertain Grian just this once. And uncertain of the sudden quiet that has descended over the entrance. “He invited me.”

“And?” Grian blinks up at him.

“And what?”

“What are you gonna do about him?” Grian nudges at him, grinning, still. “He’s been making eyes at you for weeks, and you're all he can talk about, when you're not there. You've got him obsessed, Mr. Smajor.”

“Still not my last name,”

“And until you give me a last name, that’s what it will remain.” Grian grins up at him. “Mr. Smajor.”

“Alright,” he carefully extracts himself from Grian’s hands (-didn't he already do this? When did Grian grab him again?). “Where d’you want the drinks?”

“In the kitchen,” Grian says, gesturing vaguely to the house ahead of him. Scott nods, smiling, like he definitely knows where he’s going. Apparently, it’s convincing enough, because Grian wanders back into the main room.

It leaves Scott in the entrance, clutching his box of drinks, and considering- actually, really, considering dropping the drinks off and then leaving again. He can at least say he came, then. He arrived at the party, and then left again. Maybe a bit earlier and quicker than everyone else expected, but he still upheld his end of the deal.

He sighs, pushing past that and ignoring the thoughts of a nice, peaceful evening at home. He wants to spend time with his friends, even if that means spending time in an unfamiliar place.

He pokes his head into the second room he comes across, relieved when he finds that it is indeed the kitchen he was looking for.

Xisuma looks up from where he’s stood, nodding in greeting before returning to his phone. It’s plugged in, and X leans over it, squinting at the screen as he brings it closer to his face.

“You're gonna damage your eyes like that,” he comments. He sets the drinks down on the counter, beside the other bottles of alcohol. Simply looking at the sheer amount of it makes his head pulse a little, a sharp spike behind his eye that makes him feel vaguely ill.

X hums, then looks up, blinking as he registers Scott’s words. “I already wear glasses, I can hardly damage them further.”

“Now,” Scott laughs, leaning back against the counter, “you say that, but I know someone that had to wear jam jars for glasses, the lenses were so thick.”

“Lens thinning exists for a reason,” X responds. He continues squinting at his phone. “I don't think this is legible anyway, the writing is just so…”

“Bad?” X nods, then volunteers the phone up, allowing Scott to peer at the…he’s not actually sure what he’s meant to be looking at, actually. “What is this?”

“God knows,” Xisuma sighs, taking the phone back. “I missed a few classes and thought I could get the notes off one of my classmates, but either they took this while running, or they simply hate me.”

“I doubt they hate you,” he says. It’s hard to imagine someone hating the man. He’s nice to everyone he speaks to, if not a little awkward. He’s good at managing the more eccentric habits of his friends, too, from what Scott’s heard. “You're, like, the nicest guy around.”

“Don't let Martyn hear you say that,” Xisuma comments, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “He might get jealous.”

Scott wishes, not for the first time in his life and definitely not for the last time, that the floor would simply open up and swallow him whole. Or some deity would take pity on him and smite him where he stands.

“You know about that?”

“All the Hermits do,” Xisuma glances up at him, before apparently giving up on deciphering whatever it is that his classmate sent to him and switching his phone off. “There’s a bet on it.”

He sighs. “I'm not actually surprised.”

“They haven't told Martyn yet, so I wouldn't worry.” Xisuma reassures, though he looks more amused by it than anything. “And Pearl remembered to wipe the whiteboard off as well,” he continues at Scott’s confused look. “It had all the bets on it and the timescales for when…yeah.”

“Thanks for telling me,”

“Not a problem,” X smiles. “You going through?”

“Probably should.” A cheer rises from the next room, alongside a few groans. He’s not sure what they're doing in there, but it’s definitely loud. X winces at the volume, muttering something about noise complaints. Scott would’ve thought that their neighbours would already be desensitised to the noise. “Reckon they'd drag me through otherwise.”

As though summoned by his words, Jimmy stumbles in through the doorway. Tango is suspiciously absent, no longer hanging from his neck like an overly emotional koala. Jimmy brightens up when he spots him, grinning from ear to ear and lunging towards him.

“C’mon!” He’s weirdly breathless, cheeks flushed and his hands are clammy when he grabs at Scott. He doesn't even give him a choice, dragging him through. Scott leans back against it for a moment, digging his heels in, before he realises that Jimmy is unaffected and is simply continuing to drag him from the kitchen.

He casts one last look back at Xisuma, trying to communicate his desperate need for help. Xisuma avoids his eyes, sipping at a drink he didn't have a moment ago.

Scott will remember that next time X arrives at the café tired and deprived of caffeine. He makes sure to communicate this in his glare, in the last few moments he spends before being dragged towards the crowd, even if Xisuma faces away from him. The man feels it anyway, he’s perceptive like that.

“Scott!” Several people cry out at once, some slurring their words more than others. Pearl looks pretty happy to see him, waving at him despite being only a few feet away from him. She seems to realise this a moment later as she flings herself across the distance, colliding with Scott harshly enough to send them both to the floor.

He thanks whoever bought this rug for cushioning their fall and making sure they don't end up in A&E.

“Pearl,” he pats her awkwardly on the head. She’s absolutely drunk. There’s no way she isn't, especially not with how she’s hugging him still, clinging on when she’d rather punch you in the arm than hug someone. Though she does seem to be attempting to break his ribs. Or at least crack a few.

When his clawing at her arms apparently gets desperate enough Cleo hauls her away with a laugh. Pearl doesn't seem to care too much, simply turning her affections onto the nearest limb. Which happens to be Cleo’s arm.

“Right,” he manages, once he no longer feels as though his lungs are going to collapse. “Clingy drunk. Forgot that.”

“Hard to forget when she uses you as a pillow most of the time.” Cleo shakes their arm around as they speak, giving up after a moment as Pearl seems content to cling onto them. “Honestly, it’s like none of them have ever had a drink before.”

“They're actually just like this,” he stands, brushing himself down, trying not to feel too self-conscious about what he’s wearing. It’s not something he’d normally wear, too long and flowy for what he does as a job- too prone for getting caught on various instruments or for someone to grab at. He smooths it down, dropping the hem when he realises he’s begun to pick at it. “It gets worse, I promise.”

“Don't say something like that,” Cleo groans. “It’s bad enough as it is. I'm surprised no one’s vomited on the carpet yet.”

“And no one’s going to!” Grian yells. He pops up from somewhere, looking particularly affronted at the thought that someone might be sick on the carpet. “Do you know how hard it was to clean last time?”

“Yes,” Cleo mutters, far too quiet for Grian to hear and obviously just for him. “He complained about it to anyone that would listen the entire time.”

“And you didn't help him?” He asks, voice straining as he tries not to laugh at Pearl. She’s managed to slip from Cleo’s arm, her grip loosening as she becomes far more interested in something else. Something that only she can see, apparently.

“He was the one that vomited on it last time.”

Scott laughs at that, because it feels appropriate to do, and because he’s not sure where the sudden tension had come from. He’s definitely grateful now that it’s managed to disappear, leaving him feeling a little looser and his ability to breathe restored.

Cleo grins after a moment, sharp and containing something that Scott doesn't at all like, actually. And why was he feeling relaxed in the first place? This whole thing is clearly just a ploy to stress him out as much as possible-

He turns to look where she’s looking, making extremely awkward eye contact with Martyn from across the room.

And, now. Scott prides himself on being very well put together all of the time. He remains unflappable in the face of things that flap other people. As such, he likes to think that he can remain very calm, even when everything else in him is definitely not calm. He can at least look like he’s feeling calm.

He flushes, turning back around. “I don't suppose you have a drink? Something strong?”

“Of course,” Cleo indulges him, handing a drink over. He only sniffs at it once, gets an eye-wateringly strong smell of alcohol from it, and decides that it’s good enough. “Wouldn't be a good friend otherwise, huh? Bit of liquid courage before you go get your man.”

“He’s not my man.” He’s pretty sure he just inhaled some of the drink, burning his throat as he coughs, shoulders shaking with the force. “What the hell, Cleo? Why?”

“Felt like it,” Cleo grins. “Go on, you've been hopelessly pining over him. We’d really love it if you two could get over yourselves and just kiss.”

“Ooh, yes,” Pearl lurches back to life, swaying unsteadily on her feet as she stands. She grins, wide and unabashed. Scott can see the relation between her and Grian, suddenly, as her eyes glint with mischief. “Go ooon, you know you wanna.” She nudges at him, which is actually more of a shove, and it almost sends the alcohol of unknown origin all over him.

He stumbles over his own feet - he’s had barely any alcohol yet, definitely not enough for him to be feeling weak-kneed and about as steady as someone on ice skates as he walks over to Martyn.

“Hi,” he clears his throat, averting his eyes. He can feel his face warming, hoping that the dim lights are enough to cover what is probably the embarrassingly red shade of his face. “Haven't seen you in a bit.”

“Yeah!” Martyn nods, he’s smiling, a hand raising to rub at the back of his head. “I've been busy, too busy to come see you, sorry about that- I mean, I wanted to come see you! I just didn't have the time, end of term and all, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” He sips at the drink, “It’s fine, really, don't worry.”

(He ignores the way he had watched the empty seat- the seat he had begun to think of as Martyn’s seat. Which is ridiculous, really, because Cleo sits there. And Pix sits at the bar as well. But that seat was Martyn’s, for some stupid, ridiculous reason that Scott can't find it in himself to name.)

He looks up, then, catches Martyn’s eyes just as he looks at him. His cheeks are pink, flushed from the alcohol (and maybe something else? His traitorous mind murmurs) and his eyes shine oddly beneath the light. But not in a bad-odd way. But in a good way, because everything about Martyn is a little bit odd, but everything about him is good, as well. Good in a way that he finds himself struggling to grasp and understand.

The weight of his watch, sitting heavy in his pocket (always heavy, never light, constantly reminding him of its existence- but somehow heavier in this moment, as though something is twisting it, turning it, forcing it to dig into his heart) pulls him backwards. Pulls him out of the moment and he looks away again.

“I'm going outside,” he announces, though it’s far too quiet for anyone but him and one other to hear. “It’s too warm in here.” He pauses, looking back at Martyn again. He waits, one moment and then another. Allow himself a few extra seconds of hesitance for Martyn’s brain to catch up. The invitation sits between them, extended but unopened.

Martyn blinks. “Mind if I join you?”

He pretends to mull it over for a moment, eyes glancing downwards. Something about Martyn’s eyes are too heavy at the moment, the blue of them staring deep into him, as though they can see all the nasty little secrets he keeps squirrelled away in there. “Not at all.”

They walk as a pair back into the kitchen. Xisuma is gone, and his phone is too, charger left hanging from the port and off the counter. Scott tucks it back onto the countertop as Martyn wiggles the back door open, sliding it open.

The cold air rushes in, and Scott shivers, mulling it over for a moment longer before he steps outside. Frost-coated grass crunches beneath his feet, threatening to slip beneath his heel if he moves too fast.

He tips his drink back, finishing it off too quickly, but grateful for the warmth of it as it settles in his stomach and warms his throat. Martyn stomps his feet on the ground behind him, tucking himself deeper within his hoodie.

He sits down on the stone step, ignoring the way the cold seeps into him immediately. Ignores the way it makes his leg ache something fierce, the feeling springing back to life from where it had been soothed earlier by warmth and easiness.

Martyn sits beside him. Or, well. They sit against each other. They don't leave a gap between them, Martyn leaning against him and Scott leaning back into him, both of them holding the other up even though they aren't nearly drunk enough to need that yet.

Maybe getting drunk would be a good idea. Maybe he’d be lucky enough not to remember this in the morning if he fucks it up irreversibly. Maybe Martyn won't remember it either.

“Man,” Martyn laughs out into the cold air, breath condensing in front of him. “I'm way too drunk for this.”

“You're drunk?” He twists to face him, studying the man’s face and the flush on his cheeks - though that could just be the cold - and the dilation of his pupils. “I couldn't really tell.”

“Really?” Martyn sounds surprised. And a few of his letters stumble over each other, the word coming out half-slurred, and, alright, maybe he is a little drunk. Though Scott had failed to notice up until now.

“Really.” He confirms. “I thought you were as sober as me.”

“Doubt you're gonna be like that for much longer,” Martyn laughs. “You got Grian’s mystery mix from Cleo, right?”

“That’s what that was?” He gasps out. He’s had Grian’s mystery mix once before, and it was enough to make him miserable for three days straight, as well as swearing off ever trying it again. “No, you're kidding, I've got work tomorrow.”

“I'm sure no-one will be able to tell the difference, sunshine, you’ll greet them with the same smile as always.”

Scott shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s, sways with the motion as Martyn returns the favour. Sunshine. He tries to put his mind off the nickname, even with the affection Martyn puts behind it there’s nothing else to it. Nothing else that it means, even if his brain nudges and tries to convince him otherwise.

Martyn taps at his knee, light enough that it doesn't hurt, only sending a dull pulse through the joint. Scott glares at him for it anyway, shuffling his legs a little further out of reach.

“Sorry,” Martyn glances up at him, eyes wide and apologetic. “Don't…know why I did that.”

“Yeah you do,” Scott replies easily. “Just ask, I'm not gonna bite.”

“It seems like everyone else knows all about you,” Martyn says, sounding almost like he’s complaining as he leans a little further into Scott. His chin digs into Scott’s shoulder. “And I'm left wondering about the mystery that is the mysterious barista.”

“That’s because everyone else does know all about me,” the weight of Martyn against his side is oddly comforting. “We all went to secondary together. And those that didn't were around during my brief stint at the uni.”

“I feel like I'm intruding on something.” Martyn’s exhales a sigh, and the warmth of it brushes over the exposed skin of Scott’s neck. He fights not to shiver at the feeling, tucking his hands a little closer to himself, leather creaking as he folds his hands into tight balls. “But…there’s just something about you. I feel like I'm being drawn in- not that I'm opposed to that!” Martyn leans back, if only so he can look Scott in the face. They're close like this, almost nose-to-nose, and he would have to be stupid not to notice the way Martyn glances down at his lips.

He ignores it. Ignores the flip of his stomach and the stutter of his heart. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. (But it could, his brain murmurs.)

Martyn continues. “Just, tell me something about yourself. Anything. It could be your favourite colour, I don't care.”

“And what would I get in return?” He asks, only half-teasing.

“I would answer any question you asked.” Martyn says. He sounds unusually solemn, something so far from the normal Martyn that it brings Scott to a halt.

“Alright,” he leans back on his hands, accepting the fact that he’s going to be frozen completely after this. Whatever this is right now will be worth whatever aching pain he gets tomorrow. “Lay it on me.”

“What’s your favourite colour?” Martyn asks immediately.

“Seriously?” He laughs into the cold air. “I thought you’d be a little more creative with your first question, but my favourite colour?”

“I know a few things,” Martyn leans closer to him. “You gotta warm someone up before you sweep in with the heart-stopping questions.” This close he can almost feel the warmth radiating off of the other man. The way the alcohol makes his eyes half-lidded and heavy. He really is drunker than Scott first thought. “So, favourite colour?”

“Cyan, easy.” He answers. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Green.” Martyn glances down at himself. “Isn't it obvious?”

“I don't like to assume.”

“Alright.” Martyn thinks for a few moments, obviously considering his next question. “Do you have any family nearby?”

“No.” He answers immediately. “Moved away as soon as I turned eighteen, didn't look back.” It’s only half a lie. “You?”

Martyn’s eyes weigh heavy on him. Almost as heavy as the watch sewn into his breast pocket. He altered all of his clothes to have a small, invisible unless you're looking for it, pocket for him to keep the watch in.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “My mum lives nearby, take the train to go see her a few times every month.”

“That’s nice.” His words feel a little fuzzy, the world a little softer around the edges. A little more syrupy with how he moves through it.

“Your…leg,” Martyn says. “What’d you do to it?”

“Broke it,” he answers easily. It’s not something he’s ashamed of, but he doesn't mention it unless someone else brings it up, waiting to see if they even mention it. “I was a dumb kid and even more dumb when it came to handling the broken-ness of it. Didn't heal right, I don't think, but I never got it x-rayed after the cast came off, so…I dunno. It just hurts a lot.”

“Worse now?”

“You owe me two questions,” he says, then sighs. “Yeah, the cold doesn't help. Rain neither. Can feel the rain comin’ about an hour before it rolls in. Dunno why.”

“Lay your questions on me,” Martyn spreads his arms wide, as though asking Scott to aim for him.

“Ever break a bone?”

“No, but I did chop the end of my little finger off once,” he wiggles the finger for emphasis. “Got it sewn back on.”

“Why did you become a marine biologist? Or choose to study it?”

“I dunno,” Martyn’s head comes to a rest on his shoulder, hair tickling against his neck. It makes something warm bloom in Scott’s chest, something that he tries not to think too hard about in case it disappears. “I just realised, one day, that we didn't know much about the ocean, and that I wanted to be one of the people to find that stuff out.”

“Nice.”

“Why a barista?” Martyn asks. “You're not lacking in…anything really. So why choose a coffee shop?”

“Didn't know what else to do,” he shrugs. “I quit uni, left, and I was already working at the café. Grian was getting ready to leave, to focus more on his studies when it got harder and find another job more related to his field, and I was the perfect candidate for the next manager even if the boss hates me.”

“You're not the boss?” Martyn asks.

Scott lets the two questions in a row thing slide. “Nah, barely see him around, really. He just comes in every now and then to make sure everything’s runnin’ as it should be.”

“Huh.” Martyn says.

“Got a girlfriend?” He asks, before he can convince himself not to. Or even think through the question for longer than the words take to form in his brain.

Martyn shakes his head, hair brushing over his exposed skin. It shouldn't make him feel as charged as it does, electricity zipping down his spine and forcing him to sit up a little straighter. “Not since secondary school, but those were more just things for fun than anything serious.”

The silence stretches between them as Martyn looks for his next question. If Scott tilts his head just slightly to the side, aims his head just slightly downwards without jostling Martyn about too much, he can see the way his face scrunches as he thinks, brow furrowing as he stares at the frozen grass ahead of them.

“You ever dated anyone?”

“Jimmy,” he answers. “Two years before we realised that we preferred each other as friends.”

“And then he found Tango?”

“Yeah,” he smiles a little at the memory of Jimmy stumbling over his words as he attempted to describe Tango to him. “They're sweet together. They're good for each other.”

Martyn hums, the sound vibrating against his throat. He comes up empty, fishing for new questions, poking around in his brain for a few more moments as he tries to find something to ask Martyn. He comes up empty.

“I got nothing more for you,” he says. “All questions, gone. Evaporated directly outta my brain.”

“You know that’s a cause for concern, right?” Martyn asks, but there’s humour behind his words. “But…I’ve got one for you, if you’ll let me ask two in a row.”

“You've already done that.” He says. “Twice.”

“Have you ever thought about kissing someone?” Martyn asks, strangely breathless and pulling away from Scott slightly. It leaves him feeling bereft as the weight leaves him and more than a little cold as Martyn’s warmth goes with it. He turns to look at Martyn.

“Plenty of times.” He answers.

Martyn looks back up at him. And, maybe it’s terribly clichéd of him to say, but it’s almost like the stars themselves have been caught in his eyes; drowning in the deep abyss of water that seems to swim inside of Martyn’s eyes.

“And…me?” Martyn asks. “Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

“I-” his breath stutters, catching in his throat as the taste of alcohol sours on his tongue. Martyn’s eyes are hazy as he looks at him, slightly unfocused from whatever it was that he drank earlier. “What?”

Martyn withdraws, looking unusually subdued. “Sorry, sorry, dumb question. Let’s just forget this ever happened, yeah?”

“No.” He replies. Martyn looks back up at him, eyes wide. The stars seem to shine brighter inside of them. “You're drunk. I'm drunk. We’re both drunk. This- this isn't the time to be talking about stuff like this.”

“That’s not a no,” Martyn says. He looks dangerously hopeful. Scott probably looks the same.

“Ask me in the morning.” He decides. “If you still mean it, ask me in the morning.”

“Alright. I’ll ask you in the morning.” Martyn looks at him. “Because I do mean it.”

Scott can only hope that he does, because he’s not sure how his heart would cope otherwise.

He’s not sure when he fell asleep, only that Grian announced it was a free-for-all and tossed a bunch of pillows and blankets everywhere.

Him and Martyn had gone back inside when the cold got too much and the alcohol wasn't keeping them warm anymore. Cleo watched him from the corner of the room, nursing her own drink, but Scott didn't go to her and she didn't come any closer.

He wakes to the sound of his own phone alarm, blaring at him at an uncomfortably early time. It’s accompanied by the groans of several people as he struggles to turn it off. “Sorry,” he apologises to the room, swinging his legs off of the sofa he managed to claim for himself. Jimmy and Tango are curled up on the sofa opposite him, only a tail and tuft of hair poking out from beneath the blanket identifying it as them.

He steps carefully over the people strewn over the floor, wincing every time he has to put a little too much weight on his leg, shifting carefully from one foot to the other with a muffled hiss.

