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My thoughts on "Orange Scent" - Luke's 2nd Anniversary Card

did anybody ask for my opinion? no. am i going to say it anyways? yes...

(warnings: obviously spoilers for the card, some mentions about luke's illness (i will never shut up about this), you have been warned)

ANYWAYS...

i didn't like this card as much as i should- *GLASS BREAKING, CARS CRASHING, SIRENS SOUNDING*

"WHAT!?!1!1!1!?!!??? BUT CHIKA??!1?!1!?"

i reaaaaally tried to like this card but, to me at least, i think it didn't quite met the expectations i was hoping for. compared to "Shape of You", "Under the Milky Way" and "Dreams of Benji" (my beloved), i felt that this was a weaker card.

to me at least, it felt rushed (though i can't blame the writers cause cramming everything into only 3 parts probably isn't enough to expand... well everything) and i truly think that luke kinda deserves more.

just to summarize everything that happened in the card, luke and rosa was cleaning up luke's room when rosa found a ring box tucked in one of luke's shelves, in which luke quickly became flustered over the discovery of it and tried brushing it off. apparently, luke has made a new engagement ring with a master jeweler. but even so, he's still hesitating to propose to her.

so, rosa comes to consult aaron about why luke is acting so strange and aaron told her about how the ring box is for her. worried for luke, she decides to bring it up with him when they visit luke's parents' graves the next day.

so they visited luke's parents' graves. luke says some words, about how he's fine and such before introducing rosa to them as his girlfriend. when it drizzles, luke urges rosa for the both of them to leave the cemetery before it rains, and rosa suspects that he isn't going to let rosa say anything or bring up the subject of the ring box.

they get into a argument about it, luke tries to convince rosa how he's content with everything he has right now, and how proposing to her would only burden her. (HE ALSO BOUGHT HIMSELF HIS OWN GRAVE?? DO WE GET TO TALK ABOUT THAT???) rosa brings up an old memory of their childhood of when rosa asked luke whether he missed his parents or not after they had died. in proper luke fashion, he tried to not worry rosa and her parents always saying that he's fine.

this is where i think the card lost me...

the cemetery closes and their walk back home is silent. then a double rainbow shows up??? (iridescent heartbeat is a cute card, but this really comes off a tad bit cheesy for me) rosa says her little speech (which i think she tried, but with the severity of... well, everything going on with luke. i feel like it would take much more convincing to the readers and probably luke himself too), and then luke just completely convinced on the spot, drags her home and just immediately proposed to her just like that??? (don't get me wrong, luke just manages to be effortlessly romantic and i really did love his little proposal, i'm going to cry)

while the core message of this card was for luke to "burn for himself", to not worry about worrying others, to not sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of others, and such.

while rosa is the Literal Embodiment of "hope and living in the present" I KINDA HAVE TO AGREE WITH LUKE- (I'M SORRY) and i can completely understand where he's coming from (and just the fact that he keeps thinking about her happiness first makes me want to Cry. UWAHHHH-)

ok some things to consider:

1. luke is sick. he has 3 years left to live. while there might be hope for that a cure could be discovered, there's just so much uncertainty about the future.

2. luke cares about rosa. A LOT. (TO A FAULT? YES) but if i were in his position, i would probably do the same, because-

an engagement is like, a Huge Commitment. it's a Promise to share a Future Together, one that luke isn't able to promise yet, especially with everything that's going on. (but chika it's just a fictional dating sim, chill out-) i just think that it's not something that could be easily resolved with one Motivational speech- ("but it's rosa :(" JFJSJD SHH-)

maybe the whole engagement thing was just too early in the timeline-

i would've loved if they had gone with a promise ring kinda route? imagine getting proposed by luke with the ring he kept with him throughout his nsb years, yearning to be at her side once again. maybe it wouldn't be as pretty as the newly made ring... maybe it'd be a bit uneven since it's his first ring he's ever made. it's not perfect, but it'd be very much like him, messy and flawed. it's not perfect, but it's the very same ring that he held on to for 7 years, that kept him alive, until he finally found her again. and when he finally puts this ring onto her, even though it's not a marriage proposal (yet), it's like a good luck charm, a wish, a prayer. it's a promise that he'll return to her side no matter what. and as long as she keeps this ring with her, he'll do whatever it takes to get better and when he finally does, he'll finally replace it with an engagement ring...

sometimes, i don't want rosa to always have the right things to say and to solve luke's problems immediately. sometimes, i want the fact that luke is always thinking about her first because she's the most important thing on his whole to be something that is acknowledged and appreciated. not portrayed as his self-sacrificial tendency, but just as genuine concern for her happiness and their future together. i want them to reach a compromise where luke's "anticipation for the future" and rosa's "live in the present" can find a middle ground somehow-

well those are my thoughts, people are allowed to disagree on them. idk if this is also the case for all the other mls, but yeah... i just want luke's illness to be addressed and not just simply pushed to the side or simply resolved that quickly fjshdhsj

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Proposal (2) Masterlist

part one

Between the Raindrops (ao3) - no_clue_who Luke/Ashton T, 2k

Summary: It had been raining in LA for the past week and Luke was honestly sick of it. The dogs had been left in the house basically all day for almost a week and Luke’s mental state wasn’t doing much better, the winter had taken a toll on them. He missed the sun and after the band's trip to Australia, they had missed the sun even more.

Ashton was even getting hit by the weather too, he was sticking to his drumkit and had turned every light on in the house. The two of them got into a dumb, cooped up for too long, argument which ended in tears on Luke’s end and Ashton sleeping on the couch to find Luke lying on top of him halfway through the night. But Ashton kept the lights on as the whole house stayed dark for days and they couldn’t even fight about it.

But there was a break in the clouds that afternoon, the sun was shining on the wet grass outside and Luke was buzzing with joy as he looked out.

or how not to have a picnic and more

Crisscross (ao3) - elivigar Calum/Ashton M, 3k

Summary: Ashton blinks, then raises an eyebrow. “You’re getting your dick out,” he repeats. “Why?”

“Because…” Trailing off with a vague gesture of his hand, Calum shrugs. “You told me to stop and you’re on your knees in front of me, so I figured that meant I was about to get a blowjob.” He clears his throat. “Am I not?”

down deep inside your pocket (ao3) - strxngersagain Luke/Calum G, 3k

Summary: Calum has spent a lot of his life thinking he’d propose to someone, and much more of the past few years thinking he’d propose to Luke. But something about it being real, a physical thing to hold and the words ‘Will you marry me?’ hanging from his lips, makes his heart pound in his chest.

or

Calum proposes to Luke.

dream of growing old by your side (feels like i'm going home) - kingscrossinseptember Michael/Calum T, 1k

Summary: The view is even more incredible once they step out of the car and approach the edge of the cliff. Wordlessly, Michael reaches over and takes Calum’s hand. They stand there for a while as the sky darkens around them. When the sun slips out of sight, Calum reaches his free hand into his pants pocket and pulls out a worn and well-folded piece of paper.

Give You The Best Years (ago) - beendreaminglikeafool Michael/Luke T, 4k

Summary: Luke proposes to Michael on tour.

He Touches Me It's Permanent (ao3) - FayeHunter Michael/Calum G, 1k

Summary: Michael and Calum get to have a soft, domestic morning.

I love to love you, for god sake (ao3) - lightsinthefloors Michael/Calum G, 4k

Summary: 5 times Calum knew Michael better than he knew himself, and 1 time he didn't.

i see us in black and white (i promise that i love you) (ao3) - bellawrites Luke/Ashton T, 1k

Summary: "Hey," Luke whispers. Ashton's eyes flutter open. "Can we get married?"

paper rings (ao3) - no_clue_who Luke/Ashton G, 1k

Summary: Ashton just kept watching and looking at Luke for the rest of the car ride. Still in awe at the man he gets to call his partner. Even when they got to the hotel and in their room, he didn’t stop looking at Luke.

“Ash, are you just gonna stare at me all night or are we going to go on that walk?” Luke said, waving his hands in front of Ashton’s face.

or how not to propose to your boyfriend

the best part of me is you (ao3) - hideforalifetime Luke/Ashton G, 2k

Summary: “Something feels like it’s missing,” Ashton continues, voice slow, words coming out slowly, like he’s measuring them. Picking out what exactly to say so nothing comes out where it isn’t meant to. Something Luke could never master. “Like- It’s just not fun anymore.”

“What’s not fun anymore?” Luke asks, despite himself. It’s half two in the morning, he has a long day at work tomorrow, and his half-asleep brain can’t comprehend a single word that’s coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth. But he entertains him anyway, because he’s a little bit of a pushover that way. He never wants to hurt anyone’s feelings, especially Ashton’s.

Ashton just flails his arms about, gesturing at the space around them. “This,” he says. “This whole- thing, like, waking up every morning and- and doing the same things until we crawl back into the sheets each night- It’s not… I don’t know what to say. It’s just not fun anymore.”

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Heal the Scars 5/?

For once I came up with a name on my own and while checking if I had the right thing on my mind, I realized „Oh look at that, there’s a band with the same name. Oh and they made the song that has been stuck to my head for days!” But as I only know one song by them, I’m missing out on a great chance for some Easter eggs. But I think I fucked up grammar and vocabulary somewhere on the way. I’m sorry. And I have to give Lizzy a Promotion „Master Chief Petty Officer“ is annoying to write.

A few days later they reachedThunder Island. An autumn island, that deserved its name. Elizabeth shivered by the mere thought of spending two weeks here or live there. And the harm it would do to her hair and wardrobe. No, her hair wouldn’t curl by the air humidity like Amber’s. No, it was the static charge in the air, that took turns with the rain, and made it impossible to tie her hair up without wetting it before. And if she wouldn’t do that, her hair would stand to all directions, defying gravity. To everyone’s annoyanceSnail Patrolhas been there shortly after the navy ship left. And now Elizabeth stood again at the commanding bridge before sunrise, trying to keep her eyes open by nonstop blinking. It didn’t bring her any relief to see Drake was apparently suffering as well due to the early time. On the other hand, he had been there before she arrived. She saw light when she went to get her first tea. The next time she called her in that early she decided to bring him something with caffeine as well. She stood quietly behind him, whilst he tried to get the maps to confess all the crimes ever committed on the related islands with his glances.

“Captain, Sir, would you mind letting me in on your considerations?” She broke the silence after a few minutes. He for sure didn’t order her here at such an ungodly hour to ignore her.

“I’m considering which island will be our next destination to intercept these bastards” he sighed and stepped aside to grant her a better view on the maps.

She stepped beside him and examined them as well “Do you have a favorite?”

“No. I went through all the intel three weeks ago. When and where they’ve been sighted, how long they stayed anywhere,justfor them to escape on us again. They are either surprisingly well connected or don’t follow any pattern or logic” he turned to Elizabeth and eyed her critical. Long enough to tempt her to ask if there was something on her face. But she knew her blouse was spotless, not a single strand of hair was out of place, despite the weather and her neckerchief was tied flawless - unlike his tie. But this was nothing done by the hour, as it was more the case since her arrival. Tying his tie apparently wasn’t one of his best assets, but she would refrain from saying that out loud. Instead, she just raised an eyebrow and cast a questioning look his way.

“Which island would you choose?”

“Excuse me?” Her tired blinking was replaced by a even faster, confused blinking.

“Which island would you choose as our new destination?” Repeated his question with a nod towards the maps.

“That depends. You would have to tell me more about the islands and the behavior ofSnail Patrolfirst.”

“No”

She wasn’t quite sure if she heard him correctly. “Excuse me, but I think I misheard you”

“No, I won’t give you further informations on that matter”

“All right, where can I find this information?” She glanced through the room, searching for anything helpful.

“I want you to pick an island without any more details”

“And how am I supposed to make such an decision? Based on what?” If he had proposed all devil fruit users of the navy should partake in a swimming contest she couldn’t have looked more flabbergasted.

“Intuition” when he saw her expression he continued “I tried long enough with a logical approach, maybe a change of strategy will help”

“Could you tell me at least a little bit-“

“No”

“But I can’t make a decision like that!” She tried not to sound too whining, but failed.

“Just pick one that suits you” he crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited.

“With all respect, but why don’t you just pick one randomly?”

“Because I am biased” bit by bit he seemed a bit annoyed “As an officer you should be able to make decisions”

“I prefer to think thoroughly before acting” she straightened her back “But if you insist, I will determine the crews fate on a whim…”

“Yes, Idoinsist”

“Well then… this one. It at least looks rather nice on the map” she pointed towards a symmetrical island, resembling a compass rose “Am I now allowed to inform myself about our destination?”

“Wind Rose.” He nodded “Will my knowledge be sufficient or shall I get you the file?”

“I don’t want to challenge either your knowledge nor your records on the island. But if you are offering I’d prefer the combination of both” she smiled shyly.

“I should have seen that coming” Drake sighted “Well go over it while breakfast”

———————————————————————————————————————

WithinSnail Patrol’shunting groundWind Rosewas the island furthest fromThunder Island.Retrospective Drake’s summary on the winter island would have been more than enough, as the most exciting thing about it was its shape. But know Elizabeth knew how many inhabitants it had, when the harbor was renovated the last time, how high or rather low the average temperature of the mining island was and that they loved healthy meals, to name just a few of the more or less helpful details. But that was her own fault.

The first two days of their journey were uneventful. Which meant to Lizzy she didn’t have to rise before dawn or in the middle of the night. The normal course of day on the ship was rather pleasant, the crew worked worked well together and she didn’t have to divert the foghorn from its intended use.

On the morning of the third day they reached a dense fog bank. They reached the fog in the night, but in the darkness it has been hard to see, so they strikes the sails and waited for daybreak. In the light of the rising sun on the other hand it became evident that it would take too much time to make a detour around it. And maybe it would clear when the sun was higher. Slowly the navy vessel drifted on the current through the fog bank. Should another ship cross their path they could still avoid them.

“Ship in sight, starboard!” It sounded at afternoon from the crow’s nest.

“Can you see which colors they’re flying?” The Master Chief Petty Officer asked.

“Negative, they’re still to far away”

“Let me know immediately when you’re able to see more”

“Aye!”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. They haven’t seen a single ship until now, and in the midst of this fog it had to happen. No it was only relevant if they we’re flying trading or royal colors, or if it were pirates. Another Navy ship was impossible, no other ship was supposed to cross their course. She wasn’t sure if she had to notify the captain if it was a civilian vessel. She decided to do so but only if she truly knew if it was one. Until she didn’t knew any more, there was no need to disturb him.

“Master Chief Petty Officer Elizabeth! I can’t make out other details, but it is a black flag and they set course towards us!”

“Great, pirates” the blonde grumbled before continuing in commanding tone “Crew on your positions! Prepare for encounter!”

After she heard the collective “Aye!” She hurried inside to inform Drake.

“Captain Drake! Pirates on starboard, they set they’re on collision course” she marched to the commanding bridge and threw the door open.

“Collision course?” He frowned. Sailing straight towards a navy vessel was either very bold or very stupid.

“Yes, the crew is preparing for combat” Elizabeths hand instinctively twitched to her halberd.

“Do we know who?”

“Not yet, the visibility conditions are poor” together they marched to the main deck, but this time not as hurried as Elizabeth on her own “Would it be possible that it isSnail Patrol?”

“They wouldn’t go for a confrontation. But…” One corner of his mouth twitched upwards for a split second “…maybe they can’t see our colors as well. Then itcouldbe possible”

“Unfortunately, not only our flag and sails are telling.”

He nodded “If it is them, they’ll change their course the second they see our cannons”

“How do we proceed?” The ship was buzzing with organized bustle. It was impressing to see how everyone knew their tasks and didn’t get in each others way.

“We will fight pirates. We’ll know more once we see who they are”strode to the railing he and leaned against it, as if he could see more that way than the lookout with his telescope. But even that way he still appeared less stressed than Elizabeth, who nervously clenched and opened her fists. Of course, she fought some pirate crews before, as well as with a ship, but she never had as much responsibility as now. This madeherrather nervous, but she didn’t want the crew to notice. She didn’t even try to hide her nerves from Drake, he noticed her smaller discomforts before. She threw him a glance and confidence filled her. His posture, scowling at the horizon and the justice coat waving in the wind was impressive. At least to Lizzy.

“Master Chief petty Officer Elizabeth!” The lookout apparently hadn’t noticed the captain yet, if he addressed her. And he sounded surprised “I can see their flag and as it seems it isSnail Patrol!”

“Take sharp turn to starboard side! raise the sails, full speed ahead” Drake pushed off the railing while bellowing his orders and headed to the ship’s bow “They’ll notice their mistake soon enough and I wont let them escape when we are so close.”

0 notes

Okay so now I am hyperfixating on all the Beauty and The Beast variations because this morning I dug up my old Disney DVD of it and watched that (which I have notes for that specifically) and I've been trying to find a way to read the original book. (Despite that book being three hundred years old I cannot find the full version to read for free anywhere?? I did find an audiobook on YouTube though! It's a shortened version of the original I think, but still the original! I'll probably listen while I work later.) Also want to find another movie I remember from years ago and look into the actual musical when I get the chance. And maybe that 80's TV series if I can find any clips or episodes... You know. Just for fun. (Also might should read the Beauty and the Beast fiction for OUATIS on the mechs website.)

To get some movie notes out of the way:

In the movie Belle figures out her papa is missing bc of his horse returning without him, not the scarf thing. Which I actually like the scarf/cane thing more, cause it adds more character to me, but I LOVE the drama of a horse returning without its master so I thought I'd note it. Also I just really liked the horse.

I believe once Gaston proposes to Belle (her fully telling him to piss off) her dad had already left, but I can't help but picture Carmilla watching the whole exchange, especially Brian completely destroying Marius and embarrassing him after he's like "Let's get married you're so pretty blah blah blah", and being like "That's my boy!!! Get his ass!!!"

There's that thing where Gaston tries to get Belle's dad committed to get her to marry him, but I don't see Marius doing that to Carmilla. I think it would be more like Jonny letting Brian run home to find his mom if she's sick/injured, and Toy is already rallying.

(Also if we're sticking with Carmilla trapped in the castle like Belle's dad, then Nastya probably took all the blame for the curse so Jonny has no idea Carmilla was involved. He does have history with her though, and he's probably pissed to find her there at all anyway. That or we ommitt that bit somehow and he has NO idea that Brian's mom is Carmilla until way later which would be funny.)