Xisuma is sat in the kitchen, and his brother is as well, both of them chatting quietly over a small breakfast. He’s only met X’s brother a few times, not enough times to even know his name, but he gives him a friendly smile anyway when the cereal is pushed towards him.

He waits for longer than he should, knowing that he’ll have to set up as people start to drift into the café. But he waits anyway, because if he waits Martyn might be awake before he leaves. And it’s a dumb thing to wait for and to hope for, but he waits anyway, picking at his cereal half-heartedly, thanking Xisuma when he passes him a couple of paracetamol.

When he’s leaving, everyone else is stirring, a few people sitting and chatting quietly in groups. Either trying to remember what it was that happened the previous night or simply complaining about their headaches.

Martyn is scrolling on his phone, the last Scott sees. He glances up as Scott pauses in the doorway, smiles at him before looking back to his phone.

Scott pulls his shoes on and tries not to feel like his heart is splintering apart in his chest.

(He only slightly succeeds.)

#juno.writes #watcher's nest café au #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #majorwood #trafficshipping #mean gills #limited life smp #trafficblr #trafficfic

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bnnywngs · 8 months

Text

Lan Wangji was nervous. He shouldn't be, but he was.

After spending summer in Japan with his brother, his brother's best friend and said friend's younger brother, who's also his classmate (also known as Nie Huaisang), today was his first date with his year long boyfriend Wei Ying since he was back (two days ago).

They decided to go out for boba and a walk on the park before going to the Lans townhouse so Wei Ying could get his presents and souvenirs. Lan Qiren already asked for a spicy plate for the boy to eat at dinner, even if the teenagers haven't said anything about it. His uncle just know them well enough.

Anyway, Lan Wangji wasn't nervous because of the date itself, he knows how to make Wei Ying happy and a happy Wei Ying makes him the happiest. No, he was nervous about the giant bunny plush he won on gacha a few weeks ago.

(he spent over an hour and countless coins on it. Nie Huaisang was highly amused watching and filming him getting a meltdown every time it fell)

As usual, their date was excellent and Wei Ying smiled the whole time, not letting go of his hand or arm. He pouted and whined a lot, about missing him, about his jealousy (even though he traveled with his parents to the beach somewhere in Thailand, away from humid and hot gigantic city), and Lan Wangji make sure to hug and kiss him a lot to make up for it.

Then they went back to Lan Wangji's house and he started feeling his heart beating faster.

Because of house rules, they couldn't go to Lan Wangji's room by themselves, so Wei Ying sat on the living room floor to play with his boyfriend's pet bunnies and waited for him to come back with his presents.

"Wei Ying." Lan Wangji called.

"Lan Zhan!"

The boy looked up with a bright smile and Lan Wangji could feel the love arrow pierce his heart once again. He had to pause for a moment before kneeling down.

"For you."

"Yay!" Wei Ying cheered, taking the paper bag "Should I open now or wait until I get home?"

"Here." Lan Wangji nodded, glad his boyfriend didn't realized he hid the big plushie beside the couch.

Wei Ying got excited with each item, even the ones for his parents and little sister. Although he did started complaining it was too much halfway through. Wei Ying got especially happy when he found the photo strips from the booth Nie Huaisang made him go in Harajuku.

"Thank you so much, Lan Zhan." he said when finished, putting everything inside the bag again.

"...There's one more." Lan Wangji confessed, accepting his hug.

"One more?" Wei Ying looked at him curiously "Why it wasn't with the others?"

"Ah..."

Lan Wangji pushed him softly and stretched backwards to get the plushie.

"I won a bunny plush for you." he said, feeling his ears warming up.

"A bunny plush?!" Wei Ying's eyes widened, visibly excited "I love plushies!"

"I know." Lan Wangji huffed amusedly.

Then, he presented his acquisition.

But instead of squealing with mirth, Wei Ying bit down his lip.

"A bunny plush, Lan Zhan?"

"Yes..."

Wei Ying laughed loudly, falling down to the ground with tears in his eyes and Lan Wangji looked down at the plushie in his hands. It was a big headed bunny with big floppy ears, blue eyes and wearing a cute aviation uniform.

What's wrong with it? Lan Wangji thought it was cute. Very, very cute. He even thought about getting one for himself, but the stress to get one was already too much for him.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Ying exclaimed, trying to stop laughing "That's not a bunny! It's cinnamon roll!"

"...Cinnamon roll?"

"You don't know?" Wei Ying stopped laughing to stare at him "He's a Sanrio character, you know. Hello Kitty...?"

"I know Hello Kitty." he paused "Is this not a bunny?"

"Noooo! It's a dog!" Wei Ying laughed again, taking his phone and typing something fast "Look."

A search with the character name was made and it shown: Cinnamoroll, is a white puppy with chubby cheeks and long ears, blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a tail that resembles a cinnamon roll.

"A puppy." he looked at the plushie again in confusion. How is this a puppy?!

"Yeah." Wei Ying chuckled "And it's mine! Don't even think about taking it back just because it's not a bunny!" he mock threatened.

Silently, still confused, he gave the Cinnamonroll to his boyfriend, watching him cuddling the not bunny tightly.

Well. At least Wei Ying is happy.

He can't wait for lunch tomorrow with Wei Ying's parents.

38 notes · View notes

harlequinromancing · 2 months

Text

Bergamot and Beans Ch1

AstarionxTav, Coffee/Tea Shop AU - set post endgame. First meetings, falling in love, eventual smut. (And a little angst!) No warnings apply.

WIP - subscribe on Ao3 or follow for more.

“You’re late,” Alfira said, removing her apron and levelling a disappointed look at Maeve.

“I know, I know!” Maeve huffed, throwing her satchel behind the counter and pulling an apron on. “I done got stuck talking to Master Sinclair, didn’t I? Y’know how he drones on in the evenings.”

Alfira strode away from the counter and picked up her lute, beginning to tune it.

“Maeve, you know I have no idea what any of these people are like, right?”

“I tell you about them all the time!” Maeve turned to Alfira with an exasperated look, pinning her wild red hair out of her face.

“Yes, but you know how you drone on.”

“Oh, shut it, you make me listen to every bloody detail of your life,’ she said, haphazardly clipping on her name tag.

“That’s because it’s far more interesting than boring old monks in a stuffy library… Oh. Wow…’ Alfira trailed off, looking over Maeve’s shoulder. She cleared her throat and continued. “You have customers, by the way.”

“Feck, sorry, okay, what can I–” Maeve turned to face the men behind the counter, plastering on a smile, and found herself momentarily dumbstruck by a strikingly beautiful elf. “…get you, gentlemen?” She hoped she had managed to brush it off as being flustered.

The more harried human of the pair spoke first, asking for a strong cup of coffee with a frightening amount of sugar. Maeve raised her eyebrows at his request - she pitied whoever had to spend time with this man after he consumed it.

“Sure thing, and what about yourself, sir?” Maeve said, turning back to the elf, stealing a moment to properly look at him. He was gorgeous, all perfect lines, and soft-looking hair. He reminded her of one of the marble statues she had studied years ago - the seductively handsome devils playing at being angels.

“Coffee isn’t really my drink.” He sounded almost bored, leaning against the counter, but there was a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked at Maeve. His red eyes seemed to stare straight into her, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. “Surely there’s something more… appetising?”

Well here at Bergamot and Beans we're known for our wide selection of teas! 23 flavours and counting,” Maeve said instinctively, gesturing to the shelves behind her.

Hell’s inferno, she thought, what a tosser I sound like.

“Elkazaran Breakfast’s the most popular,” she supplied, when he raised his eyebrows.

“Sure, why not?” he said, and looked almost… disappointed.

“Great, have a seat and I’ll get those ready. A copper each, thanks.”

They dropped the coins on the counter and Maeve turned away to prepare the drinks as Alfira started playing her set, the opening bars to Somebody’s Girl filling the shop.

When they were ready, she set them down in front of the two men, the human man thanking her far more graciously than a simple coffee delivery warranted. That, and his amusing order, earned the two of them what would be her only genuine smile of the night.

‘Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything else,’ she said, unintentionally directing it towards the pretty elf.

“Thank you, Eveaw,” he said with a smile, and far more warmth than she normally received from customers. She lingered for just a second, to savour the feeling, until two women walked in and signalled the start of the evening rush.

Maeve was already halfway back to the counter when she twigged to what he said. She looked down at her chest and read the name tag there: ‘MAEVE’.

It was upside down.

She muttered out a curse and tore it off, throwing it under the counter as she greeted the two women.

Several more people came in after, and by the time she had a break in service to come check on them, the men had already left. The coffee cup had been drained completely, but the lukewarm tea was almost entirely untouched.

Several hours later, Maeve pulled her hood closer around her face as she turned down a dark alleyway.

She stepped down a set of stairs to a basement door, and palmed a silver coin to a dwarven man sitting in front of it.

“Good to see you again, Morrigan,” he said in a low voice, opening the door for her. “You’ve got a nice crowd in there. Good luck tonight.”

“Thanks Darmund. Shan’t be needing it, if it’s anything like last week.”

Darmund laughed quietly, clapping her on the back as she passed through the door. The sound grew as she ventured deeper into the building, down another flight of stairs and through the twisting halls, until she emerged into a large, dark room filled with people and a smoky haze.

Lakrissa found her quickly, taking her cloak from her and ushering her to the edge of the ring.

“I like the new hair colour,” she said, twirling a lock of it around her finger, “the brown suits you.” She looked down at her fingertips, noticing the residue it had left there, and wiped it off on Maeve’s shoulder.

“Thanks. It’s only temporary. I figure now I’m making a wee name for myself, it might serve to be less recognisable down here.”

“Smart thinking. Now you're just another copper-a-dozen half-elf."

"Thanks," Maeve said dryly. "How's looking in the ring then?"

"Well, it sounds like you might finally have a challenge on your hands again, there’s a new fighter in your class with some real buzz. Betting’s against you, so you stand to profit if you win.”

Maeve tucked in the ends of her wrist wraps, flexing her hands to test the fit and watching her opponent do the same.

She looks strong, but slow, she thought.

Maeve was right - once she got in the ring and dodged a few pot shots, she was practically dancing around the other woman, teasing her and trying to goad her into a mistake.

One lapse and I’ll have her. It was almost too easy.

But then, through the haze over the other woman’s shoulder, Maeve spotted a flash of white hair across the room. Her eyes followed it, mind wandering to her interaction earlier that day.

There’s no way he’d be down here.

“Get your head in the game, Morrigan!” Lakrissa shouted from behind her. Maeve realised her distraction a moment too late as a fist connected with her jaw, hard .

Three evenings passed before Maeve saw the two men again at Bergamot and Beans.

“Not a fan of the Elkazaran Breakfast were you?” Maeve asked when they approached her.

“...What? Oh, uh, no, it was fine,” the elf said, taken aback. He wasn’t the first to be surprised by her sharp memory. “But nevertheless, I think I’m in the mood for something different today.”

“Of course, what tickles your fancy?” Maeve said with far more enthusiasm than required. She cringed internally as she listened to herself.

“You know what? Surprise me.”

His eyes travelled down to the side of her face, clearly catching the purpling bruise on her jaw. Maeve quickly turned her attention to the other man.

“And for yourself? Strong and sweet again?”

He was looking a jot less harried than the last time he was in, but still had an unmistakable air of disarray about him. Typical wizard.

“You remembered!” he said, brightening visibly. “Yes please.”

As they walked away, Maeve caught the beginning of their conversation.

“See Astarion, this is what a little loyalty gets you…”

Astarion. Maeve mouthed the name silently, filing it away for later. A pretty name for a pretty man.

This time, she double checked her name tag before delivering their drinks. Just as she had hoped, Astarion thanked her with extra emphasis on her proper name, so she risked a wink at him and earned a slight smirk back.

Returning to the counter, she kept an eye on the elf, watching for a reaction. He sipped his tea, looked decidedly unfazed, and continued his conversation with his very animated friend. Maeve didn’t see him touch the cup again.

Bugger.

Two nights later, right at the end of the evening, the bell above the door tinkled.

Maeve looked up from the book she’d been engrossed in for the last half hour to see Astarion again. But he was alone this time.

“The lemon green was a bust too then?” she asked, fatigue dulling her usual chipper work-voice.

“Not my favourite,” Astarion said with a chuckle, and she was struck again with that curiously intent stare of his.

“Keen to try something else then? A little more floral perhaps?”

“Dealer’s choice,” he said, waving his hands in her direction.

Maeve gestured for him to take a seat as he dropped a copper on the counter, and she turned to survey the shelves of tea.

She heard his footsteps a few seconds later than she anticipated, like he had lingered. Probably looking at my arse, she thought – he wouldn’t be the first.

Her fingers trailed across the jars of tea before settling on the jasmine. White flowers for white hair.

Maeve brewed two pots of it and when she turned to take one over to him, she jumped, surprised to see him sitting at the counter just a few seats down.

He appeared to be engrossed in a sheet of paper in front of him, a pair of gold reading glasses perched on his nose, but Maeve caught him smirk when she startled.

“Thank you, Maeve,” he said when she set the pot down, a hint of ritual to his speech.

“Yer welcome, Astarion,” she said, holding back a wee grin.

He paused in his movements, looking up at her with narrow eyes, like he might say something. But he breathed out a little ‘huh’ and his face softened again, his eyes still on her.

“You’ll want to pour that quick, it’s a delicate wee brew, the jasmine.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from yours then,” he said.

“Of course,” Maeve said, and tapped her fingertips on the counter. “Enjoy.”

She returned to her own seat, pouring out a small cup and inhaling the sweet smell of it, watching him over the rim of her cup as she pretended to drink.

When Astarion tasted the brew, he made a face that could only mean “Meh.”

Maeve chuckled into her tea, and he looked over at her.

“Big fan of that one, are ye?” she asked.

“I’m starting to think tea’s not the drink for me either.”

“Don’t be silly, love. Just have to find the right one, don’t we?”

“Three down, twenty more to go,” he said, nodding at the shelves of tea.

“Hopefully it doesn’t take that many. I’ll have to go looking for some more options then!” she laughed.

“Gods forbid,” Astarion said, looking back at her with a slight smile. Maeve held his gaze for a moment, and when his eyes travelled back to her yellowing bruise, she looked back down at her book.

They sat in relative silence for several minutes, Astarion taking one sip for every 10 of hers, until Maeve slammed her book closed.

“What a feckin’ idiot!” she muttered, taking another drink of tea to calm her down. She noticed Astarion looking over at her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It couldn’t have come at a better time, actually. This report was threatening to put me to sleep for the first time in my life.”

Maeve snorted indelicately into her tea, and luckily he spared her a remark.

“What are you reading then? Who’s the fecking idiot ?” he asked, mimicking her accent with surprising skill.

“Elminster Aumar’s Extended History of Faerun - you’d think the bloody man had never left Baldur’s Gate, what with how much he’s made up. Doesn’t know a feckin’ thing about The Whalebones…” Maeve stopped herself before getting too far down that path. Alfira could pretend to listen tomorrow.

“Gods below, what convinced you to pick up that drivel?”

“Some silly bint working at Sundries. Gods, don’t get me started on her either.”

Astarion huffed a small laugh, looking away from her.

Maeve lifted the lid off her teapot, making a small noise of disappointment when she saw it was empty. Astarion slid his over without a word.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“You’ll enjoy it far more than I will.”

Maeve poured herself a cup, took a sip, and made a face.

“And you expected me to like that one?” Astarion teased.

“Been in there too long, it’s turned bitter now,” she said, and glanced up at the clock. “... d’ya want to try something else? On me.”

“How could I turn down such a tempting offer?” he asked, leaning forward to place his chin on his hands.

“This time I am gonna make you choose something though,” she said, leaning across the counter towards him. “Sweet or spicy?”

“Well, I do like spicy food,” he said conspiratorially.

“I thought you might.”

Maeve prepared a single pot and set it on the counter between them.

“This one,” she said, holding out the open jar of tea to him, “is a divisive one. Technically a tisane, because it contains no tea leaves - but try telling the average punter that. Dark chocolate, chilli, and dates are what you’ll be smelling there.”

Astarion took a deep inhale of the scent, pulling a face that at least tried to appear receptive.

“Well it certainly sounds interesting if nothing else,” he said, and slid his cup over.

“That it is,” she said, making no move to pour. “And it needs a few minutes to really develop those flavours. So while we wait… Tell me, Astarion, what brings you in tonight? I suspect it’s not tea.”

“Well, Maeve . You remember Gale.”

“The wizard you been coming here with?” she asked, leaning against the counter towards him.

“The very same. He was terribly busy and insisted I come down so you wouldn’t forget about us. Something about maintaining our ‘customer loyalty’… Honestly I stopped listening after that. But… I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening.”

“I suppose there are,” she said, letting a wry smile settle on her face. “And he doesn’t need to worry. Hard to forget someone who drinks coffee strong enough to kill me nan… Or a face like yours.”

Astarion huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Does that one usually work for you?”

“More often than not,” she admitted, laughing as well. “Probably not as well as it does for you.”

He fixed her with a stare, his face unreadable. “You are perceptive, aren’t you?”

“My stock-in-trade.”

He held her eye for a long moment.

“Interesting.”

Maeve scoffed. “Ah, I’ve been called worse I suppose.”

Guessing that enough time had likely passed, she poured out a cup for each of them, and took a drink, enjoying the slight tingle of the chilli. He watched her the whole time, without reaching for his own.

“Go on then, it’s perfectly safe now.”

He took a sip, and this time he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“That one’s not bad, actually.”

“Aha!” Maeve exclaimed, slapping the counter. “We’re making progress! I’ll mark that one down in the maybe column.”

“You’re keeping score,” he said, levelling a playful look at her.

“Can you blame me? You’re a repeat customer even though I’ve not served you a single thing you’ve more than tolerated. How could I pass up an invitation like that? I will find something that you like,” she said, stabbing a finger down on the counter in emphasis.

“So you like a challenge, then?”

“It’s not even necessarily liking them … I just cannot abstain from them, no matter how hard I try.”

“I imagine that gets you into a fair bit of trouble.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“I may have some.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes, thoughts briefly flitting back to that flash of white she saw…

“Do you now? Surely not with the company you keep. How much trouble can you really get into when you’re with a wizard all the time?”

“He’d surprise you,” Astarion chuckled. “But I don’t spend all my waking hours with him. I still have time for… trouble .”

“And what kind of trouble is that?” Maeve asked, dropping her voice lower and leaning in towards him.

“Well,” he said, mirroring her actions, “there’s the usual excesses; drinking… debauchery… sex.”

He enunciated the last word clearly, staring into her eyes as he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing along the edge of her jaw.

Maeve held his stare, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an outward reaction, despite the momentary stutter of her heartbeat. He was clearly a practised hand at making people shiver.

“Does that one usually work for you?”

Astarion dipped his head, his shoulders shaking slightly as he stifled a laugh.

“It does, actually,” he said, looking back up at her. “And frankly, that gets rather boring. I quite like a challenge myself, as it turns out.”

“Well, Astarion, if you’ll indulge me in mine…” she trailed off, gesturing between them in invitation.

“Of course, Maeve. So what trouble are you getting yourself into, hmm?”

“Oh, nothing special. Burglary, larceny, affray.”

Astarion nodded his head seriously. He was hearing sarcasm that wasn’t there, just as she’d hoped.

Maeve glanced up at the clock again, and stood up straight - she should have closed up about ten minutes ago.

“Alright, I should probably lock up now. Unless you’d like to finish that?” she asked, nodding towards his abandoned cup.

“No no, don’t let me monopolise your time any further,” he said, rising to his feet and letting her lead him to the entrance. “Will you be alright getting home? There are some dangerous people lurking around the Gate, especially at this time of night.” His hand came up, as if to examine the bruise on her face, but then he seemed to think better of it.

“I’ll be quite alright, thank you dear,” she said, lingering at the open door, waiting. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

“Goodnight Maeve.”

He started away, and she locked the door behind him. She lent back on the closed door for a moment, quickly replaying the evening in her mind.

He’d certainly lived up to the little spark of interest that ignited when she first saw him.

Maeve strode back over to the counter, throwing her apron at it and necking the leftover tea, before tidying everything away and heading upstairs to her apartment.

Hope you've enjoyed the first chapter! Subscribe on Ao3 or follow for more.

#astarion x tav #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 author #ao3fic #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #fanfic #astarion love #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 au #astarion au #coffee shop au

8 notes · View notes

istumpysk · 1 year

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Tyrion XII (Chapter 66)

For most men, there was no cost to joining a company, but he was not most men. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, leaned over the first parchment, paused, looked up. "Would you prefer me to sign Yollo or Hugor Hill?"

Tyrion's such a loser he has to pay to join a sellsword company.

I have a prediction! Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion will always have their proper names as the chapter header.

+.+.+

The dwarf laughed and signed the parchment, Tyrion of House Lannister. As he passed it left to Inkpots, he riffled through the pile underneath. "There are … what, fifty? Sixty? I'd thought there were five hundred Second Sons."

"Five hundred thirteen at present," Inkpots said. "When you sign our book, we will be five hundred fourteen."

"So only one in ten receives a note? That hardly seems fair. I thought you were all share-and-share-alike in the free companies." He signed another sheet.

Brown Ben chuckled. "Oh, all share. But not alike. The Second Sons are not unlike a family …"

"… and every family has its drooling cousins." Tyrion signed another note. The parchment crinkled crisply as he slid it toward the paymaster. "There are cells down in the bowels of Casterly Rock where my lord father kept the worst of ours." He dipped his quill in the inkpot. Tyrion of House Lannister, he scratched out, promising to pay the bearer of the note one hundred golden dragons. Every stroke of the quill leaves me a little poorer … or would, if I were not a beggar to begin with. One day he might rue these signatures. But not this day.

Bowels! I was going to make an Orson Lannister beetle joke, but that's show-only.

I'm going to keep track of this. He's signing 25-30 contracts worth 100 golden dragons each. (💰2500-3000)

+.+.+

"Debts written on the wind tend to be … forgotten, shall we say?"

"Not by us." Tyrion signed another sheet. And another. He had found a rhythm now. "A Lannister always pays his debts."

Seven books of wasted buildup if you don't make them broke by the end.

+.+.+

He wanted to laugh, but that would have ruined the game. Plumm was enjoying this, and Tyrion had no intention of spoiling his fun. Let him go on thinking that he's bent me over and fucked me up the arse, and I'll go on buying steel swords with parchment dragons. If ever he went back to Westeros to claim his birthright, he would have all the gold of Casterly Rock to make good on his promises. If not, well, he'd be dead, and his new brothers could wipe their arses with these parchments. Perhaps some might turn up in King's Landing with their scraps in hand, hoping to convince his sweet sister to make good on them. And would that I could be a roach in the rushes to witness that.

More than enough evidence Team Daenerys will take Casterly Rock.

We'll have to wait and see if Tyrion screwed himself, and those mines are as empty as the show indicated. (I think they are.)

+.+.+

The writing on the parchments changed about halfway down the pile. The hundred-dragon notes were all for serjeants. Below them the amounts suddenly grew larger. Now Tyrion was promising to pay the bearer one thousand golden dragons. He shook his head, laughed, signed.

25-30 contracts are worth 1000 golden dragons each. (💰2500-3000 + 💰25,000-30,000)

+.+.+

"You will work for Inkpots," said Inkpots. "Keeping books, counting coin, writing contracts and letters."

"Gladly," said Tyrion. "I love books."

Tyrion Lannister keeps landing the same job.

+.+.+

"I once had charge of all the drains in Casterly Rock," Tyrion said mildly. "Some of them had been stopped up for years, but I soon had them draining merrily away."

Speaking of evidence they'll take Casterly Rock, that would be the second time the drains have been referenced.

So to mark his manhood, Tyrion was given charge of all the drains and cisterns within Casterly Rock. Perhaps he hoped I'd fall into one. But Tywin had been disappointed in that. The drains never drained half so well as when he had charge of them. - Tyrion III, ADWD

Twice is never a coincidence, the show got it right.

If Team Daenerys takes the Rock with a stealth mission (as opposed to dragons) and holds the castle, that makes it far more likely it's the Red Keep falling on Jaime and Cersei.

+.+.+

I won't have you parading about where you might be seen. Stay inside as much as you can, and shit into your bucket. Too many eyes at the latrines. And never go beyond our camp without my leave. We can dress you up in squire's steel, pretend you're Jorah's butt boy, but there's some will see right through that. Once Meereen is taken and we're away to Westeros, you can prance about all you like in gold and crimson.

What is Ben Plumm's plan here?

The Second Sons defeat Daenerys in Meereen, then go to Westeros and do what exactly? Conquer the land with 514 men? It's not like he knows about Aegon.

+.+.+

Till then, though …"

"… I shall live beneath a rock and never make a sound. You have my word on that."

Like your brother and sister! ❤️

+.+.+

Three notes remained, different from the rest. Two were written on fine vellum and made out by name. For Kasporio the Cunning, ten thousand dragons. The same for Inkpots, whose true name appeared to be Tybero Istarion. "Tybero?" said Tyrion. "That sounds almost Lannister. Are you some long-lost cousin?"

"Perhaps. I always pay my debts as well. It is expected of a paymaster. Sign."

2 contracts are worth 10,000 golden dragons each. (💰2500-3000 + 💰25,000-30,000 + 💰20,000)

Not sure what to make of the Tybero stuff.

+.+.+

Brown Ben's note was the last. That one had been inscribed upon a sheepskin scroll. One hundred thousand golden dragons, fifty hides of fertile land, a castle, and a lordship. Well and well. This Plumm does not come cheaply.

The final contract is 100,000 golden dragons, fifty hides of fertile land, a castle, and a lordship. Final tally:

💰147,500-153,000 golden dragons, fifty hides of land, a castle, and a lordship.

Pray those mines haven't run dry, Tyrion Lannister.

+.+.+

"The Second Sons are amongst the oldest of the free companies," Inkpots said as he was turning pages. "This is the fourth book. The names of every man to serve with us are written here. When they joined, where they fought, how long they served, the manner of their deaths—all in the book. You will find famous names in here, some from your Seven Kingdoms. Aegor Rivers served a year with us, before he left to found the Golden Company. Bittersteel, you call him. The Bright Prince, Aerion Targaryen, he was a Second Son. And Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, him as well. No, not that ink. Here, use this." He unstoppered a new pot and set it down.

That's the dumb shit Targ who drank wildfire. Also, the Wandering Wolf! Arya's husband. ❤️ Other notable members include Oberyn Martell, and the Tattered Prince.

I glanced over their wiki, only noteworthy history I can see is the Second Sons fleeing when a Dothraki khalasar attacked Qohor.

+.+.+

"For most of us, the signature suffices, but I would hate to disappoint a new brother-in-arms. Welcome to the Second Sons, Lord Tyrion."

Lord Tyrion. The dwarf liked the sound of that. The Second Sons might not enjoy the shining reputation of the Golden Company, but they had won some famous victories over the centuries. "Have other lords served with the company?"

"Landless lords," said Brown Ben. "Like you, Imp."

Tyrion hopped down from the stool. "My previous brother was entirely unsatisfactory. I hope for more from my new ones. Now how do I go about securing arms and armor?"

Sister. Sansa had once dreamt of having a sister like Margaery; beautiful and gentle, with all the world's graces at her command. Arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went. - Sansa II, ASOS

And they both don't mean it.

+.+.+

Stumpy note:

I need everyone to know we're one-third of the way through this chapter when Tyrion goes to the armory.

I point this out because absolutely nothing happens the back two-thirds of this chapter. The chapter is fourteen pages long and two-thirds of it is nothing.

+.+.+

"Talking again, are we?" It was better than her usual sullen silence. All over an abandoned dog and pig. I saved the two of us from slavery, you would think some gratitude might be in order. "If you sleep any longer, you're like to miss the war."

"I'm sad." She yawned again. "And tired. So tired."

Tired or sick? Tyrion knelt beside her pallet. "You look pale." He felt her brow. Is it hot in here, or does she have a touch of fever? He dared not ask that question aloud. Even hard men like the Second Sons were terrified of mounting the pale mare. If they thought Penny was sick, they would drive her off without a moment's hesitation.

I don't know if Penny continues to show symptoms of the pale mare in Tyrion's first few TWOW chapters, and I'm not about to read ahead to find out.

If I had to guess, I'd say we're being reminded of these early signs and symptoms because of another character (who is currently wandering the Dothraki Sea).

#JusticeForPenny'sDog&Pig

+.+.+

"We," she said. "If you're one of them, you should say we, not they. Has anyone seen Pretty Pig? Inkpots said he'd ask after her. Or Crunch, has there been word of Crunch?"

Only if you trust Kasporio. Plumm's not-so-cunning second-in-command claimed that three Yunkish slave-catchers were prowling through the camps, asking after a pair of escaped dwarfs. One of them was carrying a tall spear with a dog's head impaled upon its point, the way that Kaspo told it.

The peacock calls himself Kasporio the Cunning, though Kasporio the Cunt would be more apt. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

Kasporio the Cunning touched his sword hilt. - tyrion XII, ADWD

I have a prediction!

Kasporio will do something stupid.

+.+.+

Snatch was waiting by the cook tent chewing sourleaf when the two dwarfs turned up, cloaked and hooded.

[...]

Snatch snorted and spat out a mouthful of red slime.

[...]

The serjeant's fingers were stained a mottled red from the juice of the sourleaf he chewed.

Snatch, the Bronn clone, is still deader than dead.

A serjeant, Tyrion knew, from the way the other two deferred to him. He had a hook where his right hand should have been. Bronn's meaner bastard shadow, or I'm Baelor the Beloved. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

Snatch chewed his sourleaf, making japes and scratching at his balls with his hook hand. Something about his manner reminded Tyrion of Bronn. - Tyrion I, TWOW

+.+.+

"My father was wont to say it. Did you know Lord Tywin, Kem?"

"The Hand. Once I saw him riding up the hill. His men had red cloaks and little lions on their helms. I liked those helms." His mouth tightened. "I never liked the Hand, though. He sacked the city. And then he smashed us on the Blackwater."

"You were there?"

"With Stannis. Lord Tywin come up with Renly's ghost and took us in the flank. I dropped my spear and ran, but at the ships this bloody knight said, 'Where's your spear, boy? We got no room for cravens,' and they buggered off and left me, and thousands more besides. Later I heard how your father was sending them as fought with Stannis to the Wall, so I made my way across the narrow sea and joined up with the Second Sons."

"Do you miss King's Landing?"

"Some. I miss this boy, he … he was a friend of mine. And my brother, Kennet, but he died on the bridge of ships."

The more character development we get from the Seconds Sons the longer they'll stick around.

Snatch is the Bronn one, and Kem is ... the gay one. Can you tell I have nothing to talk about?

+.+.+

"Rats wouldn't eat my mother's cooking. There was this pot shop, though. No one ever made a bowl o' brown like them. So thick you could stand your spoon up in the bowl, with chunks of this and that. You ever have yourself a bowl o' brown, Halfman?"

"A time or two. Singer's stew, I call it."

Daily reminder Tyrion Lannister does not deserve to survive this story.

+.+.+

Kem liked that. "Singer's stew. I'll ask for that next time I get back to Flea Bottom. What do you miss, Halfman?"

Jaime, thought Tyrion. Shae. Tysha. My wife, I miss my wife, the wife I hardly knew.

Second time Tyrion is referencing Tysha, but the author leaves a little room for doubt.

"If m'lord would prefer a boy, I can have one waiting in his bed."

M'lord would prefer his wife. M'lord would prefer a girl named Tysha. - Tyrion I, ADWD

+.+.+

His greathelm sported a ram's horns, one of which was broken.

When he took it off, he revealed the battered face of Jorah Mormont.

Ram's horns and a demon's mask tattoo.

Jorah's looking like Satan.

+.+.+

The demon's mask the slavers had burned into his right cheek to mark him for a dangerous and disobedient slave would never leave him. Ser Jorah had never been what one might call a comely man. The brand had transformed his face into something frightening.

Tyrion grinned. "As long as I look prettier than you, I will be happy."

Sometimes she would close her eyes and dream of him, but it was never Jorah Mormont she dreamed of; her lover was always younger and more comely, though his face remained a shifting shadow. - Daenerys II, ASOS

↓

"The girl finally poked her nose abovedecks," Tyrion told him. "One look at me and she scurried right back down below."

"You're not a pretty sight."

"Not all of us can be as comely as you. - Tyrion VIII, ADWD

↓

A few more beatings and you'll be uglier than I am, Mormont. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

↓

Ser Jorah had never been what one might call a comely man. The brand had transformed his face into something frightening.

Tyrion grinned. "As long as I look prettier than you, I will be happy." - Tyrion XII, ADWD

Yay!!

+.+.+

Her eyes got big. "You like my nose?"

Oh, Seven save me. Tyrion turned away and began rooting amongst some piles of old armor toward the back of the wagon.

"Are there any other parts of me you like?" Penny asked.

Perhaps she meant that to sound playful. It sounded sad instead.

Now he knows how Sansa felt.

+.+.+

He passed over a warhammer (too long), a studded mace (also too heavy), and half a dozen longswords before he found a dirk he liked, a nasty piece of steel with a triangular blade. "This might serve," he said.

Dagger!

+.+.+

"I don't want to hack off heads."

"Nor should you. Keep your cuts below the knee. Calf, hamstring, ankle … even giants fall if you slice their feet off. Once they're down, they're no bigger than you."

So many giants to consider here. Robert Strong? Littlefinger? An actual giant? Tyrion?

+.+.+

Penny looked as though she was about to cry. "Last night I dreamed my brother was alive again. We were jousting before some great lord, riding Crunch and Pretty Pig, and men were throwing roses at us. We were so happy …"

Tyrion slapped her.

How do we get Penny away from Tyrion without her dying? I need that.

+.+.+

Penny touched the cheek he'd slapped. "We should never have run. We're not sellswords. We're not any kind of swords. It wasn't so bad with Yezzan. It wasn't. Nurse was cruel sometimes but Yezzan never was. We were his favorites, his … his …"

"Slaves. The word you want is slaves."

"Slaves," she said, flushing. "We were his special slaves, though. Just like Sweets. His treasures."

Every master has their favourites, Penny.

No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves. - Daenerys II, ASOS

Dany stroked the girl's hair. "Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath." - Daenerys II, ADWD

Two of Dany's favorite hostages served the food and kept the cups filled—a doe-eyed little girl called Qezza and a skinny boy named Grazhar. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself. Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. - Daenerys X, ADWD

+.+.+

She was not all wrong. Yezzan's slaves ate better than many peasants back in the Seven Kingdoms and were less like to starve to death come winter. Slaves were chattels, aye. They could be bought and sold, whipped and branded, used for the carnal pleasure of their owners, bred to make more slaves. In that sense they were no more than dogs or horses. But most lords treated their dogs and horses well enough. Proud men might shout that they would sooner die free than live as slaves, but pride was cheap. When the steel struck the flint, such men were rare as dragon's teeth; elsewise the world would not have been so full of slaves. There has never been a slave who did not choose to be a slave, the dwarf reflected. Their choice may be between bondage and death, but the choice is always there.

Tyrion Lannister did not except himself. His tongue had earned him some stripes on the back in the beginning, but soon enough he had learned the tricks of pleasing Nurse and the noble Yezzan. Jorah Mormont had fought longer and harder, but he would have come to the same place in the end.

And Penny, well …

Penny had been searching for a new master since the day her brother Groat had lost his head. She wants someone to take care of her, someone to tell her what to do.

Settle down, Kanye.

This is not subtle. The author is practically begging the reader to recall her freedmen, Unsullied, Dothraki slaves, and Missandei.

"[...] Man has the right master, that's better."

Tyrion did not dispute him. The most insidious thing about bondage was how easy it was to grow accustomed to it. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

If Tyrion doesn't call out her mhysa nonsense (to himself) after they meet, I call bullshit.

+.+.+

"Or dead dwarfs," said Jorah Mormont. "We are all like to be feeding worms by the time this battle is done. The Yunkai'i have lost this war, though it may take them some time to know it. Meereen has an army of Unsullied infantry, the finest in the world. And Meereen has dragons. Three of them, once the queen returns. She will. She must. Our side consists of two score Yunkish lordlings, each with his own half-trained monkey men. Slaves on stilts, slaves in chains … they may have troops of blind men and palsied children too, I would not put it past them."

"Oh, I know," said Tyrion. "The Second Sons are on the losing side. They need to turn their cloaks again and do it now." He grinned. "Leave that to me."

George gave up, and decided to tell us how this is going to play out.

Monkey!

Final thoughts:

That was the most anticlimactic end to his chapters possible.

47 down, 2 to go. :(

I realize only one Tyrion chapter has been released, but we can't move ahead to Tyrion II TWOW without covering the short summary of Tyrion I TWOW.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #tyrion xii

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offtorivendell · 2 years

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Could SJM's 'Mr Brightside' comment be a hint about Azriel's powers?

Day 2 of @azrielshadowsingerweek - shadows and powers.

We all know that SJM has said that Azriel's song would be Mr Brightside, by The Killers. If you listen to the lyrics, the situation described is reminiscent of him pining over Elain while she has a bond with another male.

youtube

But what if it's more?

I've suggested before that I think Azriel could have ancestry among the Starborn fae, like I think Rhys and Mor, and Helion and Lucien do (at the least, I'm sure there are others as well). For Azriel, I imagine it could be through a Hewn City ancestor - maybe even Clotho, if @ladynightcourt3 and I are correct about the many parallels that exist between the two.

Could Azriel, whose "shadows" can brighten into sunshine (and, I suspect, can also become invisible, possibly as a halfway point between dark and light) be more like Ruhn Danaan that we know, with Starborn light that is hidden under shadows?

It ordinarily took Ruhn a good amount of concentration to summon his starlight, and it usually left him with a headache for hours afterward, but … He was intrigued enough to try. Setting his index finger onto the crystal of the prism, Ruhn closed his eyes and focused upon his breathing. Let the clicking metal of the orrery guide him down, down, down into the black pit within himself, past the churning well of his shadows, to the little hollow beneath them. There, curled upon itself like some hibernating creature, lay the single seed of iridescent light. He gently cupped it with a mental palm, stirring it awake as he carefully brought it upward, as if he were carrying water in his hands. Up through himself, the power shimmering with anticipation, warm and lovely and just about the only part of himself he liked. - HOEAB, chapter 14

It's well known that Azriel experiences headaches - to the point Elain noticed and gifted him a headache powder. Could this be related, at least in part, to his untapped powers trying to break free?

Cassian said Azriel was interested in the orrery in Rhys' office. Could he, and maybe Elain - whose powers were associated with Azriel's own, in ACOWAR - use it while learning to harness their magics?

We haven't had much of his shadows described from his own POV, but it's plausible that he could have a similar sort of wellspring inside.

Like Ruhn's hibernating Starborn magic, Azriel's siphons were described as a "half-slumbering beast" in ACOMAF (chapter 22). Is this because he only has access to the shadowy half of his powers at the moment?

A mental palm... @wingedblooms is the expert on magical hands, but given Azriel's shadows can both manipulate objects and disappear as required, this could possibly be a parallel to other suspected Starborn fae, such as Rhys and Clotho.

"Warm and lovely" - Azriel is often described as cold and icy. I suspect that will change in the future, and this may be part of the reason why.

Let's have a closer look at the lyrics...

Coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine

Gotta, gotta be down, because I want it all

We know that Azriel's shadows can light up, or brighten, often in response to him feeling happy or secure... just like Ruhn. What if, also like Ruhn, he has to burrow under his shadows to reach and free his hypothetical Starborn light from its cage?

Or possibly, as I've wondered before in a post I never finished 😅, and @wingedblooms has suggested in this post, could Azriel have a beast form of some sort? Is that why his siphon was likened to a "half-slumbering beast"?

He wants it all, not just one half of his powers. Are shadowsingers and lightsingers two halves of the one whole, or two sides of the same coin (bigger theory on it's way when I get my arse in gear), and is Az, potentially, both? And Elain, who has strong links to both shadows and light?

Now I'm falling asleep

This is more plot than power related to be fair, but @elriell has a great Sleeping Beauty theory from right after ACOSF's release.

And I just can't look, it's killing me, and taking control

I know I've suggested this before, but will someone, perhaps Koschei, take control of Azriel or his shadows? Is this why Azriel's ability to spy on key figures has been somewhat lacklustre of late? Has someone or something hijacked them, preventing them from seeing, or reporting, important details?

Jealousy, turning saints into the sea

Swimming through sick lullabies

This one is thanks to a prompt from @wingedblooms, who shares my theory that Azriel could become a conduit of sorts for a god or god-like being: if the space between flows, could saints refer to the conduits? Could he turn his hearing to the Void of the murky realm, as Elain appears to turn her Sight?

Again, this is more plot than powers, but we know that songs can hold spells, as one such song lulled Nesta into an unwitting scrying in ACOSF. Combine this with the magical ear plugs that Azriel was gifted at solstice in the same book, and it makes you wonder why that may have been. Will this relate to @elriell's SB theory?

But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me

Open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside

Is Azriel's destiny to be some sort of heir or conduit to Koschei, or even a Prince of Hel? Thanatos might be known in the Hewn City...

Azriel's siphon was likened to the "eye" of a half-slumbering beast. Could he have some sort of eager eye himself, or help a certain Seer?

Is he eager to break free from his shadows, and harness his hypothetical light? Is that what the spark he experienced in his chest when he was standing next to Clotho meant (in his ACOSF bonus chapter)? Did Clotho spark Azriel's Starborn powers, as Cormac did for Bryce? But at what price will this come?

I could be way off track, of course - and obviously I don't think SJM based a character's powers and arc off a song from over a decade ago, no matter how good it is - but I've been wondering if there was more to her 'Mr Brightside' comment for a while.