Before/during the ballroom scene, there's a coat hanger setting the mood by playing either the violin or viola I think? That can totally be Marius playing his violin.

That version of the movie seems to take place over the course of like, a couple days?? Day one belle gets stuck in the castle and then he running away scene with the wolves before going back to the castle, day two bonding time but it ends with her running home to her papa and starting the mob on accident. Unacceptable they should at least get a month of bonding minimum imo...

Handful of final battle notes!!! Firstly Marius trying to explain the situation to the mob but very poorly is hilarious and fully on brand for him. I think at that point all the servants are sat around pretending to be inanimate and ready to ambush if his speech fails ("Don't worry everybody, I'll explain everything to them and maybe they'll just go away!"). I think Toy is happy to see Marius is alive, but worried he's sick or something so it immediately clunks him over the head, tosses the unconscious little dude over it's shoulder and puts him somewhere 'safe' for until after the battle.

The servants ambush everyone else and Aurora does extremely well tossing everyone out (after successfully getting everyone out, Lumiere kisses Cogsworth on the cheeks in celebration. I just can't help but picture Tim fully dipping Lyf and kissing them on the mouth lmao). You said someone must sneak past somehow and stab Jonny, it could be Toy! I think maybe Aurora has a harder time detecting its presence because while animate, it's not alive!

Toy and Jonny fight it out in the rain on the roof for a while, and Jonny is thoroughly beaten up. Marius finally finding his way to them not long before Brian gets there, but just a moment before. he gets in between them, grabbing Toy and begging it to stop, ordering it to stop through sobs at this point. It takes what feels like ages before Marius finally breaks through to it, by then Jonny is stabbed and dying and Brian is running to Jonny. It just kind of freezes and malfunctions, but it has stopped. It's confused but you can almost see worry for Marius in its usually immobile face. (everything else you wrote about the ending scene... so correct dude NEED the drama of it all.)

Last thing: Of course Jonny shouldn't shift back into human bc its more fun that he's still a beast, he just heals at the end bc of Brian's love Tangled-style. But I think the discourse between the prince being human or staying a beast depends on the feelings of the prince in any given retelling! If the prince hated being in a beast form and preferred being human, he'd shift into a human. If it was more like Shrek were he preferred the beast form, he'd stay in beast form. Cause you know, that's his bodily autonomy. I think Jonny actually likes being a beast though. Creature Jonny for the win!!

I think that's my notes for the movie! God I wrote so much more that intended and I haven't even responded to your reblog yet ....

Firstly, the Tale As Old As Time being sheet music Brian dropped when first arriving? That's so insanely perfect I love it. I also think he's never getting it back bc it got to Ivy somehow and it's part of her collection now. UGH that specific piece being what he fawns over in the beginning is so perfect!! Cause the book Belle fawns over parallels and foreshadows her experience with the Beast!!!

Also the bookkeep dude is like, one of the only villagers who seems genuinely kind to Belle. Like, interested in what she says and thinks and finds her antics charming instead of weird or annoying. This reminds me of in Frankenstein (at least, in the Mary Shelley's Frankenstein movie, cause sometimes I get that movie and the book scrambled) there's a family the Creation stumbles across, and it interacts with the grandfather first. The grandfather is kind and judgeless, mainly because he's blind and can't see how "hideous" the Creation is, so he judges based on the Creation's actions and words, not its looks. He's one of the only people in the whole story who showed direct, genuine kindness to the Creation. All that to say I think it'd be neat if Brian was actually close with the bookkeep guy, who was also completely blind! I don't even think braille was even a thing back then, much less accessible to common folk even when it was invented in he 1800s. So, Brian and that bookkeep might've bonded over a love of music because now that's how the bookkeep learns new stories is word of mouth and ballad! Maybe he even begins to order more sheet music when possible so Brian can tell him new stories in return!

And I haven't seen the wind key thing other than when Belle's dad picks up Cogsworth and fiddles with him at the beginning, but I fully agree with all the Marius and Lyf additions here. Squealing its so precious actually. I love them so much. (Jonny just staring at Marius during the first line up he's in just like... literally who the hell are you. This may as well happen. Lyf blink twice if you need help.) (Toy and Marius with the cane AUGH!!! An utterly clueless duo...)

Jonny being scared of the storm oh my god!! Aurora creaking around him in comfort!! (Also in a similar vein please consider that somehow, when Jonny is happy and cozy, he purrs. I have never lived without cats in my life so I just always have to add purring to inhuman humanoid characters.) Aurora and Carmilla also definitely go way back so I feel like she has really intense emotions during the whole scene of Jonny locking her up and Brian finding his mama, intense enough that even if they don't understand it, every inhabitant in the castle can feel it.

Okay I've written enough as it is for now but I will probably be back at again soon enough.

Beauty and the Beast, but it's the Mechanisms.

Jonny must be the beast because feral Jonny and the whole heart thing... prove me wrong.

Tim or Brian is Belle.

Rest of the Mechs are the servants in the Beast's house. With an exception for Marius as Gaston cause I can totally fucking see it. He would suck at it though because it's Marius. And also, short Marius HC.

This is probably not new. But it's been brewing in my head for a good few months, ever since I put my Mechs OC in the iconic Belle dress.

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FiraWren's master list

All the stuff I make—memes, charts, gifsets, fic—I tag with "my stuff," but here are shortcuts to some sub-collections within that.

All rights reserved to© FiraWren. Do not repost my work as your own. Please contact me for permission if you would like to translate one of my works.

All works are fictional and made purely for entertainment purposes. I don't own any of the characters.

Last updated:Feb 14, 2025

Fanfic

Everything I write, I tag with "my writing," but I occasionally post something on AO3 without posting it here on Tumblr too, so it's best to subscribe to my work on AO3 if you don't want to miss anything.

Pride and Prejudice

(Sub-master lists: Elizabeth/Darcy post-canon fluff | Pride and Prejudice missing/retold scenes | Elizabeth/Darcy smut)

G | A collection of cousins | post-canon, fluff | 966 words

G | The men shan't come and part us, I am determined | mid-canon, humor | 886 words

G | Tea time and titles | post-canon, fluff | 1221 words

G | The perfect opportunity to propose | mid-canon, fluff | 730 words

E | Six inches deep (in mud) | post-canon, smut | 2k words

G | Seize such an opportunity | mid-canon, fluff | 1111 words

E | Ungentlemanly | post-canon, smut | 5k words

G | Spirit and Spookiness | parody | 860 words

G | Carrots and the missing bonnet | post-canon, fluff | 793 words

G | I come back to the place you are | mid-canon, humor, fluff | 1k words

E | Mr. Darcy's bedchamber | canon divergence, smut | 8.2k words

G | Midnight (sick) kiss | post-canon, fluff | 500 words

M | The last man in the world whom I could ever suspect of being ticklish | post-canon, fluff, mild smut | 746 words

Beauty and the Beast

(Sub-master list: all my Beast/Belle monster fucking fics)

M | Bull in a china shop | angst, mild smut | 371 words

M | The Rose Brides | retelling, enemies to lovers | 79k words

E | Transformation | canon divergence, angst with happy ending | 123k words

E | Beauty and the Brute | retelling, marriage of convenience | 34k words

T | No other way | canon compliant, pre-canon | 902 words

E | Mismatched perfection | canon divergence, smut | 3.2k words

G | A memory pressed into its petals | AU, fluff | 560 words

G | Piping hot | canon compliant, post-canon, fluff | 405 words

T | Swimming and soothing | canon divergence, fluff | 2.5k words

E | Breeding a fresh start | canon divergence, smut | 7k words

E | Needing so much more than dusting | canon diver, smut | 3.4k words

M | Air heavy with the sound and scent of rain | canon diverg, smut | 1.4k words

T | Charming in its imperfection | mid- and post-canon, fluff | 2k words

E | Dismissed, rejected, publicly humiliated | modern AU, fluff, light angst, eventual smut | 15k words

M | Warming up | canon divergence, hurt/comfort, mild smut | 3.2k words

T | Walking under ladders | modern AU, fluff | 532 words

E | Needing exercise, a chance to use our skills | canon diverg, smut | 1k words

E | Scent doesn't lie | canon divergence, smut | 1.8k words

G | Adjustment | canon compliant, post-canon, fluff | 500 words

T | The touch of a name | mid- and post-canon, angst, fluff | 1.7k words

G | A taste of something new | mid-canon, fluff | 500 words

M | Rose-scented bath water | canon diverg, fluff, mild smut | 304 words

E | A scent there that wasn't there before | canon div, smut | 3.7k words

G | Forming love | mid-canon, angst, fluff | 1.6k words

Other Austen

G | In the Churchyard | Northanger Abbey/Persuasion crossover | post-canon, fluff, romance | 2.3k words

T | Uncovered | Northanger Abbey | post-canon, fluff | 391 words

T | Dare to hope | Persuasion | canon divergence, angst | 1.2k words

G | Rediscovering what was lost | Persuasion/Sense and Sensibility crossover | canon divergence, angst, romance | 11k words

E | Every heartbeat | Lost in Austen | post-canon, smut | 5k words

Other Disney

E | Two words, sounds like "pets duck" | Frozen | canon diverg, smut | 3.2k words

G | Black cat crossing your path | Frozen/Beauty and the Beast crossover | modern AU, fluff | 1.8k words

E | Yeah, just like that | Frozen | post-canon, smut | 5k words

M | The Beast of Arendelle | Frozen | canon divergence, horror, angst with happy ending | 13k words

E | Everything he's got | Hercules | post-canon, smut | 3.3k words

Other fandoms

T | Teach and teach | Our Flag Means Death | modern AU, getting together | 9k words

E | Don't freak out. This is happening. | Chuck | canon diverg, smut | 1.4k words

G | Memorizing him | Chuck | post-canon, angst, fluff | 557 words

Memes and other nonsense

I made a series of Pride and Prejudice chapter memes, one for each chapter of the novel.

Other Jane Austen stuff I've made:

All Pride and Prejudice memes

Persuasion memes

Emma memes

Northanger Abbey memes

Sense and Sensibility memes

Multi-book Austen memes, crack, charts, gif sets, and other nonsense

Non-Austen memes:

Beauty and the Beast memes

Frozen memes

Howl's Moving Castle memes

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Thank you for updating arcane I'm loving blood red but I was missing my rosewood boys and girl

I KNEW THE WAR WAS COMING the talk mc had with her father was so idk intense even I was tense reading it. The one who betrayed them could be haneul himself cause he was evil in the first season

Mc and Mark's marriage... I get her father's point as much as get hers I also understand why she loves mark, jeno and jaemin (maybe renjun and haechan) romantically I mean I would to

I just know the other boys where dying of jealousy for mark being the one having the marriage propose with her (I can see nomin getting sad and hurt)

I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I was thinking there's 22 arcana cards and there's dream, mc, and some wayv members as not arcana holders so I'm SURE 127 will be the rest of them but TEN AND MIJEONG master of the chariot and master of the strength I never thought they would have a arcana

Thank you again for another amazing chapter, and what did you think about Taylor's new album midnights? It's soooo perfect I can't stop listening to it, I just loved maroon (thats jeno's song), anti hero, labyrinth and the great war

Mariiii! Thank you for reading as usual! Yeah nomin did have some feelings after they overheard that conversation for sure. Lol. Renjun and Haechan too though those two are probably pouting more because, marriage really? Before they even made proper moves? The audacity lmao.

I am happy you liked the introduction of the other masters though. I've been dying to reveal them for such a long long time. And yes, our girl Mijeong is one of them (and probably is one of the most badass 😏).

Oh god I LOVE Taylor's Midnights album though. It has been on repeat, i am not even kidding. My favorites are also Maroon and Labyrinth but Midnight Rain is at the top at the moment, it'a literally the inspiration between Mark and MC for this chapter 🥲

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l’ incendie

Pairing:Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings:explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when youhyper-fixatefind a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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A Beautiful Way To Die

Pairing: Heidi x Fem!Reader

Summary; When you thought of death or the possibility of you dying, you never seriously considered the possibility of dying at the hands of a gorgeous vampire.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: swearing, Heidi accidentally being creepy give her a break she's new to interacting with mortals and NOT eating them

Author's note: I've been wanting to write about Heidi for a while now because her character, even though we got so very little of it is fascinating (again thanks smeyer for making your side characters more interesting than the main ones). Also, am a simple gay.

Arising from your jet-lagged slumber, you'd hoped the beautiful blue, sunny skies you enjoyed yesterday would still be there. Sadly, your luck was out the window along with the welcoming warm weather.

You'd travelled to Italy with the intention of finally getting out into the world and having the freedom to explore and go your own path. Looking online for travel destinations was both a struggle and exciting! "Where should I go?" you wondered while scrolling through all your proposed options. None caught your eye until you landed on one listing;

Enjoy an enriching, quaint experience in the city of Volterra!

Nestled in the country hillsides of Italy, Volterra has a host of activities for you to enjoy, from historical site tours and many shopping locales, bars and more. From the Palazzo di Priori to the Volterra Cathedral... Come, and lose yourself in a city who's architecture is frozen in time.

You wandered the town, taking in the sites of all the old buildings around you. Even with the clouded sky above your head, Volterra was still a breathtaking place.

After an hour of wandering you came to a stop in the Palazzo, plopping down to sit by the large fountain. Hands resting under your chin, you entered a blissful, happy daydream.

Sighing dreamily, you let your eyes close.

You didn't notice the woman watching you attentively.

Heidi had been tasked with finding more humans to feed the guards and the masters themselves, her own hunger growing more ravenous by the day. She'd managed to lure in a few stray helpless tourists, but she still needed just a few more.

Striding through the streets with confidence, she halted as a sudden alluring scent hit her like wave. Mouth pooling with venomous saliva, she held in an instinctive growl. Where is that scent coming from? More so... who?

Following the mouthwatering aroma, she let herself be guided through the cobblestone streets of Volterra, the beast within her growling with glee as she got closer and closer to the human. Heidi had had many victims, many catches that she's reeled in from her "fishing" that have satisfied her, but none that made her yearn for blood more so than whoever it was that smelt like this.

She found herself in the Palazzo, her eyes desperately scanning every face, every scent of anyone who was nearby. She needed to know which it was.

Taking in another deep breath through her nose, the scent hit her again, and she found the poor helpless human.

A woman, who smelt better than anything she'd ever had before. Heidi sunk into the shadows of a nearby alley and studied you. You were plain, simple clothes and your eyes were currently closed as you enjoyed some blissful daydream. Her throat burned with thirst by this point, and as she watched you... something else began to grow.

Curiosity, was it? Heidi couldn't put her finger on it. Letting out an unnecessary huff, she decided to approach. I'll make sure to let Felix and Demetri know that this snack is strictly mine alone. Heidi put on her best smile and sauntered over to the human.

“Pardon me, Miss?” a smooth voice called your attention away from your daydreaming.

You jump in surprise as you turn your attention to the source of the voice that startled you. The owner of the voice was equally startling; her beauty blinded you, as she stood directly in front of the faint rays of sunlight you swore she was literally shining. The red dress she wore clung nicely to her body, an off the shoulder piece that only highlighted her best assets. Violet eyes gazed at you curiously, flicking from the art book open in your lap to your face.

If angels were real, you’d believe this woman was one.

Unbeknownst to you, but the shock went both ways. Now that she was face-to-face with you, Heidi’s painted red lips had parted, an inaudible gasp to your ears escaping them.

A pull she had never experienced before took hold of the vampire. She needed to be near you - not just in the hunger sense, but more of a“If I am separated from this woman for any reason I will rip someone’s arm off” kind of way. At least, that is how Heidi would describe it.

Trying to shake herself out of her jumbled train of thought, she flashed you a quick smile, savouring the way it made your heart stutter.“I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here, are you new to Volterra?”

You nodded, gently smiling at the pretty woman.“I am, just passing through on my way to Venice.”

Heidi giggled. "Venice? That's quite the destination. And what brings you to Volterra?"

"I'm going on a tour here before I leave for Venice," you explained, none the wiser to the sudden shift in Heidi's demeanor. "I needed a place to stay since it was such a long trip, and..."

"What tour, if you don't mind my asking?"

You blinked. The woman was now very serious, the playful almost-flirtatious air about her gone. "In there, actually," you reply, pointing to the castle-like cathedral just behind her.

"I see."

Shit. Shit, shit, fuck! A string of curse words swam in Heidi's head in multiple languages. She can't go in there! But she's booked already, they'll be expecting her and we don't often get cancellations and if we do -

"I'm sorry, is there a problem?" You ask, growing more confused by the pretty lady as the seconds went by.

"Ah, hello Heidi."

You both turn your head to the rather tall man who had appeared at Heidi's side. He was quite the looker - very tall, heavy build and looked like he could break you in half with one hand.

"Felix, what are you doing here?" The woman - Heidi - says to her companion with an airy smile.

You didn't fail to notice the sharp look she had in her eyes.

"Just roaming about the city is all," the man replied coolly, a grin on his face that faltered into a curious smile when his gaze shifted to you.“And who might this lovely lady be? Perhaps a tour guest of the castle?”

With a laugh, Heidi linked her arm into Felix’s bicep, her fingernails digging deep into his arm. Under his breath Felix hissed and looked at Heidi with wide, confused eyes but she kept her airy exterior up perfectly.

“Our tour bookings are full, Felix,” she said pointedly.

You looked on at the exchange feeling lost. There seemed to be some animosity between the two but why? You didn’t know. Maybe they were exes.

“I see.” A thin, curt smile replaced his cocky grin from just moments ago.“Well then, I’ll meet up with you later. We’ll talk more then.”

As the man left, Heidi left out a small huff and then turned back toward you, her brilliant smile bewitching you again. "Forgive him, he's always prowling during the tours for pretty young women to bore to death with his rants about his hobbies."

You giggled, grinning back at her. "I'll be sure to try and stay off his radar when tomorrow's tour begins."

Tomorrow's tour, Heidi's thoughts echoed your words. So she's coming in on that tour. Keeping her composure cool, she tilted her head down and gazed at you from beneath her eyelashes. Seduction tactics, only this time she was trying to steer her prey away. "Please beautiful, I want you to listen to me very closely."