It's probably all a coincidence, but it's still fun to theorise. I think Azriel's powers could end up being more like Rhys and Ruhn's than just his shadows.

#azriel shadowsinger #azriel's powers #azriel's shadows #azriel #pro azriel #azrielshadowsingerweek2022 #azriel shadowsinger week 2022 #azriel week 2022 #azrielweek2022 #azriel theory #acotar theory #starborn #shadowsinger #lightsingers and shadowsingers #hoeab spoilers #hosab spoilers #acotar cc tog crossover theory

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dreamdragoness · 8 months

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I came up with this after watching Rainbow Neko Animation's Welcome Home Creature Pirate AU on YouTube.

In this AU, Stacy works at a portside bar as a barmaid, saving her coin to get out of the bad side of town. But one night, a drunk man tried to grab Stacy just as she was leaving for home. During her escape, she slips and falls into the sea. Because of the weight of her dress, Stacy struggles to get to the surface but fears she is about to drown. That is until she felt a gentle hand grab hers and someone's lips pressed against hers, blowing fresh air into her screaming lungs.

Opening her eyes, Stacy finds the owner of the hand to be a handsome young man about her age with blue hair that flowed with the water. He had no shirt, revealing his bare chest. Stacy couldn't help but blush at the sight of the man and judging from the blush on his face, the feeling was mutual.

But then she felt something wrap around her waist. Looking down, Stacy's amazement turned into shock at the sight of a blue serpentine body with a red fringe that trialed down, ending in a rainbow-colored transparent tail. Following the tail, she discovers that the unusual appendage was attached to the young man holding her. Upon closer inspection, Stacy took notice of the frilled ears and the gills on his neck. Stacy knew what kind of creature it was, but she thought it was nothing but stories. And yet, here he was.

A Merman.

The merman, Wally, had been swimming in these parts for a little while. Normally, he would stay away from the surface dwellers and stay at his reef with his friends. Frank and Poppy would constantly tell him it was too dangerous to go near the surface and its people. Not even Eddie, who had traveled the various parts of the sea, had gotten near the beings who ate fish, hunted whales, and polluted the waters near their shore.

And yet, Wally couldn't help but be drawn. He observed from hiding places around the shore, observing the different parts of the port town and its denizens. He knew from this where to avoid and where it was safer. It was during these observations that he saw the woman before him. With her curly hair as red as a sunset, cute little nose, and shining black eyes, Wally thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. Wally longed to talk to her. To get to know her. To learn of her desires and fears. Her hopes and dreams. But all he could do was watch. He saw that she was strong as she held off some drunkards as she worked serving drinks. He saw that she had a fiery temper after witnessing her verbally assault a person who had called her a "harlot." But he also saw how kind she could be when she gave what little food or coin she had to those poorer than her. When she gave free lessons to the children despite her own education being limited. And Wally had never once seen her harming an animal but rather helped it.

Each day he watched the girl, the more Wally wanted not just to talk to her, but to have her. She must have been the reason why he felt so compelled to come here.

Perhaps it was time for him to take a mate.

He only knew Frank and Eddie as the Reef's resident couple, but there were rumors about Barnaby and Howdy as well as Sally, Poppy, and Julie. But there was no confirmation. Not even Grotto was certain.

But this girl? She had to be the one! She just had to! And tonight, he got his opportunity. He saw her being chased and slipping into the water. He saw her struggling to breathe and he rushed to her rescue. He blushed happily as he saw the amazement in her eyes, though he did notice the shock and fear when she saw his tail. She must have heard bad stories about his people.

But that didn't matter. Wally finally had her. All he needed to do was to get Frank to tell him how to transform her into a mermaid. For now, he needed to get her to safety. Someplace where she can breathe. Thankfully, he knew of an island halfway between here and the Reef.

And before Stacy could react, she found herself kidnapped by a merman.

#original character #welcome home au #mermaid #merman #merman wally x OC #romance #welcome home wally #welcome home original character

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collidescopeeyes · 20 days

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Time is a Roulette Wheel

Pyke: Pt 1

League of Legends | Pyke x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego | Pyke: 1

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

SFW

It's not that you even knew it was Pyke. You're running a clinic out of Bilgewater while you try to calculate the very specific angle you need to break the universe at to get you back home, because you can import just about anything there with no questions for the right price. And, well, there's always someone who needs healing in this place, so you're not wanting for customers.

He comes in dragging a co-worker whose arm had been near taken off by a sea-beast that wasn't quite dead. He says, urgently, that the man needs his arm to work, he doesn't have much to pay with but he'll give you a portion of his pay for as long as it takes.

“Flat rate for all fresh injuries,” you remind him, reaching out to touch the man's arm. The space around his bleeding arm blurs, and he yelps as it abruptly returns to its undamaged state. You've gotten in the habit of leaving the bloodstains–makes the healer act more believable. You don't want any bigger fish getting bright ideas about your powers–being a simple healer suits you just fine. “That'll be 30 gold.”

They both look floored. The injured man turns nervously to the other, who sighs heavily and says, “I'll sort it, don't worry. Get back to your kids.”

The formerly injured man ducks his head, thanking you both profusely as he scurries out of your clinic. You're left alone with his friend, who digs out a purse and begins counting out coins. He's a handsome fellow, tall and dark-skinned with sharp features. He's got the strong arms of a dock worker, and tattoos you've learned to recognize as Buhru. Unlike the Pyke you remember, his eyes are a sea-glass green and he has dark curls that fall past his ears. He has a bandana tucked around his neck, but most slaughter dock workers do to keep the smell of guts out. His voice is undistorted by the depths, a deep baritone that inexplicably makes you think he has a good reading voice, and he's wearing plain workers clothes with no distinctive fish jaws to speak of. So no, you don't recognize him.

He sets the last coin down, nods at you, and walks out. That, you think, is that.

Except next month he comes in with some other poor fuck. This one, at least, pays for himself–Pyke just drops him off, nods at you, and walks out again. Not that you know his name at this point. Two weeks later he's back, and you're about to ask who he's hauling in this time when you notice the limp.

“What did this?” You ask curiously as you roll up his tattered pant leg to reveal an ugly set of bruises and broken skin. He hisses when you touch it, and you think it might be broken–honestly, you're not too far off the docks, but he must be one stubborn motherfucker to make it here.

“Caught in a line,” he grunts as you pick out the worst of the debri. “Got dragged halfway down the dock.”

You wince. “That'll do it, yeah.” You rewind the wound and quickly wipe the blood off. Then you pat his (very solid) leg and stand. “Good as yesterday.”

He stands experimentally, then nods. Same as before, he goes for his coin purse to pay, then pauses. He checks one pocket, then another, then the first one again. Then he sighs deeply. “Must've lost it when I was getting dragged.”

“You work on the Red Docks, yeah?” You recall. He nods, and you whistle lowly. “That'll be long gone by now, then.”

He gives you a look that's half guarded, half pleading. “Give me a day and I can put the gold together.”

You consider him, or more accurately the corded muscles of his arms. “Tell you what. You're a big guy, and I'm in need of a strong arm for a personal project. When's your next day off?” He gives you a wary look, and you roll your eyes. “I'm not asking you to kill someone or smuggle drugs or anything like that, I just need some equipment lugged around. I'll pay twenty an hour for your time, and we’ll take the first hour and a half out your debt. Deal?”

He hesitates a moment, then sticks out his hand. “Deal.”

You shake on it, then immediately wince when he practically crushes your hand. “Oh christ, you really are strong,” you say, shaking out the sting.

He looks slightly abashed. “Sorry. Butcher's habit. I'll be back…day after tomorrow, should be?”

You nod. “Anytime around noon is fine, but we probably won't be getting back into town until dark. That fine?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He pauses a moment, then ducks his head. “Thanks.” And then he just leaves, as is his way.

—

He shows up at noon exactly. You feel a bit bad about making him haul your equipment crates down to the ferry, but he doesn't seem overly strained by the work, which leads you to believe your last porter was just trying to pad his hours. The ferry takes you to one of the islands about forty minutes out, and he lugs your equipment up to the hill. He's good at following instructions, and it takes less time than you'd expect to get your contraption set up.

“Okay, now we just have to wait for it to stabilize,” you say, dusting your hands off.

“What…is it?” He says slowly, examining the precarious mass of bronze and crystal.

“It’s a telescope that looks into the space beyond existence,” you say distractedly, opening up your bag and rifling through it. “Here,” you hand him a wrapped sandwich.

He blinks at it like he's never seen one before. You wiggle it impatiently at him, and he takes it almost automatically. You set your own aside so you can pull out your thermos and pour both of you a cup of ice tea. He takes that with no small amount of skepticism either.

“What is this?” He says, sniffing it. He sips, then makes a face that gives you absolutely no information on whether he likes it or not. “It's sweet.”

“It’s fruit tea,” you say, sipping your own. One nice thing about having time powers is it's just as cold as when you pulled it out of the icebox.

He gives the sandwich the same suspicious once over, though this one he doesn't eat. “This coming out of my pay?” He asks.

You raise a brow. “What? No. Jeez, what kind of shitty bosses have you had?”

“Won't argue shitty, but that's normal on the docks,” he says, eyeing you consideringly. “Must be well off, if you can afford to be nice.”

You shrug. “Always people who need healing in that city, and I'm not under anyone's thumb, so I actually get to keep what I make.”

His gaze shifts, now filled with a mix of both wariness and respect. “Not easy in a town like Bilgewater.” You shrug again, and he seems content to eat in silence.

“So how long’s it gonna take?” He asks, after you've eaten.

You make a so-so gesture. “Haven't tried this configuration before. Shortest it's ever been is ten minutes, longest is an hour.” You give him a considering look. “You play cards?”

–

He whips your ass in Bilgewater threecard, but you make a comeback in snap. You pause occasionally to fire the machine, but the viewfinder shows nothing but Void, so you adjust the crystals and return to the game. As sunset approaches, you adjust the crystals to catch the light, and you both squint on as the thing begins to hum and glow. You peer into the viewfinder excitedly, spinning the dials as you try to home in on anything that looks like reality–

Then it sparks and gives out. “Slut motherfucker,” you groan, throwing a card at the contraption.

“Didn't work?” He extrapolates.

“Nope!” You say with fake cheerfulness, grumpily getting to your feet to start taking the thing apart. “C'mon, that's it for today. Help me pack this piece of shit up and we'll head back.”

It's just getting dark by the time the ferry lands. He helps you lug the crates back home, and you count out his pay.

“It's a good thing you showed up yesterday,” you muse, scooping his pay into a separate bag. “Had to lay off my regular guy after he tried to steal my stuff.”

He glances up at you as he tucks the bag into his pocket. “You're out of a porter, then?”

You know that look. “It’s not regular work,” you warn. “And, uh, some days there will be a risk of getting slightly blown up.”

He gives you a considering look. “Define ‘risk’.”

You make a so-so gesture. “I mean, I'll let you know if I'm doing anything dangerous, but let's say…iunno, one in twenty? Promise I'll fix you up for free if that happens, though.”

He shrugs. “Fine with me. I'm down at Heimlich House most days. Ask for Pyke.” He inclines his head at you, and then walks out. It's probably for the best he does, because you're left staring at his back in sheer disbelief.

—

It's not, like, 100% Pyke Pyke. You think. You ask about him at the pub nearby, and Bard behind the bar asks if you mean tall Pyke, short Pyke or Pegleg Pyke.

“Tall Pyke?” You guess. He's certainly not short, and unless they're somehow talking about his dick, he's got both his legs too. “Buhru tattoos, green eyes, doesn't talk much? Hired him for a porting job, thinking of inviting him back on the regular. You think of any reason I shouldn't?”

“Tall Pyke, nah, he's the good one,” Bard says with a laugh. “Hard worker, sticks up for his crew. Mean motherfucker if you do him dirty, sure, but I don't reckon you're the type to go fucking anyone over. I'm sure he'll do you right, whatever you're hiring him for.”

You nod, sliding him a tip. “Thanks Bard. Hey, you got any of those battered fish things?”

So maybe it's not him. Apparently it's not an uncommon name–or was it a nickname? Not like Bilgewater had much in the way of legal records, honestly–nicknames were as good as official here. You just showed up and told people your name was Iso, after all. Him being called Pyke didn't mean it was Pyke, destined to be eaten by a big fucking fish, Blood Harbor Ripper Pyke. He isn't even a harpooner, he works on the slaughter docks. You're sure it's fine. Probably.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #leauge of legends #reader fic #x reader #crossposted on ao3 #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #Pyke x reader

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12pt-times-new-roman · 1 year

Text

c3e51

This might be a shorter live-blogging post b/c I'm gonna try to focus on watching the episode more!

DDB watch: No sponsor!

This fucking coin and FCG's attitude towards it is legitimately starting to get on my nerves, lmao

Ira thinks the Malleus Key is missing a lens. Like the one the Bells Hells had that Ashton destroyed. So if Ludinus needed that, and Matt essentially planted it on the Bells Hells when they took it from Ira's machine, then it very well could have been a deus ex machina for Ludinus and the Vanguard, but Ashton destroyed it.

(I will say, related to that— it would be very cool and thematic if Ludinus was counting on the Bells Hells bringing that lens to him, because he can see the web of fate, and Ashton still destroyed it because they are so chaotic in nature that they are essentially impervious to that sight.)

FCG racial ability: They have a harmonious aeormaton ability that gives them advantage on checks made to identify or discern information about things they can see. It sounds like this is related to the ability that lets them cast identify once per day.

FCG connects their head wires to the arcane power core of the downed Warder, and they can control the thing like they're in Pacific Rim.

There are "trophies" lining the sides of the crater, hanging on spikes. There are some Judicator heads and a lot of holy symbols.

The excavated spire comes to about halfway up the crater. Dark iron plating surrounds it like armor, and residuum glows from its base. Four other smaller towers are angled toward the point. The dispel wave originates not from the spire or key, but from two devices along the base.

It seems like most of the people in the crater who are dressed in Ruby Vanguard robes are able to communicate telepathically. Which is kind of ominous! because telepathic communication is an inherent racial ability of kalashtars.

The four smaller spires are being filled with dunamis potions.

Otohan is here. Two vials are ejected from her backpack, and someone else installs another two.

Liliana is here too. She glides down from one of the catwalks and starts conversing with someone near the key.

It seems like each of these caverns off the main chamber house a cluster of arcane power sources, which tracks with Caleb and Beau's info that the Vanguard are adding more power sources and moving them into side chambers.

Entering in to one of them, they find a group of 5 guarding the power sources, and enter combat.

Members of the Paragon Call are forced to wear symbols of the Raven Queen as "part of their attire."

"Bad guys are still people. And you don't know why this person was here." Maybe that gets to the root of what separates the Bells Hells from the other main campaign parties. All of these people might've been on the other side of this fight, if the right conditions were met. The only difference between them and the people they're killing is circumstance.

Otohan enters the cavern with the Bells Hells.

And to break!

MORE random rolls from Liam and Marisha??

As Otohan enters the chamber, Beau and Caleb detonate both of the machines that are producing the dispel wave. She runs, angrily, out of the chamber, back toward the key.

FCG falls in the airship. Ashton destroys the arcane power sources. So many things are happening at once.

Oh my god

the Mage-Hunter Golems look exactly like the ones in the Heirloom Sphere

AND LUDINUS IS HERE

Wearing "almost ceremonial garb, as opposed to armor." inbe4 Matt describes the Malleus Key activation as exactly like Ashton's visions of their father's ritual

Ryn might be shattered, Ludinus deactivates FCG's shell so they're just inside the automaton with no vision—

AAAAAA

Their stealth plan is fucked. Vanguard and Call operatives are swarming the key and the alcoves surrounding it.

However, their group deception check succeeds, so they're part of the fervor.

Everyone hears a singular voice. "Friends! Individuals who have come with us on this journey! Our timetable has been accelerated. Please, gather at the key." It's Otohan's voice. The Bells Hells hear this too, so they are currently — because of their successful deception checks — being considered as part of the Vanguard or the Call.

Caleb stands with the mage-hunter golem clasped around his neck. Beau walks down the ramp, with Liliana's hand extended toward her, controlling her.

"Thank you all for joining us. It seems we've had expected guests. Caleb, Beauregard — You have been thorns in all of our sides for quite some time. I think it's only fitting that I would give you front-row seats for what you've worked so hard to prevent." They are shacked and chained. "Someone, please, free our ornament." Ryn's right arm is broken off. "As I'm sure you all heard, we are working at an accelerated pace. A number of entities look to close, and I would hate to disappoint for the time being, so... [Green residuum veins light up the entire spire.] And it's taken many years of research to ensure that my appreciation for perfection can be rightly accomplished. [Armored sides of the spire shunt downward, exposing openings where dodecahedrons, rimmed in gold, are affixed.] Well, I guess it's time we brought it to us. [Energy charges into it, the device begins to flow, everyone feels themselves stop, you can't move, you can't breathe. The stars above, the storm, pass by. Hours go by in seconds, before the red moon is held aloft. All of you come back into place, and Ludinus' hand is somewhat withered and dark.] Very well."

MATT????

Combat.

Ludinus is on a platform above. Liliana floats above that platform. And there are many, many people.

A shadow obfuscates Ruidus before rapidly descending on Ludinus himself.

It's the Silver Sun! It descents at a rapid speed directly down into the tunnel, as Ludinus throws another hand up. A forcefield appears atop the key, and the airship impacts, killing dozens, dozens, dozens of the surrounding watchers, Paragon's Call, Vanguard members. No impact on the spire or the key itself.

We're in combat. There isn't gong to be too much lore during this.

But this is a doable fight. These people are not alone. They can free Caleb and Beau. The Ashari are on their way.

Ira survived. He's looking to find a different way to destroy the key.

Ludinus continues to speak. We're not in initiative yet. "The greatest lie ever told is that we need them. We are their gardens, their cattle. They created us to feed them with our faith, our hopes, our souls, lapping up their fables, giving them form, purpose, control... they did not give us this world, they took it from the Titans. Slew them in their home, and tilled its soil to harvest us for all eternity."

Ira survived. Xandis is nowhere to be seen, but Ira is trying to find another way to get to the key, to destroy it.

Ludinus speaks again. "But we, their special children, surpassed our masters. We questioned their games, we found our own will, our own power, our own drive to create that eclipsed their own. We unraveled their weave, and killed one of them, became one of them. Then, then, they feared us... The Calamity was not a tragedy, it was a punishment. Their war amounted to them little more than context, and we all suffered for our excellence. A genocidal admonishment for following our own will. They still fear us, hiding behind their gate, reaping our dreams as they deceive us to ceading our agency to their whims and squabbles. They should be afraid..."

"We're so split up." "That's a good thing, for AOE spells" travis no

Lilian reacts to Imogen's call. "Mama... mama. It doesn't have to be like this. [Where are you? I can't see you.] I love you. The better halves make a better whole. Please remember. [Imogen, I told you to run, I've been telling you to run. Why did you come here?] I wanna help you get free. It doesn't have to be like this. [It's the only way we can be free.] No. [We're seeds, you and me. Why do you think we have this power? Ruidusborn, exaltant, it's been building a bridge. We're the mooring.] This is all stuff he told you. How do you know he's telling the truth? [I just do.]"

A detonation off to the side. It was Ira. Liliana turns, looks — Ira begins to shift through the ruin, and as she puts a hand out, Liliana banishes Ira. (It was a bad dice roll. If Liliana keeps concentration for 1m, Ira stays gone.)

Ludinus continues to talk, to FCG. "You, you are not given life by any god, but my the hands of mortal creators like us. We are the new source of life, of creation. Stain my legacy all you wish; I have worked selflessly for a thousand years to find the means of shattering these chains of fate and oppression. Let me be your villain if it means liberation for all, and forever... born in you, chosen Ruidus-born. Seeds of Predathos' power. The burgeoning scions who now break these bonds, you have all gathered here for your true purpose... Everything scales, in the universe. Even ecosystems. Tonight, we unleash the natural predator of the gods. Tonight, the children inherit the world."

Ashton follows a beaten path, getting within about 10 feet of the key.

Faint mist emanates from all the Ruidus-born — including Imogen and Fearne.

A large boulder has slammed in from above as it begins to grow limbs, unravel, in the center. The Ashari have arrived — no. KEYLETH has arrived. "By the Voice of the Tempest, halt this." She casts mass cure wounds, and the Bells Hells, as well as a bunch of Ashari around, take 35hp of healing.

Ludinus looks down. "Right on time." He casts power word stun, and she's stunned to a round of Otohan's attacks. Now we roll initiative. But because Keyleth is in her earth elemental form, she essentially has a 120hp buffer between her and Otohan.

Otohan uses unleash incarnation, which is a 3rd level echo knight ability. And with an action surge, she takes down the elemental form. The backpack she has gives Otohan the echo knight abilities, but she's a psi-warrior by subclass.

"She goes for a heart strike. And where Otoahn's blade was, you see a mass of feathers... Standing over and protecting [Keyleth's] body, daggers in each hand. 'Don't you even dare.'"