Frowning at her sudden serious nature, you began to stand up from where you were perched, listening intently.

"Volterra has a lot to offer tourists, many fascinating sites to see. Our cathedral however... don't come. Please," she pleaded, her voice low and silky, "find somewhere else to go sight seeing."

You froze mid-way through putting away your art book. Her serious tone and the look in her eyes... something about the look in her eyes sent a chill down your spine. "I - I'll consider it."

The corner of Heidi's mouth twitched. She then straightened herself up and the deadly serious disposition left as quickly as it had appeared, the friendly seductress returning once more. "Well, I suppose all I can do is steer you away," she chuckled, more to herself.

You smiled politely back, your eyes flickering to your surroundings briefly. As you took in how the sky had gone much darker than it was before, you gasped. "Oh damn, it looks like its going to rain!"

Sure enough, as soon as the word "rain" left your lips, Heidi felt a droplet from the sky land on her cheek.

"I had better get going, it was really nice meeting you!" You began saying your farewells to the beautiful lady, pulling your backpack hastily up onto your back. You didn't want to get potentially drenched in the downpour.

"Wait!"

Ice gripped your wrist abruptly, sending a shock up your arm and making a surprised gasp escape your lips. The fuck?

Oh.

Heidi had grabbed your wrist. She must have some bad circulation, you vaguely thought to yourself.

"I never got your name." The word were desperate, to Heidi pitiful even.

"It's Y/N," you breathed, taken back by Heidi's behavior.

She let go of your wrist, a half smile appearing. "Y/N," she repeated, your name leaving her mouth - in your mind anyway - almost reverently. "Beautiful name, cara mia... anyway, we should head our separate ways! The rain is sure to stat pouring any moment now."

You hummed in agreement, internally trying to shake yourself out of the stupor you now found yourself in. God damn, this woman... help. She's pretty. So pretty. I am very gay.

"It was nice meeting you, Heidi. Maybe I'll see you around?" You offered with a hopeful smile, trying to shut out your internal screaming.

As you quickly walked away, Heidi carefully breathed in after holding her breath. The air stung her throat, your scent, your blood, making her moan wantonly.

She only hoped for two things; one, that she would get the pleasure of seeing your exquisite face again, and secondly and most importantly, that you would heed her warning not to come to the Volterra Cathedral tour tomorrow.

100 notes · View notes

Special guest -

Jack Grealish x female character

Chapter 1 - then invite

Ellie Lowe was a huge football fan, she had loved football ever since she was a child and going to the football with her uncle every week, standing in the stands no matter what the weather, rain or shine Ellie and her uncle were there.

Now it was the summer of the 2020 Euros and Ellie was in full football mode, she was the typical British football fan, beer garden, England shirt, flag waving, full face painted and chanting at the top of her lungs.

She revelled in the wins that England kept pulling out of the bag, goal after goal keeping the country on the edge of their seats.

Then the final came, Ellie watched the game at her best friend Jessica's house because Jessica's boyfriend Jamie was cousins with England's number 14 Kalvin Phillips, Ellie joked that he needed to introduce them pair as in Ellie's words 'Phillips was one of the best midfielders since Gerrard.... Aside from Jack Grealish'.

Everyone believed England would smash this game just as they had with their previous games, unfortunately that wasn't to be.

As Bukayo Saka missed the decisive penalty Ellie froze on the spot and tears rushed down her face, she couldn't move, she felt the pain of all the players on the pitch, especially Saka.

She began going through all of her emotions, first she felt heartbreak, then it turned to anger, "how could they let Saka take that penalty", she shouted across the room to whom ever was listening, next she felt pride, "we did so well to get this far! The lads were amazing", she boasted. It was a hard evening for all England fans.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

A few months had passed since the Euros and everyone was back to normal, today Ellie was at her desk waiting on your friend Jessica to arrive, the pair were receptionist for a large delivery company.

Jessica brought the coffees every morning, it was a ritual the girls kept to, Jessica did breakfast and Ellie went for lunch, before long she came running through the doors calling Ellie's name and squealing like a school girl, Ellie flew up from her chair in anticipation of the obviously amazing news she had to share, "what is it Jess!", she let out, feeling very excited, knowing her friend as well as she did it must be amazing news for her to react like this, "I have an invite for you!", Ellie looked at her in utter confusion with a little glimmer of hope settling in her stomach as the thought of Jamie proposing to her came to mind, "an invite? Where to?", she questioned her friend, "you are not going to believe this!, so obviously you know Jamie's cousin is Kalvin Phillips right?" She asked her, although she knew the answer!, "how could I forget you have a legend in your family!", Ellie replied with a chuckle, "well he is getting married in two weeks! And because Jamie will be busy with best man duties etc Kal said I can bring a friend!", Ellie began jumping around with her friend and laughing, "no no no wait that isn't even then best part!" Jessica laughed back at her, She couldn't imagine what could be better right now.

She moved closer to Ellie and whispered "Kals work friends will be there ... including Jack Grealish!", Ellie's jaw dropped for a second as she stood staring at Jessica in shock, Jack Grealish was her all time favourite player, yes he was the sexiest man to walk planet earth but he was a master when it came to football, always taking part in a goal and just been an amazing player, Ellie couldn't believe she was going to meet THE Jack Grealish.

—————————-Instagram ————————-

Liked by jessyswan132, Jamiee3 and 109 others

@ellowe25- happy girl at work today!

Uh uh uh it's partaaaay time 🍹 🍷

@JessySwan132 - god you are so dramatic 🤦🏻‍♀️

@Jamieee3 - you told her then 😂 @kavinphillips it's made her day!

@kalvinphillips 😂😊

@ellowe25 ^^^ wth!! 🥳🤩

I am not a professional writer and I don't intend to be, I enjoy writing, it is an escape so please no negative comments, if you don't like it just don't like or comment, thank you 😊

********************************

So this is going to be a real life/Instagram story, I hope you enjoy reading!

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[Xicheng AU. Entirely self-indulgent. I love Jiang Cheng and I want him to be happy with Lan Xichen.]

-

I.

When Lan Xichen arrives at the gates, he finds Lan Hao frowning and trying to hold a clearly distressed Jin Ling. The boy is squirming desperately in his hold, screaming and crying, and Lan Xichen sighs.

He isn’t the first child to cry because he misses home. Many, including the older disciples, have cried, had nightmares, tried to run back to their families. Gusu Lan isn’t the most welcoming Sect, their many rules leaving most feeling confined, suffocated and desperate for a way out. He did not consider the young Master Jin would be one of them, though.

The boy arrived dressed in gold, back straight and a glare on his face. He did not talk to others his age, frowned when another disciple tried to talk to him and got himself in more verbal altercations than Wei – than others ever had. And he is only seven.

The two week meeting was created to build intersect alliances, have the children meet earlier would only make their future connections stronger, establish their trust in each other before they began training and studying together as teenagers, holding the future of the Cultivation world on their backs.

Honestly, Lan Xichen did not even think Jin Ling would join – his status as future Sect Leader and nephew of the infamous Sandu Sengshou weighting heavily on his young shoulders.

“What happened?”

Lan Hao bows awkwardly as he still tries to hold the boy in his arms and answers, “he tried to run. Young Master Jin made it as far as Gusu before a disciple saw him.”

Oh, that was dangerous. Lan Xichen has no idea what both Jin Guangyao and Jiang Cheng would do to him if something happened to their nephew. “Young Master Jin,” he says, gesturing for Lan Hao to let the boy down. Jin Ling wipes his tears away, performs an awkward bow and then proceeds to glare at him. Lan Xichen smiles softly, impressed, “would you mind telling me why you did that?”

“I wanted to go home!” Jin Ling answers, still glaring. Lan Hao opens his mouth to berate him, but Lan Xichen stops him with a wave. “It is Jiujiu’s birthday and he said I’d be home by now.” He sniffles. “I wanted to see him.”

Lan Xichen’s heart breaks as he thinks about all the things, all the people Jin Ling lost even before he knew what loss truly is. And he thinks about the people that stayed, Madam Jin, Jin Guangyao, Jiang Cheng… it brings back memories of his own – snow, a boy without his mother, two brothers and an uncle trying to be a family, love and pain, tears.

“I believe,” the words come out of his mouth without his permission, but Lan Xichen finds that he doesn’t mind. A better world can only be built on kindness, on doing what one believes is right, “that can be arranged.” He unsheathes his sword, offers his hand for Jin Ling to take and smiles when the boy’s eyes light up.

-

“Do you miss your family when you’re away from home?” Jin Ling asks as they fly above the woods.

“Yes.”

“So, it doesn’t stop when you grow up?”

Lan Xichen chuckles. “I’m afraid not.” He says, holding Jin Ling tightly against his chest. Lan Hao insisted he would do it, he’d fly Jin Ling to Lotus Pier and bring him back as quickly as possible, and if it were another child Lan Xichen might have let him do it, but Jin Ling will be a Sect Leader, he is in danger just by existing, Lan Xichen would be careless to put his life in the hands of a disciple, no matter how strong or competent they might be. “You do not stop loving your family when you become older.”

Jin Ling hums in answer. “I did not want to leave.” He confesses, eventually, his cheeks red. “Jiujiu insisted, he said I should make friends, meet people I could trust for when I become Sect Leader.” Lan Xichen blinks, surprised. He did not think Jiang Cheng would say such words, did not think he would give this sort of advice, not after refusing Lan Xichen’s help the first time around, not after kicking Sect Leader Yao away when the man proposed a business deal. But, Lan Xichen realizes, that says more about them than about Jiang Cheng.

Lan Xichen has done nothing to earn this kind of trust.

“I do not want to become Sect Leader.” Jin Ling keeps talking. “I do not want to leave Jiujiu alone. I am all he has.” He covers his mouth with one hand, surprised, and blushing even harder. He probably didn’t mean to say it, but Lan Xichen smiles at the child’s kindness. It is good to know that the new generation is better than them.

It is good to know Jin Ling has inherited his mother’s heart.

-

A group of disciples are waiting for them in front of the gates of Lotus Pier. They all stare at him curiously, hands on their swords, but when Jin Ling jumps down, the Head Disciple smiles at him.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, kneeling in front of the boy.

“It’s Jiujiu’s birthday!” He shouts, smiling excitedly. He has never talked or smiled like that in Gusu Lan, would probably be scolded by one of the disciples if he did. Sometimes Lan Xichen wants to burn down their rules, dreams about starting anew, a fresh set of norms, a happier life. A utopia.

“He is in his office.” She says, and Jin Ling starts running immediately, golden robes flying behind him. “Sect Leader Lan,” she bows, Lan Xichen nods in return, “if you would follow me.”

“Oh, no.” He waves her off, smiling. He should give Jin Ling and his uncle some privacy. “Let them be,” he says, “but I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water.”

She blinks at him, surprised, but eventually laughs. “Of course.”

-

From his seat outside the throne room, Lan Xichen watches the lotus on the river, the children swimming freely.

He hasn’t been to Lotus Pier in a long time. Longer than ten years, most likely. All Intersect conferences are held on neutral ground and after – after everything, he always preferred to stay close to home. He knew his Uncle needed him, knew Wangji was on the verge of a breakdown, knew his little nephew needed stability. He knew, knew – all excuses, Lan Xichen realizes.

He is but a coward, afraid to face one of the Sects that suffered the most from Gusu’s neutrality, ashamed to face the man that endured it all alone, who rebuilt his house and even had the time to raise a wonderful boy by himself.

This could have been him; this could have been his own reality and Lan Xichen cannot bear that thought, cannot face a reality that could have been his own.

“Sect Leader Lan,” the Head Disciple calls, “Sect Leader Jiang would like to see you.” Lan Xichen nods, standing up. He follows her through the buildings, the smell of spring following him. It is going to rain, he notices, and realizes he might not be able to make it home tonight.

“Zewu-jun,” Jiang Cheng bows as Lan Xichen enters his office. Lan Xichen performs a bow of his own and smiles when he notices Jin Ling is perched on his uncle’s chair, eating from a bowl of soup almost desperately, “I apologize, he shouldn’t have – ”

He shakes his head. “There’s no need for apology. It was for a good cause.” Lan Xichen watches as Jiang Cheng’s ears turn pink and he risks a glance at his nephew. He tries to hold back a smile, but clearly fails when Jin Ling looks up and smiles as well.

“I – I do not know what to say.” Jiang Cheng confesses, clearly taken back by the gesture and perhaps, the words. He is not used to being on the receiving end of great gestures, Lan Xichen realizes, he is not used to being considered important for someone, even the nephew he single-handedly raised.

Lan Xichen feels his heart break and, horrifyingly, finds himself fighting back tears. Oh, this man deserves so much more than what he has.

“I am sorry.” Lan Xichen says, watches as Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen in surprise. “I should have done more for you and your people.”

Jiang Cheng opens his mouth, probably to deny it, but upon seeing Lan Xichen’s decisive stare, he only nods. “Thank you for your words.” He says, finally.

“Please, allow me to fix this.” Lan Xichen finds himself asking, begging. It is for his own peace of mind, but it is also for Jiang Cheng and for Jin Ling, for the people of Lotus Pier who have watched their home burn and fought hard to build it back.

“I do not know how you could.” Jiang Cheng points out.

Lan Xichen nods in agreement. “I do not know either, now, but –” Wangji isn’t the only stubborn one in the family, Lan Xichen just holds a position where he is not allowed to be like that, ��I will find a way.” He promises, determined.

-

II.

He starts visiting Lotus Pier every other week. His uncle gives him worried glances and Wangji frowns every time Lan Xichen comes back. He is aware of his brother’s distaste for Jiang Cheng, does not blame him for it, but he refuses to hold it against the other man.

Anger and fear have a way of bringing out the worst in them. He cannot imagine how those emotions plus sorrow and the feeling of betrayal can do to someone.

Jiang Cheng stares at him confusedly every time he arrives, but he doesn’t send him away, only offers him a room, food and lets him roam around freely. Jin Ling is more welcoming and Lan Xichen finds himself indulging in the boy’s desires, bringing him toys and an occasional treat he buys during his trip.

He’s not doing much – one could say he’s doing nothing at all, but Jiang Cheng seems less worried when Lan Xichen is next to him to observe the disciples train, so he considers it a good thing.

It is only on his fourth visit that he notices the new disciples. Two boys, not much older than fifteen; they can barely hold their swords, they are so weak and green, but they want to learn, that much is clear, and they listen to every other Jiang Cheng or their Head Disciple – Jiang Daiyu – says, adapting just as quickly as the others.

He does not think much of it. Word goes around that the Yunmeng Jiang Sect is back to the way it was before it was destroyed and even though Jiang Cheng holds a reputation for being ruthless, he’s also known as a strong leader, protective of his people and his home.

Two months later, Lan Xichen notices another disciple. After that, it’s a new cook that makes Jin Ling’s favorite mooncakes. Another month and Jiang Cheng is helping his people build a new house for a family of five, the father is a farmer with bags under his eyes, but a serene look every time his children hug him.

And they don’t stop coming.

Yunmeng Jiang Sect is not only growing, it is thriving, and Lan Xichen has never seen their people look so happy.

“You have accomplished the impossible.” He tells Jiang Cheng one afternoon when they are parting ways. Jiang Cheng’s face turns red, and Lan Xichen has to hide a smile behind his own hand.

Jiang Cheng looks like he wants to deny it, but Lan Xichen is flying away before he can speak. He will leave him with that thought.

-

III.

“You must stop.” His uncle says after a year. Honestly, Lan Xichen is surprised it took him so long to speak up his thoughts. “It is not – appropriate.”

“I am simply helping a friend.” Lan Xichen answers. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Wangji flinch. His brother’s relationship with their uncle have been strained ever since the Sunshot Campaign, but it is not surprising that they agree on this matter. His uncle deems inappropriate to show preference towards a sect and Wangji thinks Jiang Cheng is responsible for Wei Wuxian’s fall.

Lan Xichen sighs. He is their Leader so they do not have any sort of power over him, but Lan Xichen would much rather not fight with his family.

He takes a sip of his tea, tries to sort out his thoughts. “Xichen –” his uncle starts, but Lan Xichen stops him by raising a hand.

“We abandoned him.” He finally says. “He lost his entire family and no one offered to help him, not without wanting something in return.” Lan Xichen explains. He came to realize this recently, but it is the greatest truth. The Jin Sect has an interest on Jin Ling, Sect Leader Yao wanted to trade his crops for the rice Yunmeng Jiang grows, smaller sects had sent letters and letters proposing marriage in exchange for sending supplies – Lan Xichen watched Jiang Cheng burn those letters with a huff while Jiang Daiyu cracked her knuckles, angrily.

“He chose his path.” Wangji offers. “They are all scared of him.”

“Rightfully so.” Lan Xichen comments. He’s seen what Jiang Cheng can do with his sword; he’s seen the full power of Zidian when a mercenary tried to kidnap Jin Ling. “But for the wrong reasons.”

Lan Xichen turns to his brother, waits for him to finish his tea. “He’s saving those people, Wangji.” His brother frowns. “He’s seeking the ones using resentful energy and he’s trying to save them.”

Wangji’s eyes widen immediately, but soon enough his expression goes from surprised to furious. “He’s looking for him,” there’s no need to ask who him is, “and killing them!”

“They are joining his sect, Wangji.” He tells his brother, then turns to his uncle. “I’ve seen it. The two boys who disappeared in the middle of the night after attempting to summon their mother’s spirit? They are training at Yunmeng Jiang, eating their food,” he adds, “playing with Jin Ling.”

Wangji stands up immediately, the cup he was holding falls on the ground, breaking in tiny pieces. He leaves the jingshi, angry, hurt, desolated, and Lan Xichen wants to follow him, wrap him up in a hug, but his brother is not five anymore and Lan Xichen cannot fight his battles for him, cannot heal the wounds caused by the loss of a loved one.

He closes his eyes. Lan Xichen did not want to have to choose between them, he’s been avoiding this conversation for that exact reason.

“Uncle –” it’s his uncle’s turn to raise his hand.

“I want to see it.” He says, finally, and Lan Xichen sighs. Jiang Cheng will absolutely hate this.

-

IV.