VAXILDAN

Orym action surges against Otohan and gets a goading attack off. This battle is a mess and I can't keep track of it but I'm transcribing Ludinus and Liliana's dialogue as best I can. I'm slightly drunk but I'm TRYING OKAY

Liliana holds her action as she looks to Imogen. There's a chance here for her to flip sides.

Chetney leaps on to Ludinus' back. "You said something about... natural predators." His AC is 19, which Chetney hits — but he uses shield.

nat1 on Imogen's persuasion check against Liliana.

Ludinus speaks again. "And now, the final piece, The sliver of divinity. The lens... [Liliana casts a spell against the Champion of Ravens. He is condensed into a sphere of dark shadow. Just a sphere. Liliana places it into the empty spot in the machine.] And now... [The power isn't quite there.. explosions.] It'll have to do. It is time, my children. {other skyships begin to appear — Vasselheim and other forces, just as the red moon glows above. Every Ruidus-born in the chamber stands tall as red energy filters into the spire, drawn in, living batteries all pouring into the device as it rises and crackles, gathers, forms.] Let us destroy what will unmake them. [An incredible, thick beam of red energy fires into the sky, lights up and sets every cloud scattering, up towards the red moon. All the skyships crumble, blown away.] A thousand years. You couldn't stop me, you couldn't— it's too late. It's too late! [The nexus energy, the power of the leylines sparks and grows lighter, magical energy flows in all directions. The sky goes from pitch black to a multi-color explosion of arcane energy — into white. A familiar white.]"

Matt sits down.

The lights fade to white.

Images race — what happened? it is confusion, pain, fog, fugue.

Laudna. "You glance around, as your vision comes to. You see yourself sitting on the edge of a rocky cliff, the smell is sulfurous and acrid, acidic. Unfamiliar. You look around, and there are these pools of strange colored liquid under the night. An unfamiliar landscape — seems terrestrial. You look to your left, and you see Ashton, half-draped over this outcropping."

Ashton. "You see Laudna, you both see this chasm space below you. These little bits of natural geysers poofing steamy water. We won, we did it. Where are we? Where's everybody? You glance upwards, and 10 feet up."

Orym. You almost fall off the edge of this cliff, but you catch yourself. What is this? The Voice of the Tempest is nowhere to be seen.

The stars look familiar. No one else around. In some distance, just above the cloud line, the red moon, standing. A singular, solid red beam that vanishes below some far-off mountain line. They're in some kind of chasm, a valley.

FCG. "You hit something soft. It's the faintly dawn-like light cresting over some direction. You look around, and there's dust, but it's white, like fine crystal, like snow." They see no Catha, no Ruidus. Just dunes, white, crystalline. Rocky outcroppings, cliffside in the tundra, this snow-fallen desert. They see a snow-covered desert, cold air. To the east, a snow-capped mountain range, a snow-covered forest to the south. To the north, an ocean.

Fearne. Digging her way out of the snow by FCG. Chetney hears Fearne and FCG call out, as does Imogen. Chetney smells nothing of Laudna, Orym, or Ashton, but he knows where they are: the Crystal Sands Tundra, to the east of the Flotket Alps and Uthodurn.

"You split the party!" "Yeah!"

The party is split between two different parts of the planet. They still see the auroras in the sky, so the solstice isn't over yet. Laudna, FCG, Fearne, and Chetney are all in northern Wildemount, near Uthodurn; Ashton, Imogen, and Orym all seem to be in some other place, possibly near Kamordah (because of the geysers) or somewhere else with high levels of volcanic activity.

Travis hit the nail on the head. The Champion of Ravens was a required component of whatever Ludinus was doing, and Keyleth was the bait. There is no way they could've known Keyleth was coming, because the Bells Hells were the ones who called her in. She would not have been here without them. so Ludinus fucking KNOWS what's happening, he can see it all, he knows and this is all precisely to his plan. The key went off but it wasn't perfect, he was worried, concerned about the failing power sources — and the beam is still there, it's still boring. they all still have a chance to stop it.

#critical role #critical role c3 #critical role campaign 3 #critical role spoilers #critical role c3 spoilers #note watches c3 #drunkposting #only after the break #ADGHVHFBJGSLKFGdfaDHKGSK #VAX????#long post #I lied this is definitely a long post

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i-can-even-burn-salad · 1 year

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Game Over (Cedric) - Part 2

Nuisance

Look at that! Santa brought a dead dove :)

Warnings: Gore, including hand gore and impalement, torture/violence/beating, restraints, homophobia, misogyny, all kinds of crude language, major character death, public execution (hanging), self inflicted injuries to get out of restraints and do a little murder

For extra fun, start listening to Auld Lang Syne by Dougie MacLean halfway through :) Merry Christmas!

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Cedric stared at the ceiling of the cell he had spent the last—how long had it been? Between the dim light falling through the window slit, and the exhaustion and pain making him slip in and out of consciousness, it was hard to tell how much time had passed. He thought it had been three days.

Three days of sitting chained to the wall, in the blood soaked clothes he had been arrested in. He tried his best not to let the cold and the grime get to him, but it was hard. At least the guards had been decent enough to separate the shackles around his wrists, only fastening one of them to the wall with a chain. Not that it did him much good; he couldn’t move his right arm, could barely feel it.

He definitely felt the rest of his body, though, every bruise and scrape and cut. The icy touch of the morlit inside his shoulder had been replaced by fire, pulsing in the rhythm of his heartbeat. There was little doubt the wound had become infected, and no doubt no one cared about it.

They had brought him just enough food and water to keep him alive, leaving him barely enough energy to sit up. Or perhaps it was the memory of Yvan that sapped his strength, as despite his best efforts, he had been unable to banish his dead, broken eyes from his mind. That, and the worry who else they might have arrested, might still arrest. No one told him; of course they didn’t.

Every waking hour he spent wondering who had betrayed him. It couldn’t have been one of his inner circle. The guards wouldn’t be poking around in the dark if they knew more. Unfortunately, that left a wide array of possible suspects—people who had crossed him, yet he had not considered enough of a threat to kill them. If only he had lived up to his reputation, he thought grimly.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Cedric raise his head, trying to fight down the sick feeling in his stomach. It was the same guard who returned each time; to taunt him, to beat him, to question him. Smith or whatever. Carrying a baton in his right hand, and an insufferable smirk on his face, he stopped in front of the cell.

“Slept well?” He dragged the metal baton across the bars of the door. “Perhaps you feel like cooperating today?”

Cedric said nothing.

On a gesture of Smith’s hand, another guard unlocked the door, letting the son of a mok stride into the cell.

“We seized the Lucky Coin,” Smith said as he approached Cedric. “As we speak, my men are turning everything upside down. They will find everything there is to find, everyone who’s connected to you. So why don’t you make it easier for yourself and talk?”

Cedric said nothing.

“Riley Burke. Rosie Fletcher. And Merridy Whitley.” The way Smith said her name sent a chill down Cedric’s spine. “Interesting. No records to speak of, no past employment or address. And yet, as far as the Lucky Coin goes, she’s the sole beneficiary in the case of your—impending—untimely end.”

There was something besides the usual cruelty in Smith’s gaze. Something cunning.

“Now, do tell, how does a common street rat end up working for a high class”—somehow, he managed to make it sound derogatory—“shop such as yours?”

Cedric said nothing.

“I’ll tell you what I think.” Smith started pacing back and forth, swinging the baton in the rhythm of his steps. “I think that’s just a cover. A fresh identity for a new start. That’s the kind of trouble you’d only go through for someone important.”

Cedric grit his teeth. This was… fuck. He hadn’t thought this through. Everyone else who was close to him came from richer circles already, or was well off at least. But Merridy had just started working for him, had just saved up enough money to move into a room of her own. After the incident with Jean, he had wanted to make sure she’d be fine if anything happened to him. It wasn’t like he had any other relatives, or would need all his money once he was dead.

He’d never forgive himself if this was what brought her down with him now.

“Do you think she’ll talk? If we bring her here, I mean.” Smith let his free hand glide over a rusty metal ring in the wall. “What do you think I’ll have to do for her to admit what she’s done? To tell me what you have done?” Letting go of the metal ring, Smith returned to stand in front of Cedric, watching his face as he said, “Keep her hanging for a day or two? Break some fingers? Or perhaps slice the flesh off her bones?”

The thought of Smith getting his dirty fucking hands on her was unbearable. Of her ending up in the dungeon again, like when he had found her; hurt and terrified. Getting tortured because of him. No one would save her this time. Not from the cruelty of the guards, not from ending her life on the gallows if she was found guilty.

Smith crouched down, leaning closer. “What was she involved in, I ask.”

“The only thing she was involved in was my dick.”

Cedric didn’t know where the words had come from. He needed an excuse—any excuse—to explain why she had been so close to him. The sad part was that it really was just friendship. He had offered her to work for his legal business long before she had decided to join the illegal one. Nothing of that would help her now.

“What?” Smith asked, sounding incredulous. “You want to tell me you fucked your secretary?”

Cedric said nothing.

“No.” Smith slammed his hand against the wall next to Cedric’s head. Cedric managed not to flinch. “I don’t believe you. Everyone knows what you’re…” He looked Cedric up and down, a snide frown on his lips, almost spitting out the word as he added, “Into. What you are… oh excuse me.” He gestured vaguely towards his throat with an exaggerated grimace. “Were married to. I bet the last cunt you’ve seen was your mother’s.”

“It’s been twenty-five years.” Cedric tried to sound casual, but his voice trembled. Forcing the words out was hard, but keeping his image clear was less important than to keep Merridy safe. Yvan would have agreed with him. “Things get stale. Are you married, Smith? Coming home to the same bored visage every day? Do you never want to stick it—”

A backhanded slap cut off Cedric’s taunting words. At least it hadn’t been the baton. He used his tongue to feel for his teeth, spitting out blood.

“So you’re telling me you take some random slut off the street and pay her to run one of the most well known businesses in the Vandaya district?” Smith scoffed. “All for occasionally sucking your dick?”

“Sucking dick came first.” Cedric grinned. He hoped the blood on his teeth looked every bit as horrible as it felt. “Finding out she had a knack for numbers was an added bonus.”

“Mh. Nah.” Smith tapped the wall, then straightened up. “Doesn’t make sense. You can get that at every whorehouse in the city.”

“Look at you! An expert on whorehouses! So you do—”

This time Smith used the baton. It wasn’t a full force blow—one of those might have knocked Cedric out—but it was enough to make his head slam back against the wall as his vision turned black. Metal sounded, then he was roughly dragged to his feet and shoved a step forward. By the time his gaze cleared, they had joined the shackles in front of him and pulled them up with a chain coming from the ceiling.

Cedric stumbled another step forward, trying to keep up. His right leg gave way under him almost immediately, his ankle unable to hold any of his weight. He pushed himself up with his left leg, twisting until his left wrist was slightly lower than his right. The pain ripped through his right shoulder, seizing his chest, making it hard to breathe. But his right arm was already useless, and if he managed to keep his weight off his left, he might not ruin his good hand as well.

Not that there was anything he could use it for. Not that there was any way out of this for him. He couldn’t allow himself to think about that. He was going to die one way or another. All that mattered now was making sure he would take no one else with him.

Smith waited until Cedric was almost steady on his feet, before bringing the baton down against his side. Cedric struggled to keep standing, swinging in his restraints. The hit had driven the air out of his lungs. At least that way he couldn’t cry out.

“Perhaps you want to change your answer,” Smith said.

Cedric took his time to catch his breath. “Nothing to. Change,” he said. Speaking made the panic of his breathlessness spike, but he fought against it. “I don’t like to… to share. Can ask. Anyone.” That was the truth. The best lies were always close to the truth. “Perhaps you… like to share.” Despite the pain, Cedric managed another bloody grin. “How… how many… do… do you let fuck… your wife?”

The fury in Smith’s eyes was both satisfying and terrifying. Unfortunately, there was nothing Cedric could do to brace himself against the attack that followed. One hit glanced off his chin, throwing his head back, but most of them came down on the same spot, over and over again. If his ribs hadn’t been broken before, now they certainly were. Every inhale was accompanied by a sharp, stabbing pain in his side, making him tremble and wince.

“Fine. Let’s assume she was your private little whore and nothing else.” Smith took a step back, his voice calm and casual, as if Cedric wasn’t struggling to breathe in front of him. “Who else was involved? We both know you haven’t pulled any of this off alone, old man.” Another snide look. “Can’t even walk on your own. Pathetic cripple.”

Cedric decided not to point out the fact that he could walk just fine if he wasn’t beaten and starved, thank you very much. Instead, he focused all his energy on getting his legs back under him. The pain in his ankle brought tears to his eyes, but he had to relieve the strain on his arms, at least for a moment.

“I… I don’t. Know.” His right leg crumpled, and Cedric couldn’t suppress a pained noise as his weight settled back on his left arm. “What you’re. Talking about.”

“I want names, Harlow.”

Cedric spit out a mouthful of blood, but it was harder and harder to keep his act up. There wasn’t a bone in his body that didn’t hurt, and his involuntary attempts to keep his breaths shallow left him slightly lightheaded.

“And you… think. This. Will get you. Get what you. Want?”

Smith put the tip of the baton against his injured shoulder, pushing against it. “No. Sadly, I don’t think so.” He grinned, pulling back. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it. Feel free to let me know if you change your mind.”

Cedric watched Smith lift the baton, letting it hover in plain view a moment too long to be a mere coincidence. He raised his head, meeting Smith’s gaze. “Fuck you,” he mumbled. It didn’t matter. He was going to die anyway. He would not take anyone else down with him.

By the time someone opened the cell door, Cedric didn’t have the strength to stand anymore. He couldn’t have said how long he had been hanging there, how often the baton had come down. At some point, he had been unable to stop himself from crying out any longer, from screaming until he ran out of breath. Now his throat hurt as much as the rest of his body.

Smith turned away from him, to exchange hushed words with a guard. Cedric didn’t pay attention to what was said, savoring the short reprieve. Blood had run down his right arm, from where the shackle had dug deep into his skin; more blood soaked the back of his shirt. The strain must have reopened the stab wound. At least he could still feel the fingers of his left hand. He balled them to a fist, pondering if it was worth trying to get his feet under him.

Before Cedric could attempt to, Smith was back, standing in front of him. Something in his expression sent a chill down Cedric’s spine.

“We got another one,” he announced. “Not the sharpest tools in the shed, your friends.”

He nodded, and the chain holding Cedric up was released. Cedric crumpled to the ground, unable to keep standing, or even catch himself. His head slammed against the stone floor, cushioned by the piles of dirty straw scattered there.

Smith loomed over him, a threatening silhouette against the flickering torch light in the back. “I wonder if he’s more… cooperative than you. Guess me and my friend here”—he swirled the baton around—“are gonna find out tomorrow. For today, I am done. I’m gonna go home, to a nice dinner, in my warm home.” He grinned, pushing Cedric’s side with his boot, like someone might push a piece of trash away. “To my wife, who’s still alive.”

Cedric grit his teeth, tears in his eyes as his chest locked up, refusing to expand properly. Panting, he curled up, trying to ease the strain on his body and to suppress the memory of Yvan; of broken green eyes, and golden hair in a pool of slowly drying blood. Somehow, it hurt more than his bruises and broken ribs. He tried not to let it show, focusing on his breaths, to not give that asshole the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

Not that Smith seemed to care. He ordered one of his men to chain Cedric’s hand back to the wall, then left. Cedric remained curled up on the floor, listening to the footsteps, and the door being locked. He waited a few more minutes, making sure no one changed their mind and came back, before he started to move. Gritting his teeth, he shuffled towards the wall, where he managed to sit up. The cell around him was spinning, his shirt disgustingly cold and slick at his back. He wondered if he was still bleeding. He had no way to tell.

Now that he was alone, he allowed his composure to crumble. His left hand started to shake, while his right arm hung limp and numb at his side. He tried to move his fingers, without success. He couldn’t feel anything below his elbow, which—considering the state his arm and hand were in—was probably for the better. Some of his fingers were bent in unnatural angles, most likely broken. He couldn’t remember when or how this had happened. The strip of skin around the shackle was rubbed raw, and blood had dried in long, thin lines on his skin. How much more fucking blood was he supposed to lose? Taking small, gasping breaths, he managed to keep the nausea at bay. At least his left hand still obeyed his will; a small consolation, considering his right shoulder felt like someone had ripped it in half.

Cedric closed his eyes, focusing on a different kind of dread. His desperate use of magic should have shattered geodes he had handed out to his most trusted acquaintances. A clear sign of danger, and an urgent warning to lay low, to best leave the city for a while. It was possible someone had ignored the warning—or the guards had caught someone who wasn’t truly involved. Either way, it looked like he was dragging either a trusted friend, or an almost innocent bystander down with him. Fuck.

Footsteps approached, making Cedric raise his head. A guard pushed his daily ration of how-the-fuck-did-you-manage-to-turn-sandpaper-into-mush through the bars of his door, before moving on to the next prisoner. Cedric would have to crawl across the cell to reach it, exhausting the length of the chain that bound him. He was too tired and in too much pain to do so. Instead, he kept wondering. Worrying. Cedric wished he knew who it was. He considered calling out, but he didn’t dare to. What if it was a bluff? What if it was someone they had no evidence against? What if confirming they knew each other would be what sealed the unknown person’s fate?

A few minutes after the guard’s steps had faded, a voice rose. It was slightly distorted, thrown back time and again by the cold dungeon walls, but unmistakable. Cedric swallowed, cold dread creeping up on him. Laurent. His friend and right hand. Making himself known by intoning a song they had sung so often, bidding some of their companions farewell, be it after death or departure. Sometimes without a cause as well, just two old friends, having drunk a bit too much, and become a bit too melancholic.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days of auld lang syne?

The cell blurred before Cedric’s eyes as he leaned his back against the wall. He had been trembling from exhaustion before, but now a shiver ran through his body, making him wrap his good arm around himself. A weak, hoarse voice Cedric had never heard in his life joined in, humming along for a verse, before adding the words.

We twa hae run about the braes, and pou’d the gowans fine But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin’ auld lang syne.

On its own, it might have been bland, unpleasant even, but together with Laurent’s voice and the dungeon’s echo, it had a haunting effect. Cedric let one more verse pass in waiting, and listened to another while trying to swallow the lump in his throat. This was it, then. His husband gone. His own life forfeit. His best friend waiting for death with him. He could only hope the guards wouldn’t be able to identify anyone else. Since the incident with Colette, there was no paperwork left for them to find, and Cedric would make sure to take his allies’ names with him into the grave.

When he raised his own voice, it was steady, despite the tears running silently down his face.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere And gie’s a hand o’ thine And we’ll tak’ a right gude-willie waught for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear For auld lang syne We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet For auld lang syne

[ID: The banner shows a broken window, outside which the sun sets behind an iron fence. The sky is bright yellow and orange. The title nuisance is written across it in scribbled looking letters with a orange to yellow to orange gradient. All other images are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

#Nuisance #whump #fantasy whump #gore tw #major character death #torture tw #hand whump #impaling tw #strangulation tw #running out of tws tw #my writing

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 3 years

Text

Sam has no idea Dean’s skipping school.

Neither does Dad, but Sam would actually give a crap about Dean’s education, say something about eleventh-grade English being a “key to success.” Kid’s only in eighth grade and already looking at college brochures, hungrier than a wolf at the sight of students walking happily across sunny campuses, their only worry their studies.

If Dad knew, he’s say, well if you won’t go to class, you can come with me on hunts, and while it sucks not having someone else around, someone in charge who isn’t almost seventeen, time away from Dad is better than time with, Dean’s learned.

And if he skips school, he can rustle up some cash and get groceries before the school bus brings Sam to the apartment complex Dean told the school they lived in (because Dad forgot to tell the school anything).

They don’t live there, really, but the school bus won’t drop off at the motel, and if the driver saw the motel, he’d tell the school, and they’d call Dad, except it would go to Bobby because that’s whose number Dean put down.

Most mornings, if Dean canvasses through whatever city they’re in (right now it’s Galena, Illinois, they’ve been here for a couple months, which is a nice change) he’ll find people’s discarded glass bottles and aluminum cans. He loads them into his backpack and goes to the dump. Maybe he’ll get three, four bucks.

(There are other ways to make money, and Dean knows he could do them. If he wanted to. He doesn’t. He wonders if he’ll have a choice in the end, though.)

After a week of that, he can go get groceries.

For this week’s trip, Dean has exactly eighteen dollars and twenty-seven cents. Sam gets breakfast at school for free, but there’s still lunches and dinners all week. Back at the motel, they’ve got half a jar of peanut butter. A box of off-brand Cheerios. Two cans of chicken soup. And the food money Dad gave them ran out a long time ago.

Dean gets bread and more peanut butter and canned pears in sugar and more soup and then he sees a little apple cider display at the end of one of the aisles declaring it’s the first day of fall and his stomach plummets.