“I’m sorry.” Lan Xichen says, bowing deeply in front of Jiang Cheng. His uncle is now watching the Yunmeng Jiang disciples closely, walking amongst them – a judge deciding his sentence.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer, keeps his eyes on Lan Qiren, expectantly, as if waiting for his mentor’s approval. It makes Lan Xichen remember how young the man still is.

“Very well.” Lan Qiren says, finally, turning towards them. He stops in front of Jiang Cheng and nods. “Thank you for allowing me entrance in your home.”

Jiang Cheng only answer is to bow, eyes widening when Lan Qiren bows back. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Lan Qiren does not smile, but his expression softens and he turns to Lan Xichen, waiting for his answer.

“We would love to.” Lan Xichen says and his uncle nods.

-

“Be careful.” Lan Qiren warns, later, when they’ve arrived home. “Do not let yourself get blinded by love.”

Lan Xichen takes a deep breath, heart skipping a beat. Of course, his uncle would notice, he is surprised Wangji hasn’t seen it yet, but again, his brother might have and that could be just one of the reasons why he is so angry.

“I won’t.” He vows.

-

V.

Lan Xichen is getting ready for his monthly visit to Lotus Pier when A-Yuan asks to join him. His nephew is almost twelve, bright eyes, strong golden core, big curiosity for all things, Lan Xichen isn’t exactly surprised by the request, but he doesn’t know how to answer without either hurting the boy or hurting Wangji.

In the end, his brother makes the decision for him. “I do not like him. I never will.” Wangji says, later that night. “But I respect what he is doing, and I respect you. If you trust him, then I trust him too.”

Lan Xichen swallows heavily, closes his fists to stop himself from reaching out and pulling his brother into a hug.

“But A-Yuan is my son, he – if anything –”

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen interrupts him, one hand on his shoulder, “he knows.”

Wangji’s eyes widen in surprise and he looks almost accusatory; Lan Xichen would feel hurt about the implications that he’d ever break his brother’s trust, but he supposes Wangji is entitled to his anger, he’s lost the love of his life, could not handle losing his son.

“He recognized him.” Xichen explains. They haven’t talked about it, exactly, but Jiang Cheng has made it clear he knows – “Your nephew looks well, I am sorry he had to suffer so much at such a young age.” – and if there’s something Jiang Cheng and Wangji have in common is this – A-Yuan, A-Ling.

Wangji nods, eyes softening, and the next morning A-Yuan meets him at the gates, excited to meet a new place.

-

“I don’t think Jin Ling likes him.” Lan Xichen comments, watching Jin Ling glare at A-Yuan when his nephew disarms him, Suihua flying away from Jin Ling’s hand. The sword is too heavy for Jin Ling to use it comfortably, but he insisted on fighting A-Yuan, three years his senior, with a real sword. He lost his balance many times, and even though it is obvious he has a good posture, is smart enough to understand A-Yuan’s style and respond accordingly, the sword is clearly still too heavy for him.

Jiang Cheng huffs out a laugh. “He is just annoyed.” He just his chin at them and Lan Xichen watches Jin Ling stand up, adjust his clothes and then promptly throw himself at A-Yuan, making both of them fall right into the lake. Lan Xichen jumps, startled; he is moving to help them when the two boys resurface, laughing breathlessly.

Jiang Cheng smiles knowingly and says, “A-Ling likes him.” He keeps smiling, watching his nephew – both his nephews? – splash water around, giggling happily.

Lan Xichen’s heart skips a beat; he cannot look away from Jiang Cheng’s smile, finds himself hypnotized by the way his entire expression softens, the lines around his eyes disappearing. He looks ten years younger and too much like the young man Lan Xichen first met, without worries, without the responsibility of an entire sect on his back.

Lan Xichen supposes he was like that too, younger, naïve. They cannot go back in time, but they can move forward. “I am in love with you.” Lan Xichen confesses, his voice barely a whisper, but Jiang Cheng hears it anyway, turning to him with wide eyes.

“What did you say?”

“I am in love with you.” Lan Xichen repeats, louder this time. When Jiang Cheng does not move, he reaches out for his hand, squeezes it tightly. “I do not expect an answer, I just thought you deserved to hear it.”

Jiang Cheng keeps blinking confusedly, frozen in place. Lan Xichen smiles again, takes a step back. He did not have any hope and Jiang Cheng’s reaction is enough answer to his unspoken question. They are not meant to be, but even though Lan Xichen does not have Jiang Cheng’s heart, he has his friendship, and he will make sure to treasure it.

“I should go.”

“No.” Jiang Cheng nearly shouts, holding him back. “You cannot expect me to answer immediately, this is – I never thought –”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” He stresses, frustrated. “I thought – this – this never crossed my mind. I always felt –” he huffs, angrily, and shakes his head, “why can’t I make sense?”

“Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen smiles fondly, “you do not have to –”

“I thought you were doing it out of pity,” Jiang Cheng confesses, looking away, “I know it is not who you are, and I am not proud to admit I doubted your words, but I never thought I deserved your friendship, or – or other feelings.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in an effort to hide his tears. This – this hurts so much, Jiang Cheng should know he deserves love, kindness, happiness. He should know he is more than just a Sect Leader, he’s more than his father’s son, Wei Wuxian’s brother. He is a brave, strong man, who refused to give up in the face of hardships, who made mistakes and is trying to make up for them; a man who is not perfect, who does not see himself as perfect, and keeps trying to get better, to be better, for his Sect, his people, and especially for his nephew.

Lan Xichen wants to say all that and more, but he knows Jiang Cheng will refute every word. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.”

Jiang Cheng smiles, sadly, “sometimes I wish so, too.” He squeezes Lan Xichen’s hand. “But Lan Xichen, Zewu-jun, Lan Huan – you are in love with me, and I am in love with you, so – I think that might be enough.”

Oh, Lan Xichen laughs, blissful. Yes, it is enough, he doesn’t say, but as he pulls Jiang Cheng into a hug, he whispers in his ear, “you will see. Someday. I will make sure of it.”

It is a new promise.

-

VI.

Lan Xichen is undressing when Jiang Cheng returns, slamming the door behind him with a groan. He mutters an apology when Lan Xichen raises an eyebrow, but otherwise does not say anything, only drops his sword on the nearest chair and begins undressing as well.

Bad days aren’t rare when you are a sect leader, but Jiang Cheng usually keeps those out of their bedroom, unless they are related to Lan Xichen himself, or worse: Jin Ling.

“Wanyin,” he tries, but Jiang Cheng ignores him, making him even more worried, “talk to me, please.” He reaches out for Jiang Cheng’s hand, sighs in relief when the other man accepts his touch.

“Jin Ling ran away from Carp Tower,” oh, oh, Jiang Cheng isn’t angry, he is worried, “apparently he got into a fight with other disciples, punched two in the face and then ran away before Jin Guangyao could scold him.” Lan Xichen holds back a laugh, it is so adorable how Jin Ling always comes back to Lotus Pier when he’s seeking comfort and Jiang Cheng, oh, his lovely husband, keeps trying to scold him and failing abysmally at being a stern uncle.

If Lan Xichen was one to gamble, he’d bet his sword the boy is now in his room, eating a delicious meal happily. Jin Ling is an incredible kid, smart, loyal, kind, but also spoiled rotten by both his uncles, and especially, by Jiang Cheng.

“He would not do it without motive.” Lan Xichen reasons, runs a hand over Jiang Cheng’s back softly, smiles when his husband leans into his touch.

“I know,” Jiang Cheng answers, “but he will be their leader one day, he cannot keep making enemies. He cannot be like me.”

Lan Xichen feels the words in his chest, heart breaking a little at the pained tone in Jiang Cheng’s voice. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and there’s nothing wrong with Jin Ling.” He asserts. “He is a boy still. Jin Ling is learning how to be himself and showing that he will not accept offenses or wrongdoings. He is showing his strength, Wanyin. You taught him that.”

Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, leans into Lan Xichen’s shoulder. Lan Xichen loves being a source of comfort for his husband, adores being able to help him feel less heavy, with less darker thoughts.

“I love you,” Jiang Cheng says, later, his head resting on Lan Xichen’s chest, eyes closed, “you are my light.” Lan Xichen’s heart reacts in the same way it always does when he hears his husband repeat those words, it stops for a millisecond and then picks up speed, beating for Jiang Cheng, always for him.

“I love you,” Lan Xichen says back, “I will always love you.”

It is a promise and he always keeps his promises, especially the most important ones.

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Hi there! Could we also get a Valentines A-Z for Eugene Roe? I am hopelessly in love with that man

valentines day alphabet ( accepting! )

aren’t we all, anon? aren’t we all

A : AFFECTION. how does your muse show affection?

Very subtly. Eugene Roe isn’t a“words” man --- his language is action, tiny gestures which show the people he loves how much he cares. When Gene cares, he cares a whole lot... so it’s important to him to do things for the people around him. He’ll fix a broken fence without asking, clean his mother’s kitchen, replace a vase of flowers if they’re starting to wilt. Little, practical things, which nonetheless show a depth of care for the other person, and an understanding of exactly what they need in that moment. If he’s really close to someone --- at a point where he feels perfectly comfortable with them --- he’ll also offer physical affection from time to time.

B : BOUQUET. does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

He actually knows a surprising amount about flowers and herbology, just from watching his mother, a passionate gardener. He’s not fond of store-bought bouquets. If possible, he’ll throw something together himself, just from what can be found in the local gardens, and it’ll look damn lovely.

C : CHOCOLATE. does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

He’s not going to go feral over it, but he’s got a healthy appreciation for chocolate.

D : DATE. what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

He’d love to do something outdoors. Maybe a picnic in a quiet place, on a sunny day, with a canopy of trees proving shade overhead. Dappled sunlight falls across his bare arms as he stretches out on the blanket, leaning slightly against his partner; they made sandwiches while he brought lemonade and fruit; the chocolate chip cookies are freshly-baked. There’s no chill in the air. Somewhere close, birds are chirping. The entire world seems completely at peace, and he’s so happy to be enjoying it with someone he loves.

E : EMBRACE. does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

Gene’s really not a hugger... so when he does seek out physical affection, it means something. Maybe he’s emotionally exhausted, or maybe recognizes the other person needs it in the moment; at any rate, his hugs are like finally exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. They’re not too much, but just enough to leave someone feeling relieved, like a weight’s been lifted from their shoulders.

F : FLIRT. is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

He’s got gorgeous eyes. We know that. Say that dark gaze locks with someone else across a crowded room, and draws them in instead of letting go... or perhaps they’re close enough that it’s easy to brush up against each other just slightly, hands accidentally caressing each other when reaching for the same thing... Gene’s flirting is very subtle, and has no right to be as seductive as it is. (Please note: this is strictly Sober Gene. Sober Gene and Drunk Gene are two very different people. Drunk Gene gives lapdances.)

G : GIFT. is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

He’s okay at it. No one would call him a gift-giving master. Sometimes he gets it right and sometimes he gives Lewis Nixon a chia pet. When Gene gives great gifts, it’s clear how much effort he put into it; when he misses the mark completely, it’s hard to tell if he put any effort in at all.

H : HEART. is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

He’s guarded by necessity. Gene keeps his heart locked away behind no less than a dozen fortified walls. Breaking through them requires a wrecking ball, chocolate, and a lot of determination. He’s cautious, because when he cares he can’t help caring deeply, and quietly dreads the inevitability of getting hurt... but sometimes letting people in is worth the risk. He’s... still working on realizing that.

I : I LOVE YOU. does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

... more difficult than it has any right to be. Again, Gene’s not great at the whole“expressing his feelings” thing. If he’s in love, he wants his partner to know it... but coming right out and declaring it is one of the hardest things in the world. He’d hedge his bets, working to show themhis love rather than spelling it out. If he has a very verbally demonstrative partner, he’d be able to say it more easily over time, just because he’s used to hearing it... but on the rare occasions Gene does say“I love you”, it’s that much more precious, because he’s feeling it so intensely in the moment that he can’t keep it inside.

J : JEALOUSY. does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

Oh, yeah. Ye-eeahh. Not over just anything, but blatantly obvious things --- like seeing someone flirting with his partner, or touching them shamelessly... it gets Gene riled up. He’ll loom over the interaction, not saying a word, but silently intimidating the hell out of the interloper until he backs down... and once he has, Gene steps up. He and his partner usually have to make themselves scarce quickly, because Gene can’t refrain from touching them. As soon as they’re alone... all bets are off. Instinct takes over; all Gene can do is press them up against the wall and kiss them, hard and hot, until all thoughts of that other fool have flown out of their head.

K : KISS. is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

Gene starts out shy... but, with the right encouragement from his partner, finds his footing very quickly. Uses touches very sparingly, but with great effect; tends not to linger in a kiss for long, parting for air just to allow his breath to caress his partner’s flushed lips, before diving back in for more. When he really gets into it, Gene becomes hungry, clutching harder at his partner, sucking at their lips and gasping in the short pauses for breath.

L : LOVE. who does your muse love?

He’s very devoted to his family, especially his grandmother when she was alive; Gene loves his hometown, everything about it, and he loves the people he’s grown up alongside. Certain people, like Babe and Renee, hold places of honor in his heart; once he’s grown to care for someone that much, he’ll do literally anything for them.

M : MOONLIGHT. is morning or night a more romantic setting?

Gene is a morning person. It’s not by choice. If he knew how to sleep in, he absolutely would, but his body just isn’t wired that way. He tries to be romantic at night, but after a long day, he’s usually crashing by around midnight. Obviously when he forces himself to, he can stay up (copious amounts of caffeine helps) but any time he’s got the time is a romantic time, far as he’s concerned.

N : NAUGHTY. what is your muse like in bed?

Gene is intense to the point that it’s nearly overwhelming. His caresses, his movements, his kisses... everything is charged with an electricity that can become overwhelming if his control slips. He’s a demanding lover, giving his partner little time to rest; his hands are doing one thing while his mouth is doing something else, all designed to elicit a reaction from his partner. It’s not something he thinks through in the moment --- Gene’s a purely instinctual lover, but he’s got some great instincts. Loves to have his mouth on his partner’s neck, slowly trailing down to their bare chest. He’s silent in bed, but vocal partners really do it for him; he could get off on his lover’s moans alone.

O : ODE. does your muse have a way with words?

Oooooh no, he’s not a“words” man at all! Gene struggles to verbalize his emotions; for as much as he feels deeply, getting those feelings out is like trying to speak a language he’s never learned. People close to Gene must learn to read his expressions and gestures, as well as his variety of“hmms”, because they say a lot more about how he’s feeling than he ever could.

P : PARTNER. what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Gene needs someone who cares. Not just for him, but... about lots of things. Everything. Gene is drawn to people whose compassion is endless, who make the room seem a little kinder for their presence. He also appreciates someone who can lighten the mood, because maybe he gets a little grim at times, and who can get him to smile even on his roughest days. He’d love someone with a good singing voice, and a grounded side, even if they don’t show it that often.

Q : QUESTION. would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

(Go down and read‘WEDDING’ first!) Once he’s made his mind up, asking is a piece of cake. He doesn’t go all out with the ring --- Gene’s not gonna marry someone who needs a huge rock on their finger, and frankly he can’t afford it --- but he finds the perfect place to propose. At the top of a hill, under a tree he used to climb as a little boy --- maybe the same place they had their picnic --- he won’t drop to one knee, but pull his partner close and slip the ring out of his pocket. A quiet“If you’ll have me,” is all it takes to make his intentions clear.

R : ROMANCE. is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

He’s shy about his romantic side; it’s not something he likes showing off, because he feels a little silly for being taken in by all those fairytale ideas. Gene would love a scene out of a Disney movie --- rowing on the river with his partner with fireflies all around, or kissing each other in the rain. Thing is, those aren’t realistic things to want, especially not from someone who considers himself so grounded. Gene’s romantic nature is buried under a heavy layer of practicality, but he can be heartrendingly romantic when the situation is right.

S : SWEETHEART. did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

Nah. He was a real wild child in elementary school, and most of the girls were wary of him. By middle and high school, he kept to himself more, and didn’t have much interest in dating.

T : TRUE LOVE. does your muse believe in true love?

He... genuinely doesn’t know. Maybe it’s real for some people, but until he’s experienced it himself, hard to say. It’s not something he thinks a lot about.

U : UNREQUITED. has your muse had their heart broken?

He’s been burned before, and that’s hurt enough. Gene isn’t eager to have his heart broken entirely.

V : VALENTINE. how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

Lowkey, Gene would love to do something nice for Valentine’s Day... but he’d be hesitant at scheduling something himself, both because he’s bad at planning surprises, and because he wants his partner to enjoy themselves just as much as he is. He’d straight out ask them,“what do you want to do for Valentine’s Day?” and they can brainstorm from there. As soon as they’ve got a good idea, Gene will work out all the technical details... and from there, they can just enjoy the day. (Even if they’re not doing anything, he never forgets to get his partner chocolate, because that’s just a Valentine’s Day tradition that can’t be ignored.)

W : WEDDING. would your muse get married? why / why not?

He... doesn’t plan on it, no. Doesn’t actively plan on it. It’s not something he has any interest in, or gives any consideration to, until he meets the right person. At some point in the relationship --- once he’s it’s casually occurred to him,“yeah, this feels right, I could do this forever” --- the realization will hit him like a ton of bricks. He wants to get married. He wants to spend the rest of his life with this person. He feels nothing for the idea of marriage, but everything for the person involved, so they’re his deciding factor.

X : XOXO. does your muse use / like pet names?

He’s veeeery sparing with nicknames. The only times he’ll use them are when he wants to put someone at ease (like when someone’s injured, and formalities have to be dropped, because they’re already panicked enough) or when he’s very close to someone. All his family has nicknames, and Gene uses those without a second thought; if he cares deeply for someone, it’s way easier to be informal with them. For a partner, he’ll still be sparing with pet names, but may throw out the occasional“cher/chere”.

Y : YOURS. does your muse get protective easily?

We talked about the jealousy thing, right? Gene’s protective streak is on a completely different level. He’ll throw down for the people he cares about, no question. For such an unassuming man, he can be fierce when pushed to it, and the one thing guaranteed to set him off is seeing someone he loves threatened.

Z : ZZZ. how many people has your muse slept with?