Fall means cold, and cold means winter, and winter means that if Dad doesn’t come back, they might not have a place to stay. The hotel’s only paid through for a few more weeks.

Dad promised he would call the motel every week.

He hasn’t for the past three weeks.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters to himself, heading up to the register.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” The cashier asks, scanning Dean’s loaf of bread.

Dean shakes his head. “Graduated. I’m nineteen.” He’s gotten better about lying about this.

The cashier looks dubious that he’s that old, but she doesn’t question it, just scans the rest of his groceries. “Your total is twenty dollars and sixty-five cents.”

“I’ve, uh...” Dean hands her the wad of bills and coins that he knows isn’t enough. “This is all I’ve got.”

The cashier counts it up. “You’re nearly three dollars short.”

“I...” The bread is the most expensive thing, so putting it back will probably get him under eighteen dollars--

“Three dollars short?” The woman behind Dean in line says. “I can take care of it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to--” Dean starts, but she’s already shoved past him and handed the cashier the money. She has long, blonde hair. Blue-ish eyes. Soft lines on her forehead.

She looks a lot like his mom.

Dean shakes his head. Mom is dead and Dad’s gone. This is just a nice woman.

“Thank you,” Dean says, grabbing his receipt and his groceries and getting out of there.

He’s made it halfway across the parking lot when he hears the woman’s voice again. “Young man?”

Dean turns. “Yes?”

“I know you’re not actually nineteen. And that you should be in school.”

Dean looks down at his feet. “Yeah.”

“But you’re playing hooky to buy groceries, so things must be pretty bad.” The woman stretches out her hand to give him two twenty-dollar bills. “I know what that’s like.”

Dad’s voice is in the back of Dean’s head. Don’t accept charity.

But all Dean can think about is his brother, who won’t be able to pay attention in class on an empty stomach.

He takes the money. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The woman turns away, presumably towards her car. “Take care of yourself.”

(About twenty-five years later, Dean Winchester, rid of his father, in possession of a home and of enough money to buy all the people he loves groceries, will see another kid contemplate whether to put back loaf of bread at the store, and he’ll pay for that kid’s groceries, press two twenties into his hand.)

(It’s the least he can do.)

#offbeatwrites #I don't know what happened #I was gonna write a cute fall fic and then #yeah #sorry!#now I'm sad about dean again (as always)

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eloquent-vowel · 3 years

Note

I have had a few bucky x read fic ideas bouncing around in my head and i cant write! So here is one,

Sam find a person who stairs and doesnt talk a whole lot because they uses ✨telepathy ✨. So Sam think they would be a good fit for Bucky, but he doesn’t know they have that power he just thinks they are mute. Then there is a thing where the reader is telling Buck how it works and they if they have something to connect them together like an object *reader motions to dog tags* they can have an unbreakable mind link. Then they fall in love or something. This is dumb, thank you for coming to my TedTalk

Hey! Thank you so much for this request, it wasn't dumb at all. I really enjoyed writing this. I may have gotten a bit carried away, this may sit close to 4000 words but we vibe. I hope this is what you had in mind! Please enjoy! <3

Click here for my masterlist of other fics and check in my bio for requests if anyone wishes to ask!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky had been enjoying a moments peace, he loved working with Sam but sometimes all he wanted was to put his feet up, put on some vinyl and enjoy a good cup of coffee all while reading a brilliant book. He had been trying to get into Game of Thrones lately, on Sam’s insistence, and he had been enjoying it. With the crackles of Glenn Miller from the turntable he missed the clunky footsteps coming up the stairs.

The sight that greeted Sam needed to be photographed. Bucky was lounging back on his ‘old man armchair’ feet up, hair in a towel, in a bathrobe, coffee in hand and facemask on, this was definitely one for the family album.

At the sound of the phone shutter Bucky practically launched himself out of the chair.

“Oh, you are never gonna live this one down old boy, it’s going to haunt you.” Sam almost cackled evilly as he began to email the photo to himself- he had learnt the hard way that Bucky was very proficient at breaking phones.

“You better not upload that photo anywhere, Wilson, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Pfft, reputation, that’s funny.”

Bucky scoffed as he stood up, placing his book carefully on the side table, “Big scary super soldier, people hardly run-in fear from a guy in a bathrobe.”

“I disagree, a man in a bathrobe is definitely something you should run from. AH NOPE!” Sam jumped backwards, on top of a nearby chair, as Bucky lunged for the phone, towel turban falling off in the process. “You are not breaking this phone as well.”

“Fine. But you gotta promise not to post that anywhere.” Bucky huffed.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“As long as- “

“Oh no, I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Think of it as payment for the last phone you broke and insurance for this picture.”

There was silence for a moment as the two friends eyed each other up. Sam raised his eyebrows, Bucky’s eyes narrowed. It was an intense staring match between a guy in a bathrobe and a precariously balanced man. A clock ticked.

“Fine.” Bucky conceded. “What do you want?”

“For you to come to a meeting.”

“The families of Veterans ones?”

“Yeah.” Sam slowly started climbing down from the chair. “And before you get your old man pants in a twist, I’m not trying to force you to talk or anything, kinda.”

“Kinda?” Suspicion laced through Bucky’s voice.

“You know sign language, right?”

“Which kind?”

“American? I think?”

“Yeah, I know ASL, might be a bit rusty but I’m sure it still holds up. Why do you ask?”

Sam shifted slightly on his feet, “There’s this person, they come in every week and listen. I tried to talk to them, but they communicate through sign language, and I don’t have anyone there to talk with them.” He cast his eyes to the floor, “I feel bad. They were brave enough to come to the group only to basically be ignored ‘because we didn’t plan well enough.”

Bucky smiled, face mask crinkling around his smile lines, “You could have just asked me to Sam. You didn’t have to blackmail me into this, of course I’ll help. When’s the next meeting?”

“This evening. You gonna be ready or do you need some more ‘me’ time.”

Bucky simply chuckled at Sam’s teasing tone, patted his shoulder making sure to squeeze just a bit too hard before retreating to his room.

“I’ll be there, Wilson, and I will look so much younger than you!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was frustrating to you, going along to these meetings and not being able to communicate. You could always speak into someone’s mind but all that usually accomplished was a very paranoid person. But just listening to other’s stories really helped the grief from losing someone so close to you. You related to most of the people there and even though they didn’t understand you a lot of the time, you were always made to feel welcome- with friendly pats on the back and the odd tissue thrown your way.

You bustled into the familiar building with a new sense of excitement as Sam had promised to bring a translator for you this week. It was finally time to say your thanks to some of the people there and finally let the group know about your brother, so that it wasn’t only you that remembered him.

You all but ran through the hallways until you caught sight of a familiar smiling man. Sam was facing you, talking animatedly to another man, the strangers back was to you. He was tall, broad shouldered and dressed in a vintage looking leather jacket and rather well fitted trousers. Now the debate was: does the tailoring make the ass, or does the ass make the tailoring. You were halfway through the arguments on either side when Sam shouting your name disrupted the intense debating in your mind. You blushed at being caught, then blushed some more when you caught sight of the stranger’s face. Twinkling blue eyes under a deep-set brow should have made him intimidating, but he was smiling, and his face was dazzling. There was an immediate fluttering in your stomach.

“Hey, I’m Bucky.” Dear lord even his voice was nice, what made you smile even more was the fact that he signed as he spoke. Well, Sam certainly knew how to pick them well. “Sam introduced me; said you wanted an interpreter.”

You nodded as you signed back, “Nice to meet you, thank you for helping out.”

“No problem, Sam has told me a bit about you.”

“Good things I hope.”

“Okay I recognise my own name, you two better not be conspiring against me.” Sam piped up, to be honest you had forgotten about him for a moment.

Bucky laughed, and it sent a little thrill down you, he really was adorable.

“No worries, Wilson, just letting them know all your dirty little secrets.”

“Right, you two get in there, before you make me sleep with one eye open.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Bucky caught each other’s eye, his eyes were twinkling with mischief, and you couldn’t help the smile that overtook you. You had a feeling that the two of you would get on just fine.

The meeting passed easily. Bucky translated your signs and you finally felt like you could actually take part in these meetings. Everyone listened intently when you spoke of your brother and when you had thanked the whole group for being so open to you a couple of people shed a tear. By the end of the meeting though you were tired and very accepting of Bucky’s offer to walk you home.

It was a lot of side glances and hidden smiles and you walked side by side. Drawn to each other under the moonlit sky, it was nice to just be in the presence of someone who had such a kind aura. You spent the walk trying to work up the confidence to sign something, anything but nothing came to mind and Bucky seemed quite content to just walk in comfortable silence.

You soon reached your home, you turned to Bucky with a smile on your face and signed,

“Thanks for today, Bucky. You were really helpful.”

“No problem.” He signed back,

You hesitated slightly before signing, “Would you be happy to have a coffee with me, tomorrow?”

Bucky went a little red in the face, and chuckled, “I would love to, I know a nice place, real cosy. I’ll text you the details.”

“You know how to text?”

“Hey! I get enough stick from Sam, don’t need you getting on my case too. I’ll have you know that I am very adaptable.”

“Sure, Sure.” You smiled at his flustered tone. “I’ll wait for your text then, have a good evening.”

“You too.”

The two of you stared slightly awkwardly at each other, neither wanting to be the first to turn around. You shuffled your feet away slowing, smiling awkwardly once more at Bucky before turning. You heard his footsteps start to fade away as you walked towards your home. You were but three steps to the door when a large figure in a hoodie slammed into you, you raised your arms instinctively to block them when you noticed your shoulder was lighter. The bastard had stolen your bag.

You immediately took chase, chasing around the corner you just walked down but they were fast, faster then you at least. As you rounded the corner you caught sight of Bucky walking ahead. The thief wouldn’t stand a change against him. Without a second thought you cast your thoughts towards Bucky,

“Bucky! Thief! My Bag! Behind you!”

You saw Bucky flinch slightly then turn bewildered, his eyes widening when he saw you hurting towards him, chasing the hooded figure. He caught on and launched after the thief as well, with barely any effort he knocked the thief to the ground, grabbed your bag and whipped out his phone to call the cops.

Well, that was hot.

You took your bag back, immediately checking that you brother’s lucky coin was in the zippy pocket, to your relief it was still there. You looked up to see Bucky staring at you with a very puzzled look on his face. You sighed before casting your thoughts to his head once more,

“I’ll explain later.”

Bucky let out a strange, decompressed noise of shock, it made you giggle. The two of you waited in silence until the police came and took the thief away. The police car had barely driven away when he turned to you.

“Did you just, talk in my head? Or did my conscious just suddenly get really loud.”

“I did. Hi. Sorry about that.”

He waved his hands dismissively. “Believe it or not, not the weirdest thing I’ve encountered.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

There was an awkward silence.

“So,” You started, resorting back to sign language, it felt less invasive, “Still down for coffee?”

Bucky smiled, “One hundred percent. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Bye Bucky. Thanks for getting my bag back.”

“No problem, see ya.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The coffee shop that Bucky invited you to, was tucked away, it was the kind of place that you would stumble over on accident. With a simple door and a big window out the front, that lead soft orange light filter out onto the alley. There was the faint sound of jazz leaking out of the building, you smirked. It was such an old fashioned place, of course this was where Bucky frequented.

The bell tinkled slightly as you entered the café, where you were greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods. You caught sight of Bucky’s broad shoulders sitting in the corner, and you made your way over to him, smiling at the barista as you passed.

As if sensing you, Bucky turned to smile and wave. He was dressed in casual clothes like last time, but this time his hair was loose around his shoulders. You smiled back before settling into the seat opposite him.

His hands moved hesitantly as he signed, “What would you like? I can recommend their hot chocolate, its very warming/”

“Hot chocolate it is.”

You could tell he wanted to ask you a million questions but to his credit he walked slowly to get the drinks, he even took his time carefully carrying the tray of drinks back to your table. He placed a delicious looking hot chocolate in front of you. You watched as he took a sip.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1-

“So,” Here we go, “What is it you can do, you can speak in peoples’ heads, can you,” He lowered his voice and leaned in, “Can you read people’s minds?”

You giggled slightly, his eyes were basically sparkling, he was definitely nerding out about this.

You set the hot chocolate down before casting your thoughts to his head, “I can speak in peoples heads relatively easily, it’s how I talk most of the time to people I know. I guess you could call it Telepathy.”

Bucky’s eyes were as wide as saucers, “So you can’t read thoughts, only… speak them?”

“I like to call it casting, makes me feel like a sorcerer. I can read thoughts, but it takes a lot of energy. I used to be able to talk with my brother from across the house. That usually requires some kind of connection.”

“Oh, so like a blood or family connection? Do you have to know the person very well?”

“That certainly helps but it’s not always necessary. If I have a personal object that belongs to that person, something I can hold and connect to them it isn’t hard to make a two-way connection. Especially if that person is willing to open their mind.”

Bucky seemed to be caught in thought for a second. “So, if I were to give you something of mine, we could both talk in our… heads?”

“Well yes, but Bucky we have only just met. Letting me into your head is a lot. I try not to pry but sometimes I’ve found that thoughts just burst through. Let’s get to know each other a before that happens.”

Bucky smiled at you before speaking and signing, “You’re right. Let’s get to know one another. I find you fascinating.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It happened on the fifth date. Bucky was just walking you home after a lovely dinner at a small Italian that he claimed he went to back in the 40s. Just outside your door, under the glow of a lamppost he turned to you and took a deep breath before speaking.

“I know this may be a lot, but I wanted to give you these.” He reached around his neck and pulled off something silver. You gasped slightly as he held out his dog tags, immaculately preserved after all these years.

“Are you sure, Bucky? This is a lot.”

“I know and if you aren’t comfortable with it then just let me know but I want to give them to you.”

“You know what this means Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know, I just figured that you’re already in my head all the time anyways, just can’t seem to get you out of it.”

“You cheeseball.” You smirked at him before taking the dog tags and placing them around your neck. You gripped the cold metal for a moment, concentrating on the man in front of you. Taking everything, you knew about him and stretching out a connection, like a hand reaching out to clasp another.

“Testing, Testing, Testing, one two, one two, can my Telepathic partner hear me?”

You laughed, “Yes I can Bucky, you big dork.”

Bucky whooped out loud before sweeping you up in a big hug. The two of you laughing under the lamp light. His joy was infectious, and you couldn’t fight the smile off your face.

“Oh, we are going to have so much fun messing with Sam.”

“You’re evil.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, the two of you made a pact not to tell Sam until he worked it out, which wouldn’t be anytime soon according to Bucky. It led to some very memorable moments and Sam refusing to play any form of card or board game with either of you because you always managed to win, somehow. Not to mention all the times you had spoken in eery unison around him.

“I swear, its like you two can read each other’s minds sometimes.” Sam threw his hands up in frustration at another lost game of charades.

You smirked at Bucky across the room, “Should you tell him, or shall I?”

“I think he’s been through enough, I got it.”

Bucky cleared his throat, “We can.”

Sam whipped around to face Bucky, a look of sheer disbelief on his face, “Seriously Bucky-boy, if you think I believe that after all-

“Hello Sam.” You cast your thoughts to him, in the creepiest old lady voice you could muster.

Sam yelped, before turning accusingly at you, “You better be joking around with me right now, I am not dealing with any kind of ghosts in this house.”

“Sorry! Surprise I’m telepathic!”

“You’re serious.”

You nodded.

Sam put his head in his hands and sighed, “Not the weirdest thing ever. Wait, does this mean you have been cheating this entire time.”

You both looked guiltily at one another.

“You owe me. That poker night, void.”

You both laughed, “We’ll have a fair rematch this time Sam.”

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It had been close to a year since you had made it official with Bucky and you were now much more comfortable around one another. He no longer just dropped you off at the lamppost but cam inside with you. You had spent many lovely mornings together sharing glances over steaming cups of coffee. Fighting each other for who got to spread their legs out on the couch, there wasn’t really a loser though as it usually ended up in sofa cuddles for both of you, while watching a film.

Life was pretty great, you thought, as you smiled down at the sleeping Bucky beside you. Finally reaching over to turn off the lamp and put your book down, you were finally reading the hobbit at Bucky’s insistence. As you clicked off the light beside you and settled down you noticed the faster than usual breathing coming from beside you.

“Bucky?”

You reached out, thinking he was awake but instead as you opened up your connection you caught flashes of night terrors. You were falling indefinitely, snow all around you, and in the distance, there were cries of pain, people pleading for their lives, there was gunfire and explosions. You gasped and took off the dog tags. You only gave yourself a moment to breathe before trying to shake Bucky awake. When it became clear that he wasn’t stirring you steadied yourself and settled your hands on his temples. You didn’t care you tired this would make you, you just wanted Bucky to stop suffering. You focused, offering out that hand of connection again, this time picturing it in the shape of a fist and, although it wasn’t subtle, you tried to shake Bucky’s brain awake. You forced your way into his dreams, punching through the dark fog that clouded his thoughts and almost screamed at him.

“Bucky! Bucky wake up! You’re dreaming my dear!”

Bucky woke up with a start. Tears flowing down his face, he stared at you blue eyes shining. No one spoke as he pulled you into his arms. You just breathed together for a moment, counting the breaths and the spaces in between. When he finally pulled back, you saw his eyes flicker with concern before lifting a hand to gently wipe under your nose, it came back red with blood.

“You, okay?”

You smiled sadly, reaching out to put the dog tags back on.

“I should be asking you that.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

“Occupational hazard.” You tried to subtly get rid of any of the extra blood. “That was pretty intense. Wanna talk?”

Bucky looked down to the sheets and shook his head. You smiled at him, tilting his head to yours.

“That’s fine, want me to go? Or would you like to cuddle for a bit?”

Bucky didn’t talk again, just pulled you gently down to the bed once more. Snuggling himself under your chin, resting his head on your chest. You felt his arms draw tightly against your waist. You pressed your lips into his hair.

“May I help you go to sleep? Keep the bad thoughts at bay for at least one night.”

You felt Bucky nod and let out a little sleepy hum of agreement. You closed your eyes, focused on your connection setting up a golden wall against the dark fog at the corners of his mind and settled into a deep sleep.

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You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the clinking of cups.

“Morning.” You opened your eyes at Bucky’s voice and took the offered cup greedily. Your mind still felt hazy from the energy you used last night.

You felt the bed dip beside you as Bucky sat and sipped at his cup as well, hair a bit of a mess from bed. He had evidently only just woken up as well.

He took a breath, “I had some pretty interesting dreams, sweetheart.”

You stiffened, “Good ones I hope.”

“Don’t worry, they were good. If a little strange.”

“Strange?”

“I was watching myself most of the time.”

You snorted into the coffee, “Sounds creepy”

There was a slight chuckle, “Nah, I was watching myself build a home, a family- “

“Oh God Bucky.” You snapped your eyes to his, you knew what had happened. “I am so sorry my dreams must have stuck in your head.”

“Those were your dreams?”

“Yeah, its only happened once before but when the connection between two people is very strong, it can happen- I call it bleeding. Perhaps we should- “

“If the next words out of your mouth are take a break, I will spill your coffee.” You clutched your cup closer to your chest, “Truthfully, those were some of the beset dreams I have every had. I really loved them.”

You looked back up at him, hesitantly “You did?”

“And I love you.”

“Huh

There was silence as you stared at him in shock. His face as nothing but adoration as the sunlight filtered over his face.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too.”

Coffee cups were cast aside as you both collided. Giggling and joking, radiating happiness as the two of you shared the sweetest kiss. Your feelings merging together, amplifying one another until they shone brighter than the sun.

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perhaps-in-anotherdream · 3 years

Text

[CN] Victor’s Caresses of Light Date (Eng Translation)

⌚Warning⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 拂光之约, that is yet to be released in the global server! ♡

[Translation under the cut]

—

✧ [SECTION 1] ✧

??: No matter how precious the auction item is, we have to take a look at it before bidding on it, isn’t that so?

??: With the numbers of Angels being so meagre now, who’s there to verify whether you’re lying to us or not?

??: Lift up the curtains. Let us inspect the item first!

Auctioneer: Quiet! All quiet!

Amid the tidal wave of uproars off the stage, the Demon auctioneer lifts up the curtains with reluctance.

Instinctively, I duck into the deepest corner of the cage, using my wings to shelter my shivering body as much as possible.

The ice-cold chains are dragged against the friction of the floor, producing an oppressive noise.

Although blindfolded and am unable to see anything, but from the Demons suddenly holding their breath, I can very clearly imagine the somewhat hunting curiosity and greed in the gazes of the audience.

Reminiscent of the war back then, just like the expression revealing in their gazes when they hunted down the other Angels....

Auctioneer: The display ends here. The bidding begins! The starting price for the extremely rare Angel is Hundred Thousand gold coins!

As though in response, the curtains fall, secluding those slimy eyes and the lights that were swimming over my body.

The iron cage moves slowly amid the noise, the sudden sound of flared up bids falling behind my ears. I squeeze the bars tightly, feeling myself being carried back to the room backstage.

The muffled sound of the door lock landing resounds from afar, and my surrounding immediately sinks into silence. I rest my head against a coarse corner, breathing out softly.

I know that the next person entering through the door would be the most ostentatious customer of this round, and all I have to do is waiting patiently.

Not long after, a distant noise approaching the door can be heard.

In addition to the familiar and small steps of the auctioneer, there’s also the accompanying sound of an unfamiliar footstep. That sound is neither too fast nor too slow, but I hold my breath unconsciously.

I bury my head in between my knees in feigned terror, my body tensing up in alarm as I carefully discern every word of the conversation.

Auctioneer: Congratulations! As you also know, after the war was lost at that time, the Angels all around were hunted by us.

Auctioneer: In addition, in the recent years, we have also conquered the realms. These beautiful little things are becoming increasingly rare. This one that we have caught right now, indeed cost a fortune of labor....

The customer hasn’t spoken all along. But from the flattering tone of the auctioneer’s voice, it’s not difficult to surmise that this individual is a big shot.

My heart stirs. I quickly muster up a timid expression, pretending to lean halfway against the corner of the wall in a feeble manner.

The door opens and closes accompanied by a creaking sound. Amid the quietude, a pair of hands lift up the ribbon that was blindfolded over my eyes.

The man looks down at me for a moment in silence. Then, he hands over a handkerchief to me, hinting for me to wipe away the tears that have gushed out when I made eye contact with him.

I delicately take the handkerchief, quietly drawing in a deep breath.

It’s him. Victor— the Demon who rules this realm.

In the Demon Kingdom where strength is advocated, he is the most celebrated force, as well as the most mysterious existence. No one knows his background.

Being equally renowned as the iron blooded wrist, it’s his passion to “collect” different clans.

Rumor has it that, each and every one of the different clans that has appeared at the auction, all of them, without any exception, have been taken up by him for large sums of money.

It’s just that, after those different clans were taken up by him, they have never appeared in the Demon Kingdom again. No one knows if they have been locked up, or if they have straight been written off....

The timidity is transient, which is then actually immediately supplanted by the secret delight of having the prey walk right into the trap.

I didn’t expect that to my surprise, it’d be this big fish to take the bait. It truly is an unexpected pleasure being delivered to the door.

I drop my gaze back onto that only slender hand in front of me, gently tugging at his sleeve.

MC: Master, my foot hurts....

I lift my leg slightly, revealing a pale, delicate ankle from beneath the tattered hem of my skirt.

The areas that have been shackled by the chains have worn a slight red tinge, akin to some kind of secret marks.

As Victor lowers his gaze to look at me, I take advantage of the opportunity to firmly cling onto his hand that he was about to draw away, looking up at him with eyes welling up in tears.

MC: Could you unlock my fetters? Even if it’s only for ten minutes, that’d be fine....

My quiet, feeble sobs reverberate in the room. That hand, which has been moistened by my tear drops is manually moved, indifferently shaking off the palm of my hand.

MC: ....Master!

My heart thuds all of a sudden, thinking that I’ve run into a piece of hard nut to crack. Until, Victor suddenly leans down, directly squeezing my ankle with his well-defined hand.

Victor: If you still have any other requests, take this opportunity to state them now.

MC: N-nothing more.... Thank you!

Victor: Thanks?

Victor: Being able to say such things to a Demon, you indeed go beyond my expectations.

Accompanied by this sentence of taunting, the hand holding my ankle squeezes slightly harder. I bite my lips a little, watching as the key is inserted inside the keyhole, rotating half a circle unhurriedly.

The moment the ‘clunk’ hits my eardrums, I promptly lift my leg, throwing the chains to the side, and stomp on the ground at lightning speed.

A complicated magic spell suddenly flashes, surging towards Victor as it surrounds his body. Separated by the curtain of light, he merely shoots me a glance with an indifferent expression.

MC: Taking the bait so easily. You are beyond my expectations, too.

I wipe away my tears which haven’t yet dried up– with confidence and ease, and slightly raise a hand. Soon after, the ice-cold chains wrap around Victor’s wrists and ankles, heavily pushing him backwards into the chair.

I take two steps forward, prop myself up on the back of the chair, and lift his chin up with my fingertips.

MC: From now on, answer my questions honestly.

MC: The “Honorable” Demon Lord.

—

✧ [SECTION 2] ✧

MC: How many subordinates did you bring along?

Victor: Only myself.

MC: Do these group of Demons know when you’re leaving?

Victor: They don’t have the qualifications to ask.

MC: For a major financial backer like you, there are channels dedicated exclusively to you to enter or exit, am I correct?

Victor: Mm.

MC: Then you—

Victor: You really ask too many questions.

For a moment, I feel somewhat annoyed being choked by this surprising sentence. But a reply of this sort really did make me feel a lot at ease.

I clear my throat, lifting his chin even higher.

MC: You—

Victor: You actually are very bold.

Victor interrupts me once again.

Obviously he is behind bars, but the lights in his eyes still carry within them the unique calmness of someone in control. This makes me even more irritated, and I lower my voice bitterly.

MC: Do you think I want to be in a place like this! Wasn’t it your Demons who have done the good work!

MC: After the war, we were forced to wander around, looking everywhere for a place to stay.

MC: Even so, you still had to kill the last one of us, and to add to that, even the Chief Archangel has—

....has disappeared inexplicably.

I stop talking promptly, but my heart sinks a little.

Although I’ve never seen the Chief Archangel with my own eyes, but I’ve heard many legends about him.

He, alone, protected the orders of peace times in Heaven, and led the legion of Angels to confront their enemies in the moments of approaching crises.

If it weren’t for a Demon taking advantage of the opportunity to enter and stealing the Seed of Hope, we must have won by a landslide under his leadership.

I lean down closer to Victor’s face, and lower my voice very fiercely.

MC: Tell me honestly, was our Chief Archangel taken away by you—

Knock, knock, knock— the sound of abrupt knocking on the door interrupts my questioning.

I’m in a state of shock, and am just about to warn Victor to not speak. Suddenly, I’m held by the waist, and am brought into a warm embrace.

MC: You?!

When did he break free!

I hastily try to get up, but Victor’s hand, which was faintly clasped around my waist, suddenly exerts strength.

Victor: [sexy whispering] Don’t move.

In the next second, someone sticks his head inside as he looks around, and pushes the door open.

Auctioneer: I forgot to tell you, trying to bring the Angels under control requires getting ahold on their sensitive areas, just on—

[ T/N: Don’t look at me LOL. I tried to make it sound as less suggestive as possible while preserving the original text ⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄ & You’ll understand what he meant in the following part. ]

Seeing my ambiguous posture of lying on top of Victor’s body, the auctioneer is visibly frozen.

Victor: Who let you come in now? Leave.

Victor opens his mouth with displeasure, his cold fingertips slowly caressing along my wing.

The subtle touch is akin to an electric current, rapidly coursing through the ends of my nerves. My scalps tingle, and my hand bracing against his chest can’t help but soften either.

Embarrassed, I instantly bury my face in Victor’s arms. In this moment, I suddenly smell the elegant fragrance of flowers.

It’s the scent of silver-colored plume flowers.

But isn’t that a plant which only grows in the realm of light? How can a Demon’s body possibly....

At this moment, the auctioneer at the other end withdraws his gaze from Victor’s fingers as they gently caress and stroke the roots of my wing, displays an expression of looking at the connoisseur, and leaves after apologizing repeatedly.

Silence finally returns in the large room, but the train of my thoughts are clusters of a tangled mess.

MC: [confused] Why.... silver-colored plume flower....

Victor raises a hand to brush off the feathers landing on my hairs as he slightly arches an eyebrow.

Victor: [more sexy whispering] How much longer do you want to lie down like this?

MC: ....I was just about to get up!

Reluctant to admit, I hurriedly get up on my hands and knees, while catching a very faint, soft sneer at my ear.

Victor: Your ability of perception is fairly sharp.

Victor: But you burst into the Demon Kingdom like this, just for the purpose of wanting to ask around about my whereabouts?

MC: [confused] Your whereabouts?

I’m rendered speechless for a moment, my eyes widening with incredulity as I turn around.

MC: YOU ARE THE CHIEF ARCH.... ANGEL?

My astonished eyes reflect the images of Victor’s slightly curled lips, and the sudden unfolding of a silvery white pair of wings behind him.

The splendor, akin to being illuminated by the moonlight is unique only to the highly Angels blessed by the God, and there’s no possibility of false pretense.

....Victor is the Chief Archangel? And I actually chained the Chief Archangel, even lifted his chin viciously and spoke in an unpleasant manner!

[ T/N: PG really be like, nope Victor can’t be just the Archangel, he deserves to be the Chief of them LOL~ 👑 ]

Victor: Do you still need any other proof?

MC: N-no need! It’s all a misunderstanding!

Remorsefully, I unlock the chains and nervously stand up straight as though welcoming an inspection.

MC: Lord Chief Archangel, I- I’m MC, a lower Angel. I’ve been continuously searching for you and the whereabouts of the Seed of Hope ever since I was forced into exile....

MC: From my days in the Heaven, the objective of my great efforts has been you all along.... I admire you very much!

MC: I want to stay by your side, and contribute in rejuvenating the force of the realms of the Heaven!

Victor: There’s no need for that.

Victor: All the exiled clans have been kept in a safe stronghold, and I will arrange for you to leave as soon as possible.

Victor: Being able to infiltrate into the Demon Kingdom and setting up traps, you are courageous.

Victor: But this is not an ideal place for an Angel to stay.

Victor leans halfway back into the armchair, watching me with the gaze of remaining calm and unruffled in the midst of chaos. Feeling somewhat anxious for a while, I flap my wings twice restlessly.

MC: If it’s because of the offense I caused you just now, I can....

Victor: I won’t get offended because of that sort of naïve cause.

Victor: But, neither will I keep around an Angel who couldn’t even draw a magic spell properly.

Victor calmly refuses. As he speaks, he withdraws his wings, stands up and walks towards the door unhurriedly.

MC: ....I’ve gotten perfect scores in every one of my previous spell tests! I won’t hold you back.

I trot and follow behind Victor as I speak, but he doesn’t slow down his pace in the slightest.

Watching his unfazed figure from behind, I get in over my head, and raise my hand to tie Victor’s ankles with a chain once again.

Victor: ....

Taking advantage of the opportunity in the slight pause of his footsteps, I rapidly stop in front of him as I speak in a razor sharp speed.

MC: The safe stronghold that you talked about is an island floating in the air, yes?

MC: There’s a very mild trace of sandalwood in the scent of silver-colored plume flowers in your body, a scent which can’t be found in the ordinary realms of light.

Victor raises his eyebrows engrossingly, as though waiting for me to continue speaking.

MC: I have the gift of perception, and am able to distinguish the tiny nuances of anything.

MC: When I was in the Heaven before, I used to use my ability to help my companions in finding their lost items.

MC: So if a Demon comes in contact with the Seed of Hope, I’ll be able to sense it immediately and lock the target!

MC: And....

Before the words are out of my mouth, there’s a sudden chill sneaking onto my wrists. The chain around Victor’s ankles quietly handcuffs me, as a deep and calm voice resounds from overhead.

Victor: There’s no position for a nuisance at my side. If you want to stay, you’ve to learn the arts of self-defenses in the Demon Kingdom first.

Victor: In a month’s time, let me take a look at how far you’re able to grow.

—

✧ [SECTION 3] ✧

MC: [reading to herself] Demon Xi-Ze-Er, takes pleasure in tormenting other clans, ability.... is concealment!

After finishing memorizing the last page, I bury my head into the mountain of notes, exhaling heavily.

Since that day I’ve been brought back to his residence by Victor, I’ve begun to frantically memorize the information I need to survive in the Demon Kingdom.

Memorizing the connections of the networks of the Archdemon, practicing the spells to disguise one’s identity, and remembering the correct poisonous substances that have the attribute to suppress an Angel....

Even if I long since had the expectations in my mind, these aren’t easy to digest at all.

MC: Better go thoroughly over it again.... if I go to Victor now, I’ll only be ridiculed at, right?

I release a low sigh, and recall the scenario from a few days ago– when I went to look for him with absolute confidence to get inspected and accepted by him.

═══ FLASHBACK STARTS ═══

Victor: E-li-sen’s poisonous mud is produced in the deepest swamps of Hell. Once an Angel touches it, their body will suffer contamination, their wings will turn black, and they won’t be able to return to the Heaven again.

Victor closes the notes, and looks at me with a cold expression as I’ve gotten stuck.

MC: It went really smoothly when I recited by myself earlier....

Victor: When danger approaches, it won’t give you the time to recollect.

Victor: If this is your standard, you can leave and go to the floating island now.

Victor: I’m not going to waste any more time for a dummy.

═══ FLASHBACK ENDS ═══

I take a deep breath, and reopen the book in front of me.

The knowledge that needs to be mastered is as vast as the open sea. I keep writing and drawing on the notes as I recite, staying up throughout the whole night without even realizing it.

I don’t know how long has passed, but finally I’m unable to brace myself any longer, and fall asleep on the desk while holding the pen in my hand.

Through my hazy consciousness, the sound of pages being turned resonates in my ears. I open my eyes wide in a daze, and see Victor standing in front of my desk, flipping through my notes.

MC: Oh it’s you....

I murmur in repetition through my sleepy state, and close my eyes peacefully. For a while, the only sound that can be heard in the silence of the room is the burning of the candle flames.

After a long time, Victor suddenly speaks.

Victor: You insisted on wanting to stay. Are you regretting it now?

MC: ....I don’t regret it, just a little bit tired. Still, in comparison to the pressure on your shoulders, this doesn’t seem like anything....

What kind of pressure one needs to face by disguising their identity and mediate among the Demons– even if Victor never speaks of it, I can also feel it being by his side.

When I’d be tossing about in the bed, being unable to sleep because of my anxiety, his window would also– always be lit up all night long.

I bury my head in my arms, and whisper.

MC: I know that I still have to work very hard to meet your requirements. But sometimes, I wish that you’d encourage me for a bit too....

Victor: Someone who has blown up the study several times in a row, still needs my encouragement to go on?

There’s an almost unnoticeable hint of teasing in his voice. Victor leans over, and pulls up the velvet blanket that was almost slipping off my shoulders.

I rub against the velvet blanket longingly, stretching out my voice wearily.

MC: [talking in sleep] If you’re willing to take me through the practice, I’ll learn very quickly....

MC: [still talking in sleep] Those high-level spells are really difficult for me to practice on my own....

The ending syllables of my words melt into the quietness of the night as my voice trails off. Half-asleep, I seem to hear an extremely soft sigh.

When I open my eyes again, the candle on the table has already burnt to its limit, and I’m the only one left in the room by myself.

MC: ....he probably has gone to rest, right?

Clutching the velvet blanket with the still lingering warmth in my arms, I close the door to the study somewhat forlornly. When I turn around and see the figure in the hall, my eyes widen slightly.

MC: Victor? Why are you still here?

Victor: Didn’t you say that you want me to accompany you in practicing?

Seeing that I’m still rooted to the spot, Victor slightly arches an eyebrow, and lifts his leg to leave.

I freeze for a few seconds. Then, I rush towards Victor’s side at lightning speed, and tightly latch onto his arm– fearing that he might regret it.

MC: ....hold on! Then let’s start with the binding spell first!

As I speak, I draw down the spell which I’ve practiced for ages on my papers, and raise my head to look at Victor with heart filled in anticipation, as I wait for his feedback.

Victor: Not enough according to the criterion.

Victor mercilessly comments point-by-point, as he taps on my “masterpiece” with his fingertips.

MC: Why can’t I make out the difference....

I stare at the circle of spell in confusion as I keep pondering, until a wave of warm breath transmits from behind me.

Victor leans over and clasps my wrist, guiding me through drawing the outline of the circle of spell again.

Victor: You’ve already made the same mistake backstage at the auction.

His calm voice resounds in my ears, seeming as though there isn’t anything that’d ever bother him.

But for me, it seems as though a stone has been thrown into the lake of my heart, suddenly stirring up chaos.

Victor: Only in this way, you’ll be able to get the most effectiveness out of the magic spell.

After finishing the last stroke, Victor lets go of my hand very quickly, and looks at me with the appearance of being calm and unruffled amid the chaos.

A few more traces of misty hues sneak into the tranquil ambience. My heart beats blazingly fast, wanting to say something to break this layer of quietude.

MC: Did the Chief Archangel teach the lower Angels to practice in this way?

MC: You seem to be very experienced....

It’s only when the words come out of my mouth, does it feel somewhat ambiguous that’s hard to comprehend.

MC: I mean, you’re extraordinarily skilled in demonstrating!

Victor looks at me quietly, a trace of tenderness streaking across the surface of his pitch-black eyes.

Victor: I’ve only ever taught a dummy in this way.

—

Originally, I thought Victor simply did it as a spur-of-the-moment thing. But from that day onwards, to my surprise, he truly took out time every day to accompany me in practicing.

Maneuvering the spells more and more smoothly, continuously improving the skill of disguising oneself.... the originally thorny targets were being overcome one by one.

On the last day of January, I block Victor’s path in front of the door to his bedroom with hundred percent confidence, and repeat the whole text in one breath.

Victor: Fairly smooth.

MC: Lord Chief Archangel, did my performance meet the required standards?

He looks down at my arms blocking the door to his bedroom, a hint of something more than a helpless smile within his eyes.

Victor: [soft sigh] You knowingly ask the question.

Victor: Be prepared. Tonight is the time for you to go on the stage.

MC: Tonight?

I gaze at Victor with some restlessness.

MC: Wouldn’t it be a bit too soon? I’ve only just passed the assessment....

Victor: Your usual performance has also been taken under consideration. I don’t think any problem will arise with the person I’ve chosen.

Victor: Tonight is a rare juncture for the Demons to gather. All you need to do is being present at the scene, and sense who has the scent of Seed of Hope on them.

MC: ....then, we take advantage of the time lapse when the Demon is attracted by the treasures, enter his territory, and retrieve the Seed of Hope.

Understanding tacitly, I complete his sentence as my hand clenches nervously.

The day I’ve been waiting for so long is approaching. Inevitably, as I’m looking forward to it, I’m a little agitated as well.

Victor: Negative emotions won’t help in resolving the problem in any way.

As Victor speaks, his slender hand covers my clenched fist irresistibly, compelling me to loosen my grip slightly, and exposing the red scars on the palm of my hand due to the digging of my fingernails.

Victor: Since you’re having a moment of uneasiness, how about going out for a walk?

Victor leads me up to the upper floor of the tower, as we overlook at the boundless night without any stars or the moon.

The warmth emanating from the palm of his hand makes the tips of my ears flush unconsciously. I pretend to cough naturally a few times, and my shoulders suddenly feel heavy....

The overcoat, still carrying his temperature, is draped over my body, reminiscent of being drawn into an embrace which emits the fragrance of the silver-colored plume flowers.

I bury my somewhat burning hot face in the collar, look down at the boundless darkness beneath our feet, and speak in a low voice.

MC: I wish to make sure that the operation later on will go without a hitch.

MC: I’ve been waiting for this day for quite a while.... since the day I’ve been forced into exile, I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to rejuvenate the realms of the Heaven.

MC: I always miss the days there. The azure blue sky, the ever-warm sunlight....

My voice gradually becomes a little astringent, and the unspoken words are being quietly tucked away in the depths of my heart.

If only I could meet you at that time, it’d must have been really wonderful.

Everything sinks into silence. After a long time, I hear Victor speak.

Victor: Don’t worry. It’ll surely go without a hitch.

Victor: I promise you, I will bring back your past life for you.

I raise my head to look at the side of Victor’s face. His eyes, laced with a serene expression, are fixed on me.... a gaze that seems to contain unspeakable emotions.

The evening breeze brushing over the tower is still penetrating cold. In my heart, however, there is a warm current that has quietly surged in.

Being with this man, even if surrounded by darkness and dangers, I’ve never felt afraid or bewildered.

—

✧ [SECTION 4] ✧

This evening, the Demons really all arrived as scheduled.

The dim lights shine upon as the music drifts from inside the hall. After confirming that my disguise is perfect, I silently infiltrate into the hall.

MC: [talking to herself] Not him.... not this one....

Lifting my skirt with a hand, I keep wandering around in the hall. Suddenly, I sense a warm fragrance, as though a seed has been sprung up to life.

MC: [talking to herself] It’s the Seed of Hope!

Restraining the emotions stirring up in my heart, I follow after that scent, slowly approaching the terrace.

The night breeze stirs the heavy curtain, revealing the scenery of a corner on the terrace. Through the intermittently visible slits, I see a face that I’ve seen in the notes.

Demon Xi-Ze-Er. It’s him whose body is tainted with the scent of the Seed of Hope!

I restrain the anger in my heart, and want to tell Victor immediately. But Xi-Ze-Er, who’s been originally concentrating on tasting his wine, suddenly raises his head and slightly squints his eyes towards my direction.

With my heart beating like a drum, I draw two steps backwards frenetically. Someone suddenly pushes me inside the scarlet curtain.