He had a few girls back home --- teenage experimentation, and it never really went beyond that. He’s also got that sexy Catholic Guilt going on, so he feels a bit bad about it; sleeping around is not for him. At most, Gene’s had... two previous partners.

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the sheets are stained with blood [p.2]

( gif source rafikecoyote)

PART ONE [ PART TWO ]PART THREEPART FOUR Victor Zsasz x fem!Reader Warning: swearing, mentions of sex, violence, blood, spoilers for Birds of Prey Word Count: 1980 A/N: I promise I am not dead I just disappeared. I do plan on extended this fic to like far off places so if you want me to tag you in upcoming parts, feel free to ask!

Victor’s knife digs deeper into your neck and you groan. His face isn’t an inch away from yours, his breath able to tickle your nose.

“I’ve got a special place on my back for you, Night Hex,” Zsasz insists. You roll your eyes. People only started to call Night Hex after your first few encounters with Wonder Woman. It just so happened that they all occurred during the night, and now you’re stuck with that shit hole of a super villain name.

You grab onto his arm and he instinctively tries to jerk it away, but your grip is tight as you chant “Mutanter et nos, mutanter et nos, mutanter et nos.” One of the first spells you ever learned- it allows you to swap positions with whoever is in your grasp.

In the blink of an eye, you are standing where Zsasz stood, holding his knife into his neck. For a second a look of shock and confusion crosses his face until that shit-eating grin returns.

“Spooky,” he mocks you.

“I hate to rain on your parade, Mr. Zsasz, but I’m not in the mood to be another one of your slaughter animals.” You pull back, making sure to keep the weapon on you. “Maybe next time, though.”

He doesn’t move from the wall and you watch him watch you, waiting for him to say something. You two share a moment of silence, VIctor staring you down with hooded eyes.

You aren’t sure if you should get nervous right now. You could easily overpower him with one one of the plethora of spells you know. But, it’s not like you’re immortal or anything. All it takes is for him to grab the nearest sharp object to gut you- and you’re a goner.

“Why the hell are you here?” You question and quickly add “And how the hell did you get into my apartment?”

Again, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, you watch him reach into the back pockets of his dress pants and you immediately slam his knife into his shoulder before he can pull anything out. A small, but joyful smile forms on your lips as you stare down at him. Your strength is in your witchcraft, not weapons. When your instinct led you to shove the knife into Zsasz’s skin, you were only about 50% sure you were strong enough to actually hurt him.

He looks up at you as he pulls the object out of him. “You didn’t even let me answer, bitch.” And then he tries to lunge at you. Again- you are a witch. Not a weapons-master nor a body builder. From what you’ve heard about Zsasz, his strength is impressive for a normal human. One punch from him could knock you out.

Since you started practicing your witchcraft after turning 18, you found out there were a lot of pros and cons that came with it. Pros are; with the right spell, potion, ritual, or object- you are capable of doing practically anything. Cons are; these things take time. So in cases where a psycho is attacking you with a knife, and you don’t have time to say a three-line spell, you have to act from the top of your head. Usually not the best idea.

And, in this scenario, as Zsasz’s hand’s only a little a couple of inches away from your face, your brain tells you to raise your leg and slam your foot on his groin as hard as you can. The chunky platform heels you’re wearing help with the effort.

Victor stumbles back, dropping the knife to cup his crotch in pain. You lurch for the weapon the second it slips out of his hand and shove Zsasz to the ground, straddling chest as his back hits the floor to keep him from moving.

Maybe dealing with Wonder Woman these past few years has its perks.

Holding the knife up in warning, you repeat yourself “What do you want, Victor?”

Again, he smiles. “So, you really don’t remember me, huh?” He, again, changed the subject.

“What?” You lowered your arm in confusion. “The fuck are you talking about?” A man like VIctor Zsasz is not one you could forget. But, he doesn’t let it go.

“I mean, sure, it was a couple of years ago, but c’mon. I wasn’t that bad, was I?” He’s amused as he speaks. He knows the more ambiguity he says, the deeper he gets under your skin.

You watch him chuckle and narrow your eyes in thought. Admittedly, your history is a long and fanatical one. Maybe you did come across Zsasz one time or another.

It's when he continues his monologue that the bulb in your brain finally lights up. “What was the name they gave you? Cosimaor some shit?”

You struggle to come up with a reply. Cosima? In the least cliche way; you haven’t heard that name in years. Victor laughs at the shocked look on your face. “You do remember!” He feigns appreciation.

Your parents never took too great of a liking to you. As they raised you and your twin sister, with the knowledge that only offspring becomes a witch, it was clear that they wanted that witch to be the latter, Talia. You couldn’t blame them, of course. You were a little shit, constantly hanging with the wrong crowds and causing chaos around the city. And then, you inherited the powers. They were angry about it. A month later Talia went missing. They became angrier.

Their favoritism never really bothered you, and you and your sister were actually quite close. You didn’t take your sister’s disappearance well. What started as you stealing a few things from the corner store as a kid turned into sex, drugs, high theft, and more.

So, they kicked you out. For the first few months, you couch hopped from friend’s house to friend’s house. At this time, you had almost no experience with magic, so scamming your way through life using witchcraft wasn’t an option. Then, one of your friends proposed a job offer. She worked as a dancer at a gentlemen's club where there happened to be an opening.

Workers also got free housing, so you took the friend on her offer. You never imagined that you’d work as a stripper, but at that point- you were desperate for anything.

Rich men from all over the world came to the club, one of them being the rich Gotham entrepreneur Vikram Zsasz. He was well into his 40’s and brought with him a couple of employees for his company- as well as his 25 year old son, Victor Zsasz.

It was so hard to draw a connection to the Victor who lays cackling on your hardwood floor to the fresh-faced young man who visited that day. He was a completely different person, you wouldn’t have ever remembered it was him had he not mentioned it.

The younger Zsasz moved with energy and pride, like some arrogant frat boy. He was attractive, as he still is, with clear skin that lacked the tally marks that plague him now. When your boss escorted you and a few other girls to host the group of men, he was chugging a glass of scotch like juice, his platinum blonde hair styled in a messy side part.

You remember his attention always being on you as you sat with the party. You never thought much of it since there was always men and women lusting over you while you danced. His eyes watched you with adoration, unlike the disturbing leers he gives you now.

You would have declined his offer when he asked you to spend the night with him had he been anyone else. But, he was hot and you were horny so you accepted.

He was equally as cocky in bed as he was at the gentlemen’s club. He kept telling you to “lay back and let him do all the work”, something you didn’t have a problem with since it wasn’t like you planned on doing shit anyway. He attacked your pussy like he hadn’t eaten in days. The feeling of his tongue swirling against your clit and his fingers deep inside of you had you pulling at his hair.

When he inserted himself inside of you, you remember that he was rough. He took you from behind first and held you by your neck as he continuously ordered you to call him “Daddy” and praise his work on you.

For about two hours, all that filled the hotel room were your moans, his groans and the sound of your skin slapping against each other.

Your face warms and you feel yourself growing wet from the thought. You don’t even notice when he placed his hands on your thighs.

“Guess I wasn’t so bad after all, witch.” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts and you’re reminded that the Victor you’re straddling isn’t the boy from your memories.

He’s an insane serial killer whose body count of corpses ascends over the Wayne Tower . A devil who lurks the streets of Gotham. One ready to take the lives of any that come too close to him, including you.

You push yourself off of him. “Don’t call me that, dickhead.”

“What else should I call you? My little slut?” He sits up on his elbows and smiles when you roll your eyes. “Or maybe a fucking cocksucker? That’s what you are anyway-”

“If you’re not here to kill me, stop wasting my time,” you cut him off. He’s trying to get into your head, with his twisted teasing and reminders. You’re not in the mood for any of it.

He glances at the stab wound on his shoulder. It wasn’t too deep, but his printed Versace dress shirt is stained with blood. “What, you’re not gonna help with Daddy’s wounds?” He taunts you.

~ ~ ~

Zsasz moans in comfort as he slips into the bath. His arm was stiff since you actually did wrap his gash on his shoulder. You made sure you tied it too tight, so much so that it almost cut the circulation off his arms. But that didn’t matter. It’s the fact that youdid it which he cares so much about it.

He picks his phone from the pockets of his pants which he tossed on the bathroom floor while getting undressed. He opens the photo app and taps on an untitled folder. In it are images of you, ranging from low quality helicopter shots of your encounters with Wonder Woman to pictures he snapped of you from your apartment window without you knowing.

When he saw you that day at the club, he was immediately fascinated with your looks. When he returned to Gotham, you were all that took up his mind. He was obsessed, but he lost you. You were hours away, in the dangerous parts of Boston without anyone to watch over you.

His parents died a few months after his encounter with you. After that, his depression led him to the gambling addiction where he lost it all to Oswald Cobblepot. He was ready to end it all when he met Roman. By then, he almost forgot about you until your face showed up on nationwide news one day as everyone dubbed you Wonder Woman’s new foe.

He zooms in on a photo he had taken of you in the shower. Your breasts were nearly in full view, if it wasn’t for the stupid fucking plant you had in there that blocked much of the window. Zsasz smiles.

He’s lost everything. He lost his parents in the car accident. He lost his fortune in the Gotham casino. He lost Roman to that bitch, Harley Quinn. He’s lost everything. Everything except you.

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Chappie Drei (Pathfinder X Reader)

(Chapter three of Finding the Path to Your Heart on Wattpad, a SFW robot X human fanfiction) )

I never did run into him again that match.

Our squad made it to ninth place before ultimately falling to Bloodhound and their team. I managed to get two more kills, and while Bangalore and Wraith each got three times that amount, it still felt good to have contributed. Now I was once more back in the dropship, awaiting the final results of the battle alongside all the other fallen fighters. Their whoops and hollers during the fight between the final five squads was deafening, so much so that I half-considered jumping off the ship again just to escape it. I never did understand all the excitement surrounding Apex matches, and experiencing one for myself hardly changed that opinion… Though, I will admit, it wasn’t so bad watching Pathfinder play. The little quirks he had made him fun to watch, from high-fiving fallen enemies to bubbling over every zipline he got a chance to ride. But ultimately he too fell to Bloodhound, making the mystery-in-a-mask and their squad the Champions.

It was only a matter of time before those last two squads joined us on the ship. Everyone was buzzing about the winning squad, while I was more looking forward to seeking out Pathfinder and thanking him again for what he did. Out of nowhere a hand landed on my shoulder, making me jump out my skin.

“Oh, it’s just you, Bangalore. You scared me…”

“Sorry, sorry, kid,” she waved apologetically. “I just wanted to apologize for giving you such a hard time earlier. You did alright for it being your first match,” she offered a warm smile.

“It’s okay, I don’t blame you. I still have a lot to learn.”

“You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Shoot Turret, and I could have sworn you almost went down right at the beginning. Good thing you aren’t that bad at fighting though, right?” She gave a rough but friendly slap upside my back. “Haha, yeeeaaah…” I laughed nervously, trying to avert my eyes from her before my more foolish side revealed the truth. I didn’t have to pretend to be distracted for long though, as just then the top two squads emerged into the room, including Pathfinder.

Everyone instantly swarmed around them, gushing about the epic battle they’d just fought. For a moment I gave up on talking to Pathfinder, seeing as how occupied he was with everyone else. But that wasn’t so. Pathfinder raised a hand to high-five the crowd as they came, only for everybody to rush past him and high-five his teammates instead. Ouch! The only thing worse than getting left hanging was seeing someone else get left hanging. How could they ignore him like that? Even Bangalore and Wraith had no problem sliding past him to congratulate the others. But he got second place! He deserves to be celebrated just as much as his teammates! Yet as infuriating as it was to witness, Pathfinder didn’t seem to mind. With a big, yellow smile displayed brightly on his chest, he lowered his hand and went about his own way to go fidget by the window. It didn’t sit well with me at all.

“Pathfinder!” I called out, charging towards him with an outstretched hand. “Highfive me right now!” He almost didn’t turn around in time, just barely meeting my hand with a startled slap that broke air (and possibly a few bones) upon contact. “El Turret! I’m sorry, you caught me off guard. Did I hit you too hard?”

I fought back a tear as I gazed down at my quivering red palm. “No, not at all. I’m fine.” Shaking my head, I clasped my hands behind my back and turned to face him. “Nice job getting second place. You fought really well,” that’s what he’d want to hear someone tell him, right? “Right?! That was a fun match. Too bad we both lost to Bloodhound, they’re a tough person to beat!” His smiley face momentarily became slanted to match his bummed out expression.

“You think so too? Well, my first match wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, thanks to you,” I offered a smile.

“That’s what friends are for!” Friends, huh? He slapped me on the shoulder and gave a thumbs up. Only, I didn’t jump when his hand landed on me like I did with Bangalore, probably because I saw him coming. What I didn’t see coming was a man appearing between me and Pathfinder and throwing his arms around our backs. It was the same magician guy I killed last match. “You guys, we should go to the bar to celebrate another match well done and the newest Legend to the roster, yeah?!” He proposed the room.

“Shut up, Mirage. Match well done my ass, you were the first fucking guy to die,” a big, mad scientist looking man huffed.

“Compliments to this lady right here, uh, whatever her name is,” Mirage pointed at me. “Come on you guys, first round’s on me!” The entire room cheered, and soon me and Pathfinder found ourselves being swept off our feet by the crowd of alcohol-craving fiends. The bar we ended up at was fairly standard and lively. I sat right in the middle of it all, pushed and pulled around by people who danced and swayed like grass under a landing airship. Drops of who-knows-what spilled from the rims of swaying drinks and rained down on me every now and then. It was pretty stuffy in here to begin with, and now I was beginning to reek of alcohol too, despite not having drank any. What am I doing here? According to Mirage, half of this drinking party was held in my honor, but it didn’t really feel that way. I couldn’t raise my voice enough to talk to anyone, and everyone else was already so invested in their own bubbling conversations I didn’t want to interrupt them anyways. No, I should stop wasting my time here and just go home already. I don’t think anybody would notice if I slipped out now...

But as I got up to do so, I noticed Pathfinder in the same awkward position that I was in, not being able to keep up with anyone else as they drank away either. The same guilty feeling I had from earlier swelled up, and before I knew it I was making my way over to him and taking a seat besides the robot. “Hey, Pathfinder. You aren’t gonna drink either?” I asked, not realizing my own stupidity until the words were already out my mouth.

“I would if I had a digestive system! How about you, how come you aren’t mingling with everyone else?”

“I guess I’m just feeling a little uncomfortable right now. Still getting used to everybody, y’know?”

“You’ll fit in before you know it. I’m still trying to fit in myself. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a robot, so I could drink and party just like everyone else,” he leaned his head on his hand.

“I think it’s really cool that you’re a robot!” I blurted out. “I mean, I think robots and machines and stuff like that is cool. I like them, anyways,” I scratched the back of my neck nervously. Why did I have to out and say something so weird to exactly the kind of person I shouldn’t say that too?!

“You think so? Heh, thanks!” He beamed. “It’s nice to hear someone say that for a change. I bet my master is going to say the same thing when I meet him.”

“Your master? As in who built you?”

“Yup! The whole reason I’ve participated in Apex in the first place is to put myself out there so I can find him. I know he’s out there somewhere, probably trying to find me, too.”

“I see. I hope you two reunite with eachother soon. You know, I’ve met a lot of people that build machines for a living! If it’s any help, maybe I can ask arou-”

“Woah, hold the phone! You haven’t gotten anything to drink yet, have you? Try this, I call it ‘Mirage’s Mirage-Inducing World Famous Special Juice, Working Title™.’ You’ll love it!” A tall shot glass of neon-orange juice was laid out in front of me by his truly.

“That looks radioactive,” Pathfinder said.

“Um, I’m sorry, I don’t really drink,” I waved my hands apologetically.

“C’mon, just this small shot. Try it, I made it myself!” He looked so excited for me to try it, I couldn’t say no. I’m a sucker for homemade goods. Plus, it looked like it was mostly juice. How bad could it be?

“Fine, I’ll try it. Oh, you don’t mind, do you Pathfinder?” I didn’t want to go drinking right after he’d been talking about how much he wished he could too. But he waved me okay, so without further ado I downed the entire glass at once. Instant regret swelled up from within me in the form of a harsh fire that burned through my mouth and nose tubes and tapered off at my ears. I clenched my face and pounded my fist on the table to cope with the intense effects. “What was in that, antifreeze?!"

“110% alcohol content, baby!” he finger gunned me. “A little bit of hot sauce too, just to spice things up. Tasty, right?” He was so enthusiastic, I couldn’t tell if he deliberately made it that awful just to mess with me or if he was really that bad at brewing. Either way, I was grateful when Mirage offered a normal juice pouch as a chaser. “You aren’t missing much, Pathfinder. Alcohol is the worst, don’t ever drink it if you get the chance!” I sobbed in between sips.

‘Ouch. That bad, huh? Maybe I did put a little bit too much mustard extract in there…”

“Uhm- Why don’t we go outside and get you some fresh oxygen? You look like you need some,” Pathfinder suggested. He didn’t wait for an answer before dragging me away from the counter and leading me outside with a hand on my back for stability...

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Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

aka‘The Tournament’

so it turns out medieval tax law is insanely complicated and even a small amount of side reading on it takes forever. if someone else is for some weird reason interested in knights' fees and some of the problems they caused my source material isthis chapterin a very lectury 1895 book which goes into detail about English feudal government income in general. this is probably not the most recent scholarship on the subject and i would not try to use it as a source in a paper but I did not feel like battling with JSTOR's shitty search engine just to research a short color plot in my goofy thronebreaker fanfic. anyway welcome to part 2 of our non-adventure, enjoy (or don't, i am not a beggar.)

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4.

A week later, Meve had nearly forgotten about the looming duel. She alighted from her horse in the castle courtyard and was instantly handed a report: in Dravograd there was a disagreement between the human and dwarf smithing guilds, which might soon lead to violence. The Queen turned out her favorite knight to solve the distant problem and settled into days of debate over an ongoing issue at home. The trouble, she learned, was that some of her barons had too many knights, overfilling the quota on which the crown drew an annual tax, and paid more than they preferred or could afford. Meanwhile, others had too few, with the result that the realm burdened them less. The latter outnumbered the former by a mathematically considerable amount, so that the crown’s entitlement had fallen short of the expected amount for the year; a new law was required, and had been drafted. However, the batch of them were incapable of finalizing the text of the proposed rule, especially where it concerned the amounts to be payable, and had come to a hopeless standstill in her absence. In the resulting confusion of numbers and obstruction, she only had reason to recall the tournament and its aftermath because a servant brought an unexpected letter to her office.

She eyed the scrawled writing on the front, was informed that it had been delivered to the kitchen by a sullen-looking speechless brigand, shrugged, and left it, unopened, for Reynard. He found it some days later, when he returned from his mission.

“Gascon doesn’t ever write,” he remarked, frowning suspiciously at the Duke’s name on the envelope, and cut it open it cautiously. He tipped it out over Meve’s desk, but it contained nothing dangerous, only a short note on dirty old paper, written in what appeared to be charcoal.

“I presumed it was about your duel,” Meve explained, “Is it?”

“Not - not as such,” he replied, after reading it over a second time; a baffled frown was on his face. “Says he’s departed on a quest, of all things, not to worry about him, will return when he’s finished, or else when Sir Holt gets around to fighting, whichever happens first.”

Meve took the note out of his hand and stared at the offending word in disbelief.

“A quest? Has he lost his mind? This isn’t a bard’s tale; he has a fief to manage, and -”

“It’s getting on to winter, luckily,” Reynard interrupted in his most reasonable tone, “So, there’s not much managing for him to do, just now.”

“Unless there’s a fire, or a war, or bandits,” Meve snapped, gripping the flimsy paper hard.

“Well, you’ve made two of those possibilities rather unlikely, at the moment,” the Count said; he took the letter away and added as Meve instantly crossed her arms, “I agree; this is a ridiculous notion. However, he does appear to have had the foresight to choose a sensible time of year to have it, which is more responsible than usual. For him, I mean.”

“He might’ve said something, instead of simply vanishing,” she complained, feeling that she was losing ground in the argument by remaining silent.

“-and,” Reynard continued, as if she hadn’t, “He can’t have gone very far, else he’d have no way of knowing when this duel is to take place. If, indeed, it ever will.”

Meve brightened slightly and said, “In that case, you should find it simple enough to hunt him down again.”

“I’ll do it if you wish, of course, but will you hear my advice, first?”

“I usually do, I suppose.”

“I think you should just leave it be, for the time being; he’ll return in due time and patience will answer far better than action, to speed the process.”

“Were he anyone else, I’d have him arrested,” Meve said, the glare staying put on her face but her shoulders relaxing slightly in defeat.

“I know that, but in truth, I believe we’ll have our stray dog back soon enough,” Reynard said gently, “All we have to do is wait.”

Patience, instead of action, was not how Meve preferred to operate, but she did her best to do as Reynard suggested, aided considerably by the ongoing distraction of the tax problem. Intelligence crossed her desk, in relation to the knights’ fees and otherwise; no report contained information on the missing Duke, but one included a rumor that briefly distracted even her from her main priority: an informant ended his confidential message on the exact details of her northern vassals’ taxable estates on a strange note.

“Says here an unknown knight’s rumored to be in th’ area of Hawkesburn,” she said to Reynard, after a glance around to ensure they were alone in the room. “Apparently he wears black armor and jousted with all comers who crossed his path, for two days, defeated three knights, and then, on losing to a fourth, vanished again and hasn’t been seen since.”

“How tiresome,” Reynard replied; she laughed at his stuffily disapproving tone and, as it was difficult to collect fees on the armored head of an unverified rumor, forgot about it. She was, after all, quite busy, cooking up a scheme to end the fee stalemate before it brought the court to a complete halt or, worse, came to blows. She set her accountants and clerks to work and soon delivered a new proposal to the court, a plan that settled the matter in a way that heavily profited the crown at the barons’ considerable expense; the document was of course rejected out of hand. She then threatened a royal command, and was pleased to find that all but the most belligerent of her vassals suddenly favored the original, far more equitable proposal that had been drawn up in the first place.

Meanwhile, the end of autumn passed by; the last of the dull brown leaves on the trees blew away in a windstorm and the branches stood bare against the sky. Reliable reports of a werewolf near the northern border were followed, as Reynard was preparing a force to investigate, by further news that the beast had been dealt with by a black knight. The last holdout against the final version of the new tax law suddenly became perfectly amenable to the proposal, after a personal visit from Count Odo, armed with a sword and a bluntly phrased reminder of the baron’s failure to support the Queen during the war. A somewhat embarrassed young knight of Meve’s court turned up, with a believable, unembellished tale in which a stranger in black armor jousted against him on a bridge and knocked him off into the icy creek below. That same day, the new tax law was finally signed by unanimous consent of the court. The weather settled into its usual, predictable early winter pattern - two days of rain, two of sun, one of icy grayness, followed again by rain.

Then, during the afternoon on one of the rainy days, a traveler arrived in court - a familiar man, dressed in mismatched chainmail and leather armor, and bearing a message from Sir Holt of the Fen. Meve happened to be in the armory, considering a new crossbow that could fire two bolts on a single load; he was shown in, followed immediately by Reynard. The sergeant broke off his explanation of the crossbow’s double trigger system, raised an alarmed eyebrow at the Count’s dark expression, and promptly invited himself out; the messenger seemed to feel similarly about the situation and wasted no time making his speech:

“My master asks for your assistance, Your Grace; he was - “ the messenger paused, frowning uncertainly, produced a paper with writing on both sides, and read from it, squinting nearsightedly, “ - he was, I quote, assailed at night at an isolated crossroads, by a knight errant well armed in black armor who spake not; there they did fight a mighty battle for hours -”

“Skip to th’ end, sir,” the Queen said, casually picking a sword from a rack; the messenger glanced at it, quickly flipped the paper over, and summarized the rest:

“ - anyway, he was struck down by the stranger, following which the black knight disappeared into the darkness, as if by an enchantment, and - well, in short, he requests that you send an appropriate force to apprehend the villain. Also, he wishes to inform my lord the Count that he is prepared to do battle with the same, at the Count’s convenience.”

“About damn time,” the Count growled under his breath.

“To clarify,” the Queen said, a slightly malicious gleam in her eye, “Sir Holt, after challenging the best out of all my knights to a personal combat, wants me to send him along to fight off a brigand that he is unable to defeat, himself.”

“That’s about the size of it, my lady,” the messenger said, absently folding his paper into a square and looking carefully blank. She eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what role, exactly, he filled in Sir Holt’s retinue; the question was irrelevant, and so she set it aside for later consideration.

“I see. Well, Count Odo, what say you?”

“I am at your command, as always, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.

“Very well; we’ll depart for Sir Holt’s lands tomorrow morning,” she decided, idly studying the sword she held. “I believe I’d like to meet this mysterious knight for myself; my court sorceress will solve any enchantments, and there will be nowhere for him to hide.”

The messenger bowed his way out; Meve waited a good half minute for him to be well out of earshot and then stepped across to a large map tacked to the armory wall. She considered the north of the country and noted, casually, “Gascon’s estates and Sir Holt’s aren’t so far apart; they’re neighbors, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” she said, turning back with the sword pointed toward Reynard, “I know of only one anonymous knight errant in black armor in my kingdom, and I certainly have not been riding about the country in the middle of the night, fighting with passing strangers and killing occasional monsters. At least, not recently.”

“No, I daresay I would have noticed, if you were,” Reynard allowed with a fond smile. “So, then, who do you suspect?”

“I don’t know, yet,” Meve said, looking down the length of the blade at him. “It just seems odd that the place where I fought incognito is so near to where a similarly attired knight is now causing trouble. I take issue, sir, with some stranger stealing my disguise and ruining the reputation I forged in it.”

“Or,” he suggested, eyes narrowing, “Perhaps what’s happened is that Sir Holt, not making any connection between the black knight of the tournament and the similar knight at Hawkesburn, heard the same story we did about the latter and invented this tale of his defeat, to draw me out to the countryside and thereby avoid fighting me on home ground.”

“Ah,” she said, lowering the sword. “Yes, I suppose that’s a plausible theory. I can send someone else out, if you’d prefer.”

Her heart lurched suddenly as a slight, dangerous smile crossed his face. She set the sword down absently, said, “No, I didn’t think you would,” and abandoned consideration of far-away knights, black or red, in favor of the much more interesting example she had immediately to hand.

The next morning dawned clear and the weather remained dry; Reynard’s picked company needed little encouragement to take full advantage. The General was in an uncommon hurry, it was plain to see, and so they traveled until late each night with only short breaks. During their third, bitterly cold, evening, a scout came down the column toward his commander and reported, “Seen an armed horseman not far up the way.”

“A highwayman,” the Count suggested; the Queen, overhearing them, said, “Or the black knight.”

The scout shook his head.

“Not likely a knight, my lady, nor no bandit neither, sir, I figure, but I’ll wager he waits for passerby, whatever.”

“It’s just th’ one man,” the Count said, shrugging; nevertheless the column continued somewhat more slowly, with eyes kept to the dark trees around and arrows on their bowstrings. They reached the turn in the road that the scout indicated and paused; the stranger was still there, sitting his horse in the moonlight under a dark hood, apparently waiting. The Queen and Count both leaned forward to squint suspiciously at the oddly familiar figure, and several of the warband as well; the Count then pulled an exasperated frown and sat up suddenly in his saddle.

“Oh, for the love of -”

“Stand down,” Meve ordered, cutting Reynard off, “We know this fellow.”

The stranger laughed, pulled his hood down, and bowed grandly toward his audience. Meve kicked her horse into motion as Reynard said, irritably, “Nice of you to rejoin society, Brossard.”

“Couldn’t miss your duel, could I?” the Duke replied, brightly; the knight had no time to reply as Meve approached, turned her horse, grabbed the Duke’s stirrup, and yanked upwards, tipping him off the opposite side of his alarmed mount. He hit the road with a grunt and immediately sprang upright, surprised and angry, caught sight of the grim expression on the Queen’s face, and mastered himself with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. She said nothing and rode away; the column followed, leaving Reynard behind.

“Well,” the Duke said, after the last of the warband passed on, “I suppose my unhorsing was long overdue.”

The Count shook his head disapprovingly, recaptured Gascon’s mare, and waited for the other man to clamber, wincing, back into the saddle.

“Nice to see you, too,” Gascon added, settling himself and picking dead leaves off his jacket. “Ouch.”

“Hmm,” Reynard replied doubtfully, releasing the horse.

“Yes, quite, and no more need be said on the subject. Anyway, I rode out t’ invite you and your company to stay at my place. My other place, I mean; the lodge, not the fort, which is inconveniently located for our, um, purposes. It’s about an hour’s ride from here,” he added, in response to the knight’s unspoken question. “I stationed a man partway, to direct you; I myself ought t’ ride on ahead and ensure all’s prepared. Under the circumstances, if you’d kindly relay th’ invitation to your lady love for me, I’d be much obliged.”

“Yes,” Reynard agreed, “That’s probably th’ only good idea you’ve had all month.”

“Well, you know what they say about clocks,” Gascon said, cheerfully enough. “Or is it th’ one about blind squirrels? Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

He galloped off; Reynard sighed and hurried to catch up with the column.

Half an hour later, at a fork in the road, they found Ethan waiting; the squire awkwardly led the warband through the dark woods, attempting to look anywhere except at its silent leader. They arrived just before midnight at a building which resembled a typical hunting lodge in the same way that Rivia Castle resembled the Brossard fort. Meve displayed no particular interest in the vast exterior, built out of the crumbling remains of an elven fortress, or the several hundred hunting trophies mixed with long since out of fashion furnishings that filled the drafty rooms within it. As they entered, Reynard said quietly to her, “Reminds me of my grandfather, this place,” which dragged a slight smile through her tense displeasure; nevertheless she stayed stubbornly silent until they were out of sight and hearing of anyone else but the uncharacteristically courteous Gascon.

“This house is like that menagerie Foltest keeps in Vizima,” she finally remarked, studying a white bearskin rug with the snarling head still attached, “Except that th’ animals are mostly still alive there, of course.”

“I haven’t had the time to redecorate,” Gascon ventured with the air of a man testing the waters. “In truth, this is only the second time I’ve ever been here, myself. My mother never wanted t’ come here when I was young; said it was creepy.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong,” Meve said, glancing around at the strange shadows the animal heads threw on the walls in the firelight. Reynard shrugged unconcernedly and put an arm around her. A slightly awkward silence fell.

“Would you like to see a camelopard’s head?” Gascon asked, breaking it; Meve looked interested, instead of icily distant, and he pointed the rare trophy out, just over the fireplace in company with a few other preserved monsters. They sat and regarded it for a moment.

“That,” Reynard stated flatly, “Is a horse’s head with spots painted on it.”

“It was quite a fine horse, however,” Meve said with an amused smile, her bad mood forgotten.

“And they’re well-painted spots,” Gascon replied, grinning.

By morning, the incident on the road the night before had been forgotten, by unspoken mutual consent. Meve and Reynard passed an hour of the morning in an argument over their next move; Gascon, meanwhile, conveniently vanished to negotiate with the enemy camp. Eventually the disagreement was resolved by some cunning diplomacy on Meve’s part; she and Isbel then departed to investigate the mystery of the black knight, leaving Reynard behind to await his second’s return.

Rain had set in; they rode through cold drizzle, accompanied by a miserable escort. Isbel considered the dripping soldiers and the sparse, leafless scrub trees that dominated the roadside and finally said, “If the black knight, so-called, can vanish, perhaps by enchantment, as you suggested when you dragged me along on this excursion, it isn’t by light of day, and certainly not into these woods.”

“I know that,” Meve said.

“Then what, may I ask, is the point of this?”

“Why, the fresh air and exercise,” she replied. Silence returned after, for a time, and then the sorceress, in a tone of deep disgust, said, “You’re hoping to find this person before Sir Reynard does, aren’t you?”

“Well - all right; we’ve something of a wager going, on that ring I won in the tourney, and the next of us to win a fight will also win the prize. He, of course, is expecting this duel any day now, so the sooner I find the black knight, the better, as there’s not much chance he’ll lose it.”

The sorceress sighed, cast a despairing look skyward, and noted, “The black knight perhaps does not exist, or may not be found in these parts.”

“Yes, that’s Reynard’s theory,” Meve said, casually, “But I disagree.”

They returned that evening empty-handed and damp, to find Reynard in a state of abject boredom. His gloom was only slightly lessened by Meve’s return and her lack of success; noticing the depressed atmosphere, she attempted to engage him in a chat about the weather, and then, when the conversation failed, talked aimlessly at him about the latest advancements in crossbow design. Gascon returned as night was falling, long after she’d stopped trying to shift his mood and had resigned herself to examining the hunting trophies in the melancholy silence.

“We’ve chosen the field,” he said, “I just went to have a look, as it’s not all that far away. It looks decent; not too many holes in it, and I don’t think it’ll be flooded from all this rain.”

“When?” Reynard asked, testily.

“Tomorrow evening,” said Gascon, “And I should warn you that th’ opposition’s clearly intending to use the sunset to his advantage, should the weather clear, but then, perhaps it won’t.”

Meve glanced out the nearest window; the rain had turned spotty after dark, and she could see stars through patches in the clouds at the western horizon. She frowned and left the men to an involved discussion of the field’s layout; neither of them appeared to notice her departure. She found Isbel studying the camelopard head with a dubious frown. The sorceress kept up the expression as she explained the latest development and only said, wearily, “These men,” in response.

“I thought,” Meve said, idly, “That, perhaps, you’re right about the black knight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes; he certainly shouldn’t vanish very well, by day, at least; we really ought to be hunting for him at night, instead.”

“In this weather?”

“Well, it’s inconvenient, to be sure, and would make fighting him much more difficult, and I suppose that any advantage is worth th’ effort,” Meve said significantly, eying the older woman. Isbel considered the statement a moment.

“Is Sir Reynard in any significant danger?” she asked, pointedly.

“Doubtful,” Meve replied, waving the idea off as it if was impossible; hadn’t even crossed her mind; “This isn’t that serious of a matter. He may be injured, I suppose, but not killed - not on purpose, at least, and he’s been a knight too long for an accident to be likely.”

“Well then, perhaps I might leave early,” Isbel suggested, looking unconvinced.

“The fight’s tomorrow evening,” Meve noted, apparently ignoring the request, “Do you think that the weather will hold, or clear?”

“I don’t know,” Isbel answered, reluctantly. “It’s hard to tell, so far in advance, at this time of year; I suppose it may not.”

“As you say,” Meve said, flashed her victorious smile, and added, “Travel safely; we’ll see you at home.”

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Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fereldan Politics, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary: Eamon faces the consequences of his actions, and Cailan reflects.

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Nineteenth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

The trial began an hour before noon. The guildhall had been cleared on the order of the king, and the guildmaster had reordered what furniture there was into a more suitable arrangement: the largest, most ornate chair she could find at the far end opposite the doors for Cailan himself, a set of smaller to his left and right for officials and the few nobles in attendance – Alistair, Rosslyn, Ferrenly, Loren, Franderel; and plenty of space remained in the middle of the room for the accused to feel isolated. Rain pattered on the roof as the large double doors groaned open to admit Arl Eamon, not in shackles, but still flanked very closely by the two guards who walked behind him. Such banal duty ought to be beneath Captains Morrence and Mhairi, but Cousland Blue flared next to royal Red all the same, the pair of them having decided that the honour of watching Eamon fall should belong to no one else but them.

Cailan, dressed with utmost formality in red velvet and a trimmed mantle of finely tooled leather, shifted in his seat as Eamon bowed, ignoring the scratch of the scribe in the corner, and cleared his throat. “This judgement is convened today to answer charges against Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, who stands accused of acts amounting to treason. Ser Brantis, if you would read out the specifics.”

The old chamberlain did not rise from his seat. The summer’s campaign had taken its toll on him, leaving his hair thinner than ever and pitching his voice at a faint nasally wheeze that every now and then broke out into a cough. Every one of Cailan’s attempts to ease him into retirement at Redcliffe had been brushed aside with an efficient exasperation perfected over almost three decades of royal service. After all, he had argued, nobody had a finer understanding of the law than him, and he did not need stout legs to exercise it.