In the next second, Xi-Ze-Er’s displeased voice emerges from outside the curtain.

Xi-Ze-Er: You summoned us in the name of sharing treasures, but are unwilling to let a suspicious servant show her face?

I press my back against the slightly cool wall, and stare blankly as Xi-Ze-Er’s hand strikes the posture of lifting up a corner of the curtain.

Just as a thin gap has been exposed, his hand is unable of moving anymore, not even in the slightest.

Victor: [sounds like he’s gonna kill you dead] You don’t have the qualifications to overstep the boundaries.

Victor: [still sounds like he’s gonna kill you dead] Inside the curtain, is the most precious “collection” I’ve ever had in my life.

Victor: [continuation of wanting to kill you dead, but 2.0] I will not allow anyone to cherish the delusions of being able to encroach upon.

I’m unable to see Victor’s face. I can only hear his still cold and arrogant voice, as my heart suddenly skips a beat.

This soft and fragile layer of curtain before my eyes, now seems like the most impenetrable armor in the world.

Xi-Ze-Er shouts a few words, seemingly still resentful, but with much less vigor. In the next moment, the sudden crisp sound resonating from every corner of the hall grows denser and denser.

Accompanied by the sound of a heavy object thudding on the floor, the wooden chest embellished with gold bells is opened. The dazzling radiance of the treasures light up the dimly lit hall, attracting the attention of everyone all around like a magnet.

Facing the gazes of the greedy Demons, Victor raises his wine glass.

Victor: Thanks to everyone who has previously sent their interracial “collections.”

Victor: As a token of gratitude, I’ll share these riches with you all.

There’s a moment of silence inside the hall, which is then soon followed by the eruption of ear-piercing clamors from the scrambling.

Amid this upheaval, Victor brushes the curtain aside, and beyond any doubt, he clasps my wrist.

Victor: Xi-Ze-Er’s territory is in the deepest part of the Forest of Mist.

Victor: The time we’ve bought is limited, we must leave now.

—

Leaving the clamors behind, we quickly head towards the Forest of Mist. The dull gray fog before us, is as thick and dense as a solid substance, and laced with the faint smell of blood.

After only a few steps forward, I vaguely feel some difficulty in breathing, let alone being able to see the road ahead clearly.

MC: The discomfort caused by this thick fog is simply an illusion. Not long after, it will disappear, and one will be able to see the direction clearly through the tears....

MC: I remember this paragraph very well.

I wipe the corners of my eyes as I sob. Then, the teardrops that were about to fall down, I smear them onto Victor’s long eyelashes with my fingertips– gently and cautiously.

It looks as though the delicate, long needle shaped leaves of the pine tree are being stained with fragile snows as they’ve been melted. Victor is slightly startled, his pitch-black eyes looking at me through the glistening teardrops.

MC: You don’t seem like someone who can cry at any time. So, I’m helping you this time.

MC: You owe me a teardrop, don’t forget.

Victor looks at me with downcast eyes, the corners of his lips suddenly curling up in a smile.

Victor: Have you ever thought that only one person is enough to lead the way?

MC: ....

I’m rendered speechless for a moment, but my reaction comes over pretty soon, as the tips of my ears turn bright red rapidly.

Victor slightly raises his eyebrows, laces his hand together with mine even tighter, and turns to enter into the depths of that dense fog.

—

There’s a slight crisp noise from the fragments of leaves beneath our feet. We arrive in front of the tower very soon, and follow along the spiral staircase with numerous and complicated steps, finally arriving at the apex.

But upon clearly seeing the scenery before our eyes, I remain frozen in place for a while.

Amid the deathly stillness of the spacious, empty space, a cloud of strangely colored mud is constantly rolling over and over in the air, within which the faint smell of Seed of Hope is passing through.

I anxiously stare at that cloud of mud for a few seconds. Then, akin to igniting a flint, I suddenly think of something.

MC: E-li-sen’s poisonous mud.... I’ve an impression of it! The countermeasures, the countermeasures are....

Victor: The countermeasures haven’t been discovered yet.

I vaguely realize what’s going on, and look up violently, my pupils reflecting Victor’s slender hand.

When we first met, this hand had once handed me a handkerchief and asked me to wipe away my false tears; this hand had once also softly tapped on the pages of my notes because of my slow reactions.

And now, it passed through in front of me, reaching into the mud– calmly and unwaveringly.

MC: VICTOR! DON’T!

My fingertips brush against his cuffs, but to no avail, and I can’t stop the chills running down my whole body.

Victor: [smiles through the pain] This wasn’t recorded in your notes, and it’s not a negligence on your part.

Victor: [keeps smiling through the pain] Remember it’s appearance clearly. This is the only poison that can cause irreversible harm to the Angels.

Victor: [the context of this smile pretty much sent a stab through my heart] This is the last time that I’ll be teaching you.

Victor turns his head to the side as he gazes at me. Within his eyes, I see a cloud of imperceptible softness.

With these words, he extracts the Seed of Hope from the mud. As though the sun has broken free from the dark clouds, the dazzling, brilliant rays instantly illuminate the entire tower.

Countless specks of light condense into a golden wave of air in his palm, breezing into the dark wilderness being tossed about by the wind. Standing by the window, Victor’s figure is also being coated with the soft glow of twilight.

But those pair of wings that once exuded the radiation akin to moonlit slivery glow, have started to become tainted from the roots of the feathers– one by one, as though they’re dragging him into the boundless darkness.

Victor: [sharply gasps in pain] ....

Accompanied by an almost inaudible gasp, Victor finally loses his strength and props himself up on the rough wall with one hand, his wings trembling slightly.

A drop of ice-cold sweat drips down his jaw, silently and heavily– landing onto the back of my shivering hand.

I stand on my tiptoes, trying my hardest to hold up his body, as my voice shakes uncontrollably.

MC: Victor, hold on, there must still be some other ways....

Victor: [sharply gasps in pain] MC.

A very soft sigh resonates in my ears. Victor quietly calls out my name.

Victor: I’m very clear on what price I’d have to pay for touching that poisonous mud.

Victor: This is my responsibility as the Chief Archangel.

With these words, a wave of tremor runs beneath our feet, and this seemingly indestructible tower starts collapsing with loud rumbles.

Victor covers my eyes with a timid hand.

[ T/N: VICTOR’S S2 BGM STARTS PLAYING.... OF COURSE IT DOES~ ಥ_ಥ ]

Victor: Close your eyes.

Subconsciously, I do as I’m being told, and am immediately brought into a warm embrace. Accompanied by the sound of glasses shattering, Victor spreads his wings and flies me out of the tower.

The moment the cool breeze brushes lightly over my face, I can’t help but open my eyes.

Looking behind Victor, I see the sky enshrouded in black clouds steadily revealing its original azure blue color, and the formerly lifeless fields are also increasingly showing signs of vitality.

Everything in the world is gradually bathed in light.

Except for.... Victor’s pitch-black wings.

....now, he is already unable of returning to the Heaven.

The sight before my eyes becomes blurry and scalding. A pair of hands gently caress my cheeks– with caution and tenderness.

Victor: I said that I’d bring back your past life for you.

His voice resounds very softly.

Victor: The world will gradually return to the light.

Victor: As for the Angels living temporarily in the floating island, I’ll arrange for them to return to the Heaven as well.

Victor: So, if you want to leave....

MC: I don’t! I’m not going anywhere.

I react instantly, and interrupt him.

MC: It’s impossible for the contents of the Heavenly notes to cover everything. There are always places in the world which haven’t been explored by the predecessors yet.

MC: Your wings have turned black on my behalf. I will stay with you until I find the antidote.

Victor: What happens after you find it?

Victor gazes deeply into my eyes as he suddenly speaks.

Victor: Would you be leaving then?

MC: [blushing] ....I would not.

The moment I blurt out the words buried in my heart, my face involuntarily turns scalding. But, I still stubbornly clutch onto the corner of my dress with my hand, and continue speaking.

MC: [blushing] Heaven, Demon Kingdom, island floating in the air, or other nooks and crannies of the world....

MC: [blushing] No matter where you go, I’ve always wanted to be together with you.

My unfinished words end in Victor’s arms, as he leans over to pull me into his embrace, which is more scorching and more intimate than any other contacts we’ve had before.

It’s so close that I can clearly hear the steady and forceful beating of his heart in his chest.

His dull and warm breath brushes lightly against my ears.

Victor: ....dummy.

Victor: Then stay with me forever.

I bury my head in the crook of his arm, and nod vigorously. Craning my head to the side, I see our pitch-black and pure white wings leaning on each other.

The feathers floating down are akin to ashes laced with light snow, flying far away in the sunlight.

....since that day I’ve met him, Heaven was no longer high above in the clouds.

The one and only place in the world where my heart can be at peace– is right next to him.

—

#No you don’t just directly import lines from the main story and then play his S2 bgm out of nowhere....#....and expect me to be okay HNNNgggnn #🥺🥺#mlqc victor #mlqc li zeyan #mr love victor #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc #mr love queen's choice #mldd victor #li zeyan #love and producer #恋与制作人 #李泽言 #mlqc translations

200 notes · View notes

autumnleaves1991-blog · 3 years

Note

Could I have 13 and 70 from the smut list with King Arthur?

A/N: Yes, yes, you can. :D Also took some inspiration from the live-action Cinderella movie. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking.

Pairing: King Arthur x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + only for smut, p in v

Masterlist

Prompts: “Your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more disappointed at what I’m thinking about doing to you.”& “I know all of your weaknesses.”

You fidgeted in your pretty gown for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and your mother was less than pleased. “Stop moving, ungrateful child, this is your chance to impress the King! A chance for us to rise among the nobles!” she hisses at you, pulling your shoulders back. A ball in King Arthur’s court, wearing a corset that did little to help in the way of breathing, and your overbearing mother is breathing down your neck. Your sister beside you covered her giggles with a cough as you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, Lady Charlotte!” Mother smiles and thankfully leaves you for a moment alone. You take a deep breath and lower your shoulders, eyes scanning the room for exits.

“She will catch you, you know,” your sister giggles again, “and drag you right back.”

“I feel more like a prized bird on display than a woman,” you scoff, “does she honestly believe that the King is going to look at me in this ridiculous get-up and fall madly in love? We are peasants; how did we even get invited to this? Besides, I haven’t even seen this King before; what if he’s some hideous brute? Maybe that’s why they haven’t commissioned any portraits of him.”

“I’ve heard he’s quite handsome and young.”

“The average life span of a person is only fifty or so years, so how young can he be, twelve?” you groan at seeing the large plume of your mother’s hat coming back your way. “I need to get out of here before mother sells me to the highest coin.”

“Quickly then,” she shoos, “I know why you don’t want to meet the King; he’ll never compare with your handsome stranger.” She grins mischievously at you, and you hold your breath waiting for the fallout.

“How did you know about that?”

“Sister, darling, you are not very good at hiding your feelings.” You glare at her, and she giggles, “I also saw the two of you by the creek when I was out fetching berries last week. He’s quite handsome.”

“There you are!” Mother returns and puts her hands on your shoulders, pretending to show affection. “The King is coming,” she whispers with a grin and moves to stand between the two of you. You look over at your sister and give her your best pleading face, mouthing the words, ‘please don’t tell’ she smiles and nods with a wordless ‘promise.’

The trumpets sound loud, and a man stands forward to announce the King. People sitting rise to their feet, girls around you giggle like children, several pushing up their chests, biting their lips, or pinching their cheeks for some extra color. You stand there with a lump in your throat, trying to swallow around it.

When the King makes his entrance, the crown glistening off the top of his head, your mouth slowly falls open on a gasp. “Art?” you whisper, your mother shushing you; you can feel your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your face. Everyone around you bows and curtsies low in honor, but your body has frozen, your limbs no longer working.

“Curtsy,” your mother grabs your hand and pulls you down with a hiss, and you gasp, nearly falling to the floor with force. The noise draws his attention, and when the crowd rises, his eyes are staring intensely into yours. Those eyes you love, Art the apprentice, is the King of England. “He’s staring at you,” you can hear the glee in your mother’s voice, but all you feel is dread.

The music begins to play, and several Lord’s come up to him showing their offspring off like a cow at the market. And for a moment, his eyes leave yours, and you bolt. “Where are you going?” your mother moves to grab you, but your sister intervenes; God bless her. You walk as quickly as your skirts will allow towards the door to the gardens, and when you are on the threshold, an arm comes out to stop you.

“Wait, milady,” you freeze, half wanting to rip your arm from his grasp and slap him across the face for his misdirection, the other half wanting to turn and get lost in the deep blue of his eyes. “My love,” he whispers only for you to hear, “let me explain.” The second half wins, and you turn slowly, noticing the entire ballroom is watching the scene with rapt interest. His eyes, as blue as the sky reflecting off the sea, have you unraveling before him. “Dance with me?” he straightens to his full height, letting go of your arm and holding out a hand, “please.”

Your hand trembles as you bring it up and place it in his. The warmth that is usually so comforting seems to set your skin ablaze as you follow him to the middle of the ballroom. The music is slow, and you follow the steps with him in a carefully orchestrated dance. “Talk,” you whisper, “why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie,” he grins, “not exactly; I am still learning my trade, just like an apprentice.”

You know all the eyes are on you, and you smile when he gives you a turn, stepping hard on his foot when you come around. He grunts but doesn’t stop the dance, continuing each step. “That wasn’t very nice,” he smiles and says under his breath. “Did you forget love? I know all your weaknesses.” His words light the fire in your belly, and you see the mischief in his eyes as the dance comes to a close.

“Would you join me for a stroll in the gardens, Milady?” he asks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Your Majesty?” Sir Bedivere strides over quickly, “there are many ladies who wish to dance with you, my King; you wouldn’t want to insult them.”

“I need to make sure to give each of the ladies my adequate attention. Isn’t that what you told me, Sir Bedivere?” he grins as the other man nods with a thin line of his lips. “I won’t be alone, don’t worry, Sir Tristan will be my guard.” He looks over at the Knight, who has several ladies of his own to tend to, who nods with great reluctance. “See?” he claps the older man on the shoulder and offers you his elbow. “Milady?”

You don’t have much choice, taking his elbow and following him over the threshold and into the gardens. Sir Tristan follows several steps behind, and you walk into the sprawling greenery. When you are about halfway in, he turns with a whistle, “Oi, Wet Stick, bugger off for a bit; we need to have a chat.”

“You know this bird, boss?” he asks with a raise of his brow.

“Yeah, she’s the one I asked you to bring the invitation to,” you look up at him, alarmed.

“You invited us? Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” you huff and walk further into the orchard part of the gardens, far from the prying eyes of the partygoers.

“Shit,” he follows quickly behind, and you hear Wet Stick snigger and walk off in the other direction. “Wait, darling, please.”

You whirl around with a finger pushing into his chest, “What game are you trying to play? Find some pretty peasant girl, make her fall in love with you, and then embarrass her in front of all the Nobility in England. Was that your game?” You walk away from him and pace back and forth, “I can’t believe I was so naive to think you cared.”

“I do!” he reaches for you and holds you by the shoulders to face him, “I do care, love. I didn’t want you to love me because I was a King, I wanted you to love me! Arthur, the man, not the crown. I never lied to you,” you glare at him with a hand gesturing to the crown on top of his head, “okay I neglected one small detail.”

“One,” you huff out a laugh pushing away his hands, “one small detail?! Arthur, you’re the fucking King of England! I’m only a poor seamstress, with an insufferable widowed mother, who only dreams of becoming a part of the upper class!” You feel the tears swell in your eyes as the truth all comes crashing down on your shoulders; the man you’ve been in love with for months is unreachable; theres’ no way he can marry you.

“Listen to me,” he reaches for you again and takes three enormous strides pushing your back up against one of the apple trees. “Look at me.”

Your mind won’t slow down, “what was your goal with having us come tonight? So you could shame me? Show off to the nobility that you are one with the people? Do you fuck every peasant girl you meet?”

“Listen to me!” he shakes your shoulders, and your eyes widen, looking up to see him. “Listen to me,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to your own, “there was no game. I saw you in the market ten months ago when I was in the city.”

“Ten months ago? I’ve only known you for six….”

“I didn’t know how to approach you; I couldn’t just go up to you and say hello I’m the King of bloody England, fancy a pint?” You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, his curving up at the edges. “So I dressed in my old clothes, snuck out of the palace, and started slowly talking to you. Then we went for a walk, and I couldn’t stay away. You’ve bewitched me, love. My love for you is more powerful than the magic of the Mage.”

“Honest?” you ask quietly with trepidation, “do you mean that Art?” He smiles at the nickname he gave you, leaning down to kiss your lips softly.

“Promise, love. It’s only ever and will only ever be you.” He runs his hand against your cheek, and you lean into his touch, letting yourself breathe for the first time all evening.

“I love you too, Arthur; I’m in love with you.” His eyes soften as he gazes down at you.

“We have to go back soon,” he whispers, kissing you softly, “but do you think we got time for?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you smack his arm with a laugh.

“Is that all you think about?”

He grins and takes a step back, “turn around,” he whispers with a wink. You turn around slowly, gasping when your hands are pressed further into the tree trunk. “Quiet love, don’t want anyone to hear us do we?”

He moves quickly, unlacing the top of your corset and peeling the back open, letting it fall to the ground, your breasts sagging with the relief of being free. He palms your breasts, placing rough, scratchy kisses over your exposed shoulders. His hands come around to his waist, and he pushes up several layers of your skirts, reaching for your pulsing heat. He turns you around, and you reach your hands quickly down to palm him through his leather breeches.

Your hands falter on the fabric, and you look down with wide eyes, “I-I made these,” your voice shakes, “they were commissioned a few weeks ago.” You look up to meet his warm eyes as he nods.

“I wanted to support you, and you are the best seamstress in the city. Only the best for the King,” he murmurs, almost shy.

“Well then, my King,” his eyes darken, “I will need to show my appreciation.” You tug open the breeches, and he slips them down his thighs, lifting your skirts the rest of the way.

He fumbles with the layers, and you giggle at the annoyed look on his face. “I swear, when we marry, I demand you just walk around naked at all times. These skirts are ridiculous.”

You don’t have time to respond, the words caught in your throat, as he lifts you and slides inside with ease. “Fuck, always so wet for me, love,” his hips snap inside you, and his mouth tangles with yours, swallowing your moans.

“Arthur,” you moan, feeling him stretch you on his majestic royal cock. This is not the first time you’ve fucked, having given Art the apprentice your virginity in the woods several months ago, but this was the first time you’ve fucked Arthur, the king, and he didn’t disappoint.

“That’s it, love, let me hear you, but only me, don’t want any of them damn nobles to know I already made my choice. That I already fell in love months ago with a beautiful seamstress in the market.” He grunts, and your cunt flutters around his cock with every word. The love between you flowing over with each thrust of his hips.

“I- ah, I love you, Arthur,” you whimper against his neck, slick with sweat. The air is thick tonight, the incoming storm leaving the air thick and dripping.

He pulls back to look at you, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips, “I love you, you’re my Queen, always have been.”

You buck your hips against him, cumming with a silent cry, head thrown back in ecstasy. He thrusts three more times, and then you feel him cumming deep inside you, thick and warm it dribbles down the inside of your thighs. He’d never done that before, always pulling out at the last moment. You open your eyes and look at him; his pupils are wide, almost black as he stares at you.

“Now they can’t say anything,” he mumbles, and you furrow your brow. “You may be carrying a little Prince or Princess now; I have to marry you.”

You grin at what he’s done, his cock still buried inside you. “You’re naughty,” you giggle.

“I’m naughty?” He asks with a smirk, “your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more so at what I’m thinking about doing to you.”

“And what’s that?” You shift your hips, and his eyes widen as you tighten around his cock.

His eyes soften, and he cups your cheek gently, bringing your lips softly to his own. The rub of his beard is rough on your cheek as he moves to your ear, “I’m going to end this party early and show you. I already made my choice a long time ago. But, are you ready?” He pulls back, looking deep into your eyes, “Can you stand by my side and love Arthur the King, as much as you love Art, the apprentice?”

Your heart catches in your throat, blood roaring in your ears at his words; you lean into his hand warmly and on your cheek and close your eyes. Opening them slowly and looking into the sea of blue, “I love you, all sides of you, that doesn’t change because of a shiny crown and a title.”

He slowly pulls out, and you whimper as he lowers you back to the ground, pulling down your skirts and fixing your corset. You both work in silence to be presentable again, his eyes bright as he smiles at you, “Then, let’s go,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand, “I think it’s time to announce our engagement.” He snickers as you walk along beside him back towards the party.

“What are you laughing at?” you chuckle, watching his eyes filled with mirth.

“Your mother is going to faint,” he laughs beside you.

You groan and roll your eyes with a laugh, “Good, maybe she will be quiet for a few moments.”

He booms out a laugh and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head, “oh my love, our life will never be boring.”

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#King Arthur x Reader #Female Reader #King Arthur Legend of the Sword #charlie hunnam fanfiction #charlie hunnam #Autumn Writes

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