“The accusation against Arl Eamon Guerrin is on three counts,” he announced now, the scroll shaking in his hand. “First, that he did in full knowledge of his actions intercept and waylay royal correspondence. Second, that he did lie on multiple occasions to a member of the royal family about the aforementioned interference. And third, that he did withhold information from the Crown pertaining to State affairs in order to promote his own interests. Such acts, should my lord be found guilty, would together constitute an act of treason, with the punishment to be determined by His Majesty, in attendance.”

An uneasy silence descended over the hall, all eyes on the king, all breaths held for his response.

“Well, Arl Eamon, what do you say to this?” His voice, usually so light, fell like a stone into a still pool.

Eamon lifted his chin. “I have a right to know my accusers.”

“You know very well who we are,” Rosslyn snapped from her place on Cailan’s right. “Answer the question.”

“Peace, Your Ladyship. We are waiting, Uncle.”

Glancing at his audience, the old arl rolled his answer over his tongue, his cheeks sucked in sapped bellows beneath the neatly groomed length of his beard. “All I have ever done has been done for the benefit of Ferelden,” he declared. “Whether that be shedding blood in the rebellion that ended the Orlesian occupation of this country, or through the use of diplomatic skill to prevent bloodshed in the first place.”

“Your record on that count is somewhat less than perfect, my lord,” the king answered coldly. “Given the current political climate. Is this a denial?”

Eamon bristled. “Berate me if you must, but I am no traitor.”

Silence again. Someone shifted on their feet, uncomfortable, and still the rain came down upon the roof. Cailan sat in his chair with the cornflower blue of his eyes hardened on the defiance seething in the man before him. The outcome of the trial was more formality than anything; he already knew the story, and the parts of all the players.

“We will hear the evidence, and decide,” he said at last, and turned away. “Ser Brantis, the witnesses, please.”

The chamberlain nodded and called the first name on his scroll, and looked up as Eamon’s valet appeared in the escort of another guard, wringing his hands and refusing to look at his master as he came to stand before the king. Cailan opened his mouth, but the man pre-empted him. Stuttering, he spilled testimony about conferences overheard between Eamon and the king of Orzammar that discussed ‘progress’ with an unnamed venture where the names of both the dwarf princess and the human prince were dropped; he recounted a time he witnessed Alistair put a letter directly into Eamon’s hand for inclusion with the post, only to have the arl tuck it away in a desk drawer once the Prince was out of sight; he even mentioned the keenness with which his master praised His Highness’ decision to take lessons in the Shaperate, and plotted excuses to first meet with him and Valesh Aeducan and then leave them alone together.

“It was not my place to ask,” he wailed. “Bt it was clear he was trying to engineer a match between them. I offer this testimony now to try and repair the damage wrought in part through my ignorance, to a most honourable lady.” He offered a trembling bow to Rosslyn, who gracefully returned the gesture with a nod.

“Tell me what happened on the final morning before your departure,” Cailan ordered.

The man shot a worried glance at Eamon, but despite the twist of his lip, the arl remained stoic and only waited for his judgement.

“The tradition in Orzammar is for a servant to sleep outside their master’s chambers, you understand,” he began. “I was woken early by his Highness storming into my lord’s quarters, but he ignored my protest. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury, and with Warden Commander Duncan behind him – with that way Grey Wardens tend to have about them – all I could do was follow. His Highness demanded to know the whereabouts of the letters from Her Ladyship, and then threatened to have his guard search the place when my lord did not answer. My lord then took two stacks of paper from his desk, and from the look on His Highness’ face, they were what he was looking for.”

“Did His Highness confront Arl Eamon about his possession of these letters?” Cailan asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And?”

“He… he called His Highness selfish and foolish, Your Majesty.” The valet gulped. “And spoke openly about separating His Highness and Her Ladyship in favour of… other matches.”

Alistair glanced at Rosslyn. She had taken hold of his hand during the questioning, heedless of the eyes already upon her, squeezing his fingers so tightly he felt the tendons shifting beneath her skin. Her resolve remained undaunted in the set of her jaw, but the scrutiny of so many interested parties grated on her, the intimacies of their relationship pared away and batted about as evidence to be quarrelled over, like dogs fighting for bones, and then fed into the rumour-mill for the gossips to thread and weave into whatever tapestry they liked. The letters, after all, sat at the heart of the matter. Eamon’s true condemnation lay within their lines, buried among private hopes and despairs that could too easily be turned against them.

“I have the letters,” he declared now, stepping forward out of her reach and missing the grip of her hand. His other held the evidence aloft for the watchers to see. “Her Ladyship’s last, in her own hand sent with Warden Commander Duncan, speaks of having received no correspondence from me for months prior to the letter’s date, when in fact I wrote many, and asked a number of my contingent to see them delivered to the messengers.”

“You may read it out, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn supplied, as the unassuming slip of paper was pressed into Cailan’s hands. “The beginning of the second paragraph deals with the current concern.”

The king’s gaze lingered on her for a moment of sympathy as he unfolded it. “Dated on the ninth of Harvestmere, and it is in Her Ladyship’s hand. The first paragraph recounts the fall of South Reach. The second… This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. This messenger was Warden Commander Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His Wardens happened to be passing through the Southron Hills tracking a party of darkspawn and heard what happened at South Reach.”

Cailan refolded the letter. With the scribe’s pen still scratching out the moments, he shifted in his chair so he could lean his chin on his fist, his frown directed at a whorl in one of the floorplanks at his feet.

“The evidence is damning,” he said at last. “However, before I pass judgement, I wish to know the motive. Why would one who supposedly values loyalty to the Crown above all things go to such lengths to undermine its authority?” His voice rose with every word, outrage matched by incredulity. “What could be gained from making the private affairs of two people the subject of sport? Am I to declare war on King Bhelen in retaliation for meddling in the affairs of Ferelden’s crown? Answer, my lord Eamon. Those were not rhetorical questions.”

Faced with the king’s true, righteous fury, Eamon at last let his mask of indifference drop. He hung his head, lacking the contrition of a true apology, but enough to admit defeat. “I accept all responsibility for this matter,” he said. “I proposed the matter to King Bhelen, and he took the understanding that Your Majesty endorsed our actions. No reprisal is necessary for his part.”

“In that, at least, you retain your honour,” Cailan allowed, sighing in relief. “But it still doesn’t answer why.”

“I thought the two of them a poor match,” came the slow reply.

Rosslyn advanced. “And what right does an arl have to determine suitability between a teyrna and a prince who bear no relation to him?”

“Your Ladyship –” Cailan warned, but Eamon was already snarling back.

“The right of a king’s advisor with enough experience to foresee and want to avert disaster. Forgive my candour, Your Ladyship, but you have proven yourself to be rash, even brutal in your approach, and such wildness ought not to be left unchecked. His Highness is easily led –”

“Now wait just a –”

“– and when I saw your undue influence over him I sought to stop it, to save him from the bull-headed determination of a child entirely too used to getting her own way in everything, who came into power –”

“Enough!” Teagan was standing. He had stayed silent as the court revealed the evidence against his brother piece by piece, but now the wan surprise had fled in favour of anger as he stared down the man he had toddled after as a young child. “Eamon, you go too far.”

“No,” Rosslyn interrupted in a light voice, as full of promise as the first breath of winter. “It’s good to finally hear the truth. My lord is all concern for the wellbeing of his country and his charge, naturally. I’m sure it’s merely coincidence that had his interference succeeded, he would have benefitted from a very lucrative trade deal with an untapped foreign power, and would have in the same blow regained his usurped place as His Majesty’s closest advisor. How much more difficult it would have been for Prince Alistair to voice his disagreement, trapped under a mountain with a new wife to anchor him there.” She flashed a feral smile. “And of course, there is the threat of an independent Highever, loyal not to the crown but to the teyrna who has shed blood for them, who herself has too much of the Clayne in her to ever submit to any authority but her own. What better way to deal with her than ambush her into a marriage of convenience that would secure power in the north and condemn the actions of a traitor?”

Eamon glared at her.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, an easy stance to betray the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Of course, such considerations never entered my lord’s head. His thoughts are only for Ferelden, after all.”

“As they always will be,” he growled.

As the pair stared each other down, Loren whispered to Franderel behind his hand, and others in the room craned forward, eager to see what would happen next, noting how Alistair moved closer to Rosslyn, as if to shield her from the ire cast in her direction.

“At this stage, isn’t motive a moot point?” he called across the silence. “Arl Eamon has confessed – to everything.”

Nodding, Cailan sat forward and steepled his fingers, deep lines creased between his eyes. When he began to speak, his voice barely rose above a mumble, as if he had forgotten everyone else around him. “Once, l would have thought my uncle incapable of such manipulation, but this action does have precedent.” His gaze shot to Eamon. “I should have checked you before when I caught your meddling in my affairs, and perhaps we might not have come to this. But it is treason, for all the worst effects have been avoided. The punishment for that is death.” He sighed. “Arl Eamon, if that were the ruling, would you accept it?”

The old man steadied himself. “So long as my wife and son do not share that fate – they had no part in this.”

“Connor is safe in the Storm Giant’s court, and Isolde is not on trial. Ser Brantis?”

“Mitigation relies on intent, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain replied in his reedy voice. “And it is clear there was intent here to unduly influence those outside his guardianship.”

“I am left with a difficult choice, then. A man with decades of loyal service to his name, and an example to make of him.” Cailan sat back. “However, I am not the injured party. Brother, Your Ladyship, what do you have to say?”

Startled at being addressed, the pair glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the strength of their gazes, and the small, soft curve of a smile for reassurance. Rosslyn touched Alistair’s arm.

“He should be punished according to the law,” she said. “And yet, whatever remains of his life, I would have him spend every day contemplating that whatever his intentions, his actions amounted to nothing. He lied baldfaced to all of us for months, and all he has to show for it is this. I will defer to your Majesty.”

“So will I,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll always hate myself for not doing more to expose what was going on, but now we’re here, and everyone knows.” He turned and took Rosslyn’s hand, raising it to his lips. “I have all I need.”

Such a public display of affection was unexpected. Cailan looked away and rubbed at his lip, and for a moment, silence fell once more.

Then Teagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

“Always, uncle.”

“A wise king shows mercy when it is due, and there has been enough killing. Both His Highness and Her Ladyship have advocated for my brother to live – with his guilt, and the knowledge he has lost your respect.”

“We have nowhere to hold him,” the king pointed out.

Teagan shook his head. “Not imprisonment. Exile.”

“Exile is a legal equivalent of death,” Brantis mused. “Estates and titles are passed as normal to the next of kin, unless the entire line is barred – and Your Majesty has already said that will not be the case here.”

“A death that is not a death,” Cailan repeated slowly. “Very well. Arl Eamon, given the weight of evidence against you, and your own testimony, you are found guilty of all charges. Be assured, your long years of service to my father are the only reason the sentence is not a summary execution.” He stood. “You will be escorted to Redcliffe and there given a month to set your affairs in order, and by Wintersend, you will be beyond the borders of Ferelden, never to return under promise of death. Do you understand?”

The look Eamon narrowed at him had yet to relinquish its defiance. “You’re more like your mother than I realised,” he offered. “Maric would have acted more impulsively, as he did with everything.”

“Get him out of my sight.”

As one, the two guard-captains saluted and took an elbow each to haul the disgraced arl from the room. Even before they made it through the door, Cailan was moving, slipping away with surprising quiet for a man so used to being the centre of attention, making the side door before Brantis finished rising from his chair. Alistair watched him go with a frown, wanting to follow but distracted by the hand that settled on his arm, the comforting warmth radiating from it. Rosslyn leaned into him, the concern in her grey eyes revealing that she, too, had noticed the parting glare Eamon had shot his way when he mentioned Maric’s name.

“It’s over,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell if it was a question.

He tucked an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, pleased when she dropped her head against his shoulder. “It’s over,” he agreed. “You were incredible.”

“I couldn’t let him stand there and insist he did it for the greater good.”

“I should go after Cailan,” he murmured, without moving.

A sigh. “And I still need to organise the preparations for tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.”

“That does sound tempting.” He chuckled. “We could sneak away…?”

“No,” she replied, in the same amused, drawn out syllable she used when she caught her dog eyeing a plate of food that wasn’t his. “Duty first. Otherwise Eamon would have been right.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.” He pulled back to make sure she could see his pout, and couldn’t help brushing a hand along her cheek. “You make too much sense and I love you too much to argue. But no more hiding.”

She stilled his fingers so she could turn a kiss onto his palm. “None at all. I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she walked away, and after a moment more watching her, he tore his thoughts guiltily away from the lithe sweep of her legs and went in search of his half-brother. He ignored the chatter in the hall, Franderel’s congratulations and Loren’s platitudes, breathing a relieved sigh when he made it into the deserted side corridor that wormed its way through the recesses of the guildhall. The vestibule where Cailan had donned his formal clothes was empty of all but his valet, who tutted over the haphazard way the king had scuffed the leather and crumpled the goldwork in his hastily discarded mantle.

The valet bowed. “The king has gone to the yard, Your Highness, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you, Villers. Did he, uh, take his greatsword with him?”

“I was otherwise occupied, Your Highness,” came the reply, with a meaningful nod to the mantle.

“Of course, that’s probably –”

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see a young man not much older than him in a plain suit of mail, holding out a waxed paper package.

“The report you asked for, Ser,” the messenger said. “I would’ve had it to you sooner, but the trial –”

“I’ll take it now,” he said, holding out his hand.

And that was how the rest of his day started. Two more messengers found him in his office before he had finished going through the first report, one with a requisition form, and the other with an update from the quartermaster, and he pored over his desk until the fading light forced him to stand and retrieve the glowstone from over the fire. Someone else knocked on his door, but before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the guard turned the handle to admit a servant carrying a tray.

“Teyrna Rosslyn said if you hadn’t eaten, I was to bring you some lunch,” he explained, as Alistair’s stomach rumbled. He spotted bread fresh from the oven, two apples, and a round of the soft goat’s cheese laid down the previous spring. “She also said to say yes, she’s remembered to eat, too. She sends apologies, but there’s been an injury among the archery stands, and her assistance is needed.”

The gesture warmed him more than the pot of herbal tea the servant left with the rest of the fare. He picked at it for the rest of the afternoon, only a little sorry for the crumbs he spilled over the papers, until at last, with Ferrenly’s clockwork striking the fifth hour, his door burst open once again and Cailan wandered over the threshold. Mud still caked his boots, his hair frayed loose from the braids at his temples, and he had stripped down to a plain linen shirt and simple coat to keep out the chill. Eyeing him as he sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, Alistair rose from the desk, shuffled his papers, and called for Lloyd to see them to the right people, before crossing to the dresser in the corner where Ferrenly kept his stash of brandy.

“Ho! Now there’s a good idea.”

“It’s been a long day,” Alistair offered, along with a full glass, and sat down opposite in the opposite armchair.

Cailan snorted. “Truth be told, this whole business has left me rather wrong-footed.”

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

What else could he say? After the revelation that Eamon had been hiding his letters, and the fraught escape from Orzammar, he had spent the hours between fighting demons and organising an army in introspection, where he recounted every slight of his childhood. The new understanding had soured him, leaving little energy to spare to feel anything more than relief. Rosslyn was safe, and he was free.

But Cailan was shaking his head, his eyes lost on the fire. “My problems with my uncle began long before this. If not for him, this war might never have happened.” A wry smile tilted in Alistair’s direction. “Did you never wonder where Loghain got the idea that I would forsake Anora? It’s a little ironic that if not for the commotion he caused, I would never have considered it at all.”

“What will you do now?” Now that Rosslyn turned you down flat, he did not add.

The fire cracked. Instead of answering, Cailan sighed and took a long pull of the brandy, grimacing at the burn as he swallowed. It felt odd to ask such a casual question at all, given that not even a year ago, Alistair might have been cuffed around the ear for deigning to even sit in the king’s presence. He couldn’t tell if it was the low light or the cold outside, or even just the wear of the day’s events that dulled the edge of formality that always stood between him and the king, but the air felt open, easier to breathe, and Cailan himself cut a sympathetic figure, haggard and drawn and removed of all the trappings of his station. Like he was just another person, like an equal.

Like family, he thought, and dropped his gaze to his drink.

“I don’t know what I will do,” his brother murmured. “Truly. My feelings for Anora are… well. There is love there, of a sort, but our fathers always meant us for each other, and now I cannot help but wonder how much of my affection arose because it was easier to craft those feelings than forge my own path. You can make a man envious of choosing, you know,” he added, with the ghost of a rakish smile that faded quickly. “I have not been the best husband, over the years, but with time and distance…”

Alistair waited and Cailan drained his glass.

“I was not ready to marry when I did. I barely remember any of that month Father died. He wasn’t old. And suddenly there I was with a kingdom and voices in my ears telling me to lay aside my grief to do what they said he would have wanted, and before I knew it, the deed was done and my life was no longer my own. On two fronts.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable squirm of sympathy stirred in his chest, but he had little else to offer. When Teagan had told him about Maric’s disappearance, the hope that his wrecked ship might still be found and Ferelden’s hero saved, he had been stung by a feeling that wasn’t quite grief but which ached all the same. His distant dreams of one day being acknowledged for his merit had vanished like smoke in the wind, but he had still had the training yard, his duties as a knight, and Teagan’s respect. Nobody had ever had any higher expectations for him.

Cailan swatted away the apology, and regarded him closely. “I wanted better for you, you know,” he confessed. “It’s why I did not simply order you and the Aeducan princess together. When Eamon suggested it, I remained adamant that it must be your choice, freely made. If I had known the steps he would take to engineer such a choice…” A curse escaped his lips. “I am sorry, brother, for everything I’ve done.”

They lapsed into silence. Thoughts swirled in Alistair’s head, each buzzing with their own insistence like flies on a hot day. It had never occurred to him to ask what Maric was like, either as a person or as a father, because until that moment nobody had ever spoken if him as anything less than a figurehead, an idol so remote he could never be truly real. How much of that remoteness had been crafted by Eamon, so that he would never ask for more than the scraps he was given? How much, in the end, had the old arl taken? As a child, the possibility of another life had never occurred to him; he had assumed his lot was that of all bastards, once he was old enough to understand the concept. It was only years later under Teagan’s guidance that that belief began to erode away, but even then he hadn’t wondered how things might have been different if he had been acknowledged from the beginning. He could see parties, galas, grand hunts in his mind’s eye, and hours of lessons in statecraft and history, so readily handed to him he would find them boring. He would have met other noble children, played with them, learned how to rule. He might have gone to Highever, would have met…

“Where would Rosslyn have been in all of this?” The question was rude, but thought of her woke a shade of jealousy in him, something big and dark and prowling that hovered around the image of her like a guard dog by its master’s gate, regardless that she didn’t need it of him. “You said you wouldn’t have made me marry Valesh, but what about her?”

His suspicion must have leaked into his voice, or else the question was just insulting. Cailan gave him a long, flat look.

“I would never have forced her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“She is happier with you,” his brother snapped, and sagged. “It’s a relief to see her so.” For a moment, his eyes glazed beneath his frown, thoughts far away, and something clicked in Alistair’s mind.

“How bad did it get over the summer?”

“Bad.”

He remembered, from her letters, I must really be low if even His majesty has noticed. Perhaps exile was too light a punishment after all.

“You really do love her, don’t you?” A note of wonder crept into Cailan’s voice, matched by the speculative, almost wistful tilt of his head.

The words to reply stuck in Alistair’s throat, his muscles tensed without quite knowing why. Shortly, the answer was yes, but such a small word could hardly encompass the way his chest tightened whenever Rosslyn smiled at him, the calm when he touched her, the singing in his blood on their first night back, when he had kissed her neck and drawn that lovely, desperate noise from her tongue…

“I…”

“Good,” Cailan chuffed, as he poured them both another drink. “Because if you only wanted to bed her, I’d have had to send you away to Kirkwall in disgrace.”

“What? I don’t want – I mean –” A glass was pressed into his hand. “Maker’s breath, please tell me we won’t be talking about this.”

His brother only smirked. “So you haven’t made it that far, then?”

“Cailan, you asked her to marry you. Don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate to talk about – about that?”

He hated how high his voice went, but that spark of anger got lost under the certainty that Rosslyn would not want them discussing the subject – discussing her – in such base terms. After the conversation they had shared in the meadow, he wanted to be worthy of the trust she placed in him, even if it meant losing whatever strange rapport he found himself building with his only living relative. He braced himself for whatever lurked behind the soft pity in Cailan’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the door opened and a clatter of claws signalled Rosslyn’s arrival, with Cuno at her heels.

“There you are!” he cried, rising to greet her. He hoped his blush could be blamed on the alcohol, that she hadn’t been waiting in the hallway and overheard. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, but I’m not drenched today,” she replied. “Which is an improvement. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“You know the sky won’t split open if you call me by my name.”

“Even so.” A smile touched her features as she watched Alistair chafe her fingers between his own. “I’m not staying – I met Lady Raina in the hall and promised to tell you dinner won’t be long.”

“You should at least warm up a little before you go,” he insisted.

She let herself be pulled closer, smiled at the tender hand settling against her waist.

“There are only two chairs,” she pointed out.

Cailan winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair can sit in my lap if he likes.”

“What?”

Rosslyn laughed. “I’ll spare you both the chivalry, I think. There’s a fire in my room, I’ll be warm enough.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused, her gaze darted to his mouth, a still-cold hand at his jaw. “I’ll see you later. And Your Majesty – you may want to get changed, since I hear Lady Raina has made a special effort for our last night.”

“I am rather dishevelled, aren’t I?” Cailan allowed, glancing down at his bare shirt and muddy boots.

Alistair wished him gone. Between one thing and another, he had barely seen Rosslyn all day, and never then alone. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her fingers laced in his hair as he warmed her up head to toe. He wondered if, without their audience, she could have been coaxed towards the hearth, and down into his lap, to let him lay more of those gentle, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. In the morning, they would push onward into territory controlled by Howe, and after that, only long days of marching and battle awaited, with no time for softer, quiet moments. Everyone sensed the nearing end to the war, but Loghain would never truly be brought to bay until Highever could be retaken to cut off his escape, and she had the scent in her nose like a hound on the hunt, implacable. It was his job to make sure she survived.

“See you at dinner,” he murmured, because there was nothing else to do. Her touch lingered against his skin for a moment, but then she was gone. He only realised he was still stood in the doorway, staring after her, when Cailan grunted and hauled himself up from his seat. The king drained his glass and set it on the desk.

“That’s my signal to move, as well. I’ll see you at dinner, and –” He hesitated as he stepped close, but shook off whatever reservation lurked in his mind and laid a broad hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “This is a strange situation in which we find ourselves, with… one thing and another. I will not pry, but if you ever wish for advice from a married man – even one whose marriage started a war – you will always have my ear.” He offered a brief smile. “We are brothers, after all. I think of you as such.”

“I’ll… Thank you.” Alistair faltered, struck by a sudden wave of affection for the man he had spent most of his life resenting. He wanted to repay the sincerity, but didn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know about – about marriage. Isn’t that something I should talk to Rosslyn about, first? I don’t even know if she wants…” His mind flashed to an image, hazy and indistinct, of Rosslyn, smiling, with white flowers woven into her hair, and his heart stuttered.

“There is time,” came the steady reply. “We’ve a war to win first, after all. I was, uh, thinking along slightly different lines, actually. To… get things, uh, moving along, if you…”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Well –” Cailan’s face blotched crimson. “It’s not like Teagan would be much help! And there’s ways – not at all like the boasts in the guardhouse – and you… you both should –”

“There’s a book!” Alistair squeaked, if only to make him stop. Please, please let her not be listening outside the door.

“What?”

“It was on the shelves of my room in Orzammar. I was curious.” When he had first found it, he had thought it a mistake, but saying something would have meant admitting he had peeked inside, and by the time that embarrassment had worn off, his squeamishness had given way to a certain kind of fascination. “It’s very thorough and… it has diagrams.”

Understanding dawned on Cailan’s face, delight mixed with no small amount of relief. “You still have it. You stole it!”

“After I found out what was going on, I wanted to be petty,” he admitted. No doubt the book had been placed there to encourage his infatuation in an entirely different direction, and by the point of leaving, he’d had hope again. “It seemed like the best way.”

“Well,” Cailan tried. “Huh. And here I thought you got up to no mischief at all. Has she seen it?”

“She – she doesn’t know about it. Yet. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know what she’d say.” I always thought people were exaggerating, she had told him, like it was a game and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“As much as they like to make us think otherwise, women cannot read our minds. Talk to her, let her know what you’re thinking, so you can both be happy.”

There was so much fraught behind that simple advice, subjects that weren’t Cailan’s business, despite the sincerity in his eyes. Alistair had no plans to confess his conversation with Rosslyn in the meadow, or the interrupted one in her room when they had stood so close and she had leaned closer into him still, but overlaid with that sweetness was the shadow of fear that his wanting would go too far.

“What if I ruin everything?”

“Brother…” Cailan sighed. “She loves you. There’s no better place to start than that.”

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Hardtack Backstory

A story about requests, the present and value.

I. Stormy Night

“Hey! Stop right there! Yes, you!”

The man huffed and strode towards me while waving his flashlight and baton, the swaying beam of light dispersed and blurred by the rain.

“Restricted area ahead, turn back now.”

His stern voice was betrayed by hints of unease and anxiety; mixed with the intermittent pitter-patter of raindrops, it was almost unintelligible.

I reached for the dagger at my waist on instinct, only stopping myself reluctantly as I remembered a warning I had received. Awkwardly, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Mo… Please move aside.”

If I’d done as I had many times before, I could have silenced a human this fragile and weak with a mere dagger or single bullet.

But I couldn’t that night. Not then, at least.

Frustrated, I tilted my head in the hopes that the rain could wash away those annoying warnings and rules.

Perhaps the rain wasn’t heavy enough, or I really was paid too well; in any case, I suppressed the urge for violence.

I continued racking my brains for a way to get past him without hurting him.

“There are dangerous fallen angels up ahead, got it? Go home.”

The man bent down to look me in the eye. As if he came to the wrong conclusion from my appearance, his voice softened and carried hints of warmth.

The next moment, that warmth was gone, battered by the icy raindrops. A sharp blade pierced the man clean through the chest, lifting him up.

“ROAR——”

A terrifying howl tore through the night sky, echoing further and further even through the veil of rain.

“Ru...n…”

As if the situation only just caught up to him, the man forced a sad smile, arm stiffly lifting up before dropping weakly.

I wasn’t sure if it was because of the man’s sudden death or a fallen angel killing someone right before me, but I became even more upset than before.

It could have been both reasons.

Even if I didn’t care much about humans, seeing such a scene unfold before me once again angered me.

Squinting to glare through the darkness, my eyes locked on the monster on the nearby street. I crushed the biscuit in my mouth as I took out my pocket watch, and with a click, I started the timer.

“Eleven thirty-three, mission begin.”

II. Refusal

“Great work.”

Her pet in her arms, a bereaved White Truffle sat facing me.

“I thank you for your aid, on behalf of the citizens of Lupa City.”

“I don’t need it.”

I didn’t beat about the bush. As I pointed towards the black debit card on the table, a certain man who had long since died came to mind.

“I’m just here for the money. The lives and deaths of humans don’t concern me.”

After a brief pause, I added.

“But if that would get me more money——”

“Miss Biscuit is such a funny person.”

White Truffle’s mouth curved into a slight smile as her expression relaxed. While speaking, she slid a token towards me.

Inscribed onto the token were white feathered wings and black ram’s horns, with an underlying metallic sheen; it was petite, yet extremely detailed.

“I’ve got another mission for you, if you’d be interested.”

“What’s this?”

Picking up the token, I toyed with it in my hand, fond of both its appearance and the slight warmth it gave off.

“It’s the Perigod Institute’s authentication token; display it at any organization associated with the institute whenever you require aid. This is the downpayment for this mission, should you accept.”

“Any organization?”

I stopped toying with it and placed it back on the table.

“Apologies, but I’m not interested then.”

I picked up the debit card and packed up, preparing to leave.

White Truffle didn’t seem to anticipate my decision. She blanked before asking, looking puzzled.

“You’re not going to ask about the mission details?”

“The concept of ‘help’ spans a wide range.”

I took out the debit card and waved it in front of White Truffle.

“It could be simple or complex. If it’s simple, why would I need this? Exchanging favors is always so much more annoying than monetary trade.

“If it’s complex, I don’t need it either, as it implies it’s going to come at personal cost.

“Also, having this card marks me as some kind of authority figure, which I’m not used to. Money is so much easier to deal with.”

White Truffle didn’t expect this answer from me. She pondered silently before rubbing her forehead, apologizing.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have probed you like this. Black Truffle was right, I’m not suited for this kind of conversation.

“So, to put it simply: I want to hire you as a member of the Perigod Institute security department.”

III. Awkward Kindness

“Isn’t this great? That… uh… Parry… Parry something?”

The bartender spun the cocktail shaker skillfully and soon a dark blue bubbling mix was slid across the table.

“Perigod.”

I downed the glass in one gulp. The icy drink slid smoothly down my throat, creating a burning sensation once it reached my stomach, spreading outward swiftly.

I enjoyed this feeling of slight drunkenness where I was still fully conscious.

“You know I’m bad at this type of tongue-twisting vocabulary. I’m not that well-learned after all.”

The bartender shrugged noncommittally, serving up another icy drink.

“It would have been a great chance to rid yourself of this kind of lifestyle. Why did you refuse?”

I sensed a certain something in his voice.

I’ve encountered this type of “something” in the human world many times, some genuine, some false.

I didn’t particularly mind or care, since the intention was about the same no matter which it was.

I’ve known this bartender for a long time. When we first met, that man I called “master attendant” was still around.

These were two of the very few humans I thought were special.

Normally, I would have stayed silent and waited for him to change the subject so that I wouldn’t have to contemplate such cumbersome things.

Alas, this time the bartender clearly did not want to end it here.

“You should think about where you want to go from here, Biscuit. Tang wouldn’t want…”

His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.

“There won’t be a ‘next time’.”

With a poker face, I withdrew my pistol and wiped the muzzle clean of saliva using a tissue.

The bartender’s expression stiffened abruptly, changing many times between breaths before he calmed down again.

Then, as if nothing happened, he mixed another cocktail and served it to me.

“I sincerely apologize.”

His tone was earnest, his expression serious.

Contemplating our past battles together - the three of us - I lowered my gaze to avoid looking at him as I accepted the glass and downed it.

“Give me the newest intel.”

“...Right!”

I sighed silently, sensing the gradually lightening tone of the man, whose name I didn’t even want to recall.

You died far too soon; all these remaining humans are all so boring.

IV. Unexpectedly

Thunderous gunshots rang out; sparks and shrapnel flew.

The man before me paled drastically. The wall to the right of his head was pumped full of smoking bullet holes, but he held a forced smile.

“Please calm down, Miss Biscuit, I’m just a messenger.”

He took a deep breath and politely handed me a name card.

Without sparing it a glance, I flung my dagger and pinned the name card to the ground by his boots.

“Where is... Hu Jing?”

I narrowed my eyes as I looked through my memories, before finally recalling the bartender’s name.

“Mr. Hu is fine. Boss merely hopes to propose a trade with Miss Biscuit.”

“What kind of trade?”

My voice lowered as I suppressed my rising bloodlust.

I didn’t care about humans, and the one who had battled by my side and made me years of drinks was no exception.

“Boss says Miss Biscuit and Sir Tang have killed many back in the day, and one has to pay for the blood on their hands eventually. Alas, Sir Tang is long dead and chasing such old debts isn’t a good look, so there’s just one thing Miss Biscuit has to help with for Mr. Hu Jing to return.”

But I did care about the idiot named Sir Tang, even if he did always make me call him “master attendant”.

“To clear your debt, Miss Biscuit, Boss asks you to kill for him as many men as you have killed his.”

Hu Jing had stayed by Sir Tang’s side for such a long time, after all, I should do him a favor sooner or later.

“...If you investigated me, you should have known that I only hunt fallen angels now.”

I took a deep breath, keeping myself from remembering those bloodstained years of laughter intertwined with pain-filled screams, and enunciated each word.

The man, or perhaps the one he served, seemed to have anticipated my answer and followed up without a hitch.

“Boss says, just as I am but a message, Miss Biscuit is but a gun.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

I stared down the man stock-still. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his cheek.

And then--

I spoke.

“You’re right.”

Before he had the chance to relax.

I continued.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

The gunshot rang out thunderous. Blood splattered and it hit the ground with a thud.

Looking at the lifeless form of the man, I fished out the token from my pocket, White Truffle’s words coming to mind.

“It’s inevitable a time comes when you need help, so keep it with you even if you don’t intend to use it.”

Shaking my head, I chuckled to myself.

“You were right, humans really are so boring.”

V. Hardtack

Gloriville is a big place; glorious and prosperous.

Naturally, there’s going to be unspeakable darkness and filth.

Some say fallen angels are the greatest enemy of mankind.

This may not be true.

For fallen angels only kill.

Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.

“From today onwards, they’re history.”

As White Truffle cuddled the puppy in her arms, she stood on the rooftop overlooking the crackling flames and spoke calmly to Hardtack beside her.

“Mr. Hu has been rescued as well, with nothing to show for it but scratches.”

“...Sorry for the trouble.”

Habitually, Hardtack spun her dagger in her hands.

“No worries, I’ve got money, lots of money.”

White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.

“But money can’t solve everything, that’s why I need you. You’ll be at the forefront of trouble from here on out.”

“No skin off my back.”

Hardtack refocused, sheathing her dagger and reaching her hand out to White Truffle.

“As long as I don’t have to deal with humans.”

“Perigod’s security department will only be dealing with fallen angels, I can promise you that.”

White Truffle smiled and accepted the handshake.

Her puppy hopped onto the ground and nuzzled up to Hardtack’s leg.

“Do you want to see Hu Jing?”

As if she just remembered, White Truffle reminded.

“He’s currently at a hospital run by the institute.”

“...No need.” After a moment of hesitation, Hardtack shook her head. Carefully, she removed the old bracelet on her wrist and replaced it with the Perigod token.

“Let’s talk work. What exactly does this security department do.”

“Hunt fallen angels, enforce the security of the research institute, and cooperate with other departments in fallen angel-related matters when needed. Though, of course, you don’t have to.”

“Sounds good.”

The girls stood shoulder to shoulder and walked towards the institute, back facing the flames.

“Right, there’s someone else in the security department, with you, there’ll be a total of two members.”

“A human?”

“No, a food soul. Her name is Braised Noodles.”

Translation Notes

She’s not released or announced in any way but yknow.... I just wanted to do a short one for practice lol

Names

Hardtack’s Chinese name is“compressed biscuit”, that’s why everyone calls her“biscuit” as a nickname

The bartender’s name is Hu Jing, surname Hu.

Hardtack’s (dead) MA’s name is Tang(?). I’m not fully sure, the messenger calls him“Tang Jun”, while the Jun could be part of the name, it could also be the japanese -kun or the chinese “Mr/Sir” honorific, it being more respectful in chinese context I think. Considering how “respectfully” the messenger addresses Hardtack and Hu Jing, and how Tang is likely on the same level of “importance” as his own boss, it’s probably a honorific.

Ch2:“black debit card”

Not debit card as in modern day debit cards, but more like a gift voucher? A card that means money without physically being money? Not sure if credit or debit is the better word to use here, or another word entirely.

Ch3:“His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.”

If it wasn’t clear, Hardtack shoved a pistol in his mouth!

Ch5:“Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.”

The original sentence translates literally to“Not only do humans kill people, they eat people.”

Googled“eat people” (in chinese) to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and the definition is“The oppression and exploitation of the poor in the old society”

Oppression........... compression........... compressed biscuit...... aha...

This has nothing to do with anything its just fun thing i found while translating

Ch5:“White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.”

“Glare”, as in, White Truffle is blind

I really like the parallel of the requests!

White Truffle: paid attention to the token > kill FAs > didn’t anticipate her answer > treats her as a person

messenger: ignored the name card > kill humans > anticipated her answer > treats her as an object

made more obvious in chinese as the word used for“token” can also mean“tablet”,“medal” or“mahjong tile”, but most commonly“playing card”, but I also wanted a word that implied something small enough to be a bracelet charm and it was getting confusing with the black debit card in the same scene

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