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golddaggers · 2 years

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little taste of heaven

pairings: ubbe/torvi, ubbe/you, torvi/you

warnings: nsfw! contains fingering, sex, oral sex, cursing.

a/n: so this an indulging one for me and @stylinsonliving, we are constantly daydreaming about being married to both ubbe and torvi. loosely inspired in the MAGNIFICENT feverish love by the best out there @ritual-unions-gotme, i hope you don't mind, but it sparked my creativity! (the sacred romantic moments request is on the works!

word count: 4,2k+

“She is perfect, is she not?” Torvi’s velvet voice fills the room while her elegant fingers touch the intricate braids embellishing your hair.

King Ubbe stood before you, his gorgeous face disturbed in a serious frown. He’s torn between looking down at you, sitting in your tattered dress on his bed, and his wife, who’s knelt beside you, still touching you like she hasn’t asked you to bed her husband.

The entire situation is odd. You couldn’t quite grasp it was indeed happening, and it was not a figment of a fever dream from an affliction that had stricken you.

Torvi had spent the last couple of weeks watching you. Her pale blue eyes followed you around as you cleaned the tables, swept the halls, and filled up her family’s cups. At first, you thought she was all but making sure you were doing a proper job, then you noticed you were alone under her scrutiny. No other servants' jobs were dissected by their queen. Dread befell you. You were worried you’d be dismissed, sold to another master. So when she made her proposition, astonishment washed over you.

No one was supposed to know Torvi could no longer bear children, nor did she want to. Her king, however, wanted more. Needed more. She confided in you as she broke her fast, between a sip of her summer wine and a spread of honey over a chunk of steaming black bread. No one else had been there with you two. Ubbe had left long before the sun peeked through the white thick curtain of clouds that were ever hovering over Kattegat. The thralls had busied themselves cleaning other chambers while their mistress ate. The cook had gone out to find fresh parsley for lunch. Only you had been left behind, sweeping the dining room, keeping her company. The tales Torvi spoke about seemed far-fetched, you couldn’t believe she meant it until now.

Until he was here.

Parents teach their little daughters not to covet a man’s attention unless he willingly gives it to them. Ubbe never entertained you in any slightest way, however much you wanted him to. You’d been there when he married Margrethe, a secondary character fading in the background now. Then again when the gods blessed his union with Torvi, and when their little son was born. You witnessed it all. The iridescent blue of his scorching glance never found you interesting. Not that he should, either way. You were not extraordinary. Just a normal girl, whose life lacked any sort of wildness.

You didn’t feel so regular at this moment. Not with the ghosting of her lips across your temple, then down to your cheek, meeting the corner of your mouth in all the gentleness existing in the world. It was the first time you kissed a woman. Torvi’s lips were smooth and warm, pushed against yours.

“Do you find it wise?” His voice sounded hesitant, but not displeased. “She does look rather perfect.”

“Take her as your second wife,” She says. She’s so close you can feel her mouth moving to talk. “I want you to. You should have the children you want, even if I can’t give them to you.”

“And does she want to?”

Torvi had settled on your lap in the meanwhile, each of her legs hugging tight the width of your hips. She winked at you as an old-time friend would. Like you shared an unspoken secret. You relish the last brushing of her kiss on the tip of your nose and watch, bewildered, as she rises to a stand. Next to her husband, nothing but a petite thing. They looked so perfect together. Their eyes spoke in silence, the sort of intimacy you never had with anyone. One you longed to have, someday.

“Ask her,” Head tilted to the side, she smiled up at him. “She is a feisty little wolf, this one. That’s why I thought she’d be perfect to bear our children.”

“Do you, pup?” Ubbe kneels before you, both hands, rough and enticing all together, hold the round of your cheeks. He makes you look at him. “Is being my wife something you would want?”

It knocks the breath out of your lungs, having him so close to you. You can see the soft creases on his forehead, the tiny scars that can only bring out the natural beauty of him, and you get an up-close look at those eyes. From a distance, they can do only so much damage, but at this short length, they can wreck a ship. Untamed blue that drowns whoever dares to step closer. A shade of blue that belongs to a wild sea. It belongs to Njörthr himself. You swallow, your shallow breaths sputtering out in utter embarrassment, and nod. Because yes, how could it not be something you would want?

The room is shrouded with an unbeknown emotion. Your heart lurches against your ribs, it thumps and thumps and thumps. You feel it in your ears, in your clammy hands. If Ubbe can tell how nervous you are, he doesn’t show, instead, he smiles, his thumb tracing a line along with the apple of your cheek. For the second time that night, you are kissed. Unlike Torvi’s, his lips are thinner, less soft, more urgent. Though, regardless of their differences, both leave an uncomfortable pulse between your legs.

“Stand up,” His whisper makes a strange noise seep from you, but you comply.

He’s so tall. So big. The breadth of his shoulders, concealed beneath a leathered armour that glimmers under the dim light from two melting candles, is far wider than an ordinary man’s. His arms, when he spins you, by the Gods, they are so firm, so strong. You were sure you would turn into a puddle. He straightens your back, so you are forced to look at the comforting face of your mistress. It did nothing to help you, if anything, it worsened the warm pump of your blood, a wet mess gathering at the apex of your thighs.

You feel Ubbe unclasp the leather strip fastened around your waist, then proceed to undo each of the delicate buttons that kept the modest woollen blue dress in place. Torvi comes close to hold your hands, hers much warmer than yours had ever been, and softer, too. She drops them to hold your face, her lips a feverish pressure on your own. Another noise slips from you, muffled by the kiss.

She helps the sleeves out of your arms as soon as nothing holds the gown in place, the fabric sliding to the ground. The white slip you wore beneath was simple. It had been sewed by your late mother. She was quite good with needling, a trait that had died with her.

They stop to look at you, albeit close enough you can feel their warmth. You’re caged between them. You didn’t know what you had done to be in this place, but you thanked the skies above.

“Her hips are perfect,” Torvi mumbles, squeezing the supple flesh of your round hips. Pulling you in such a way your back was pressed to her chest. It felt like she was presenting you to him. “Perfect to bear children.”

“May I take this off?” He asks you, never minding his wife’s comment, though the flare in his nostrils let you know it had affected him. “Are you comfortable with all this?”

Another miserable nod is all you have to give him, Torvi’s fingers still on you, a gentle rub on the sides of your thighs.

“She’s too quiet,” Ubbe grumbles a curse. “Are you shy, pup? Is that it?”

“You’re too much, Ubbe,” Torvi complains. “I told her that if at any moment she wishes to leave, she can. She should. She’s here because she wants to.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Your voice is a little sound lost in the air. “I want to, master.”

His breath comes out in a scoff, “You should address me as husband, then, if you wish to be my wife. No wife of mine calls me otherwise.”

“As you wish.”

A fading smirk dons his face, it turns so quickly back into seriousness a wave of childish want to see it again topples down on you. He begins to undo the single knot at the jewel neckline of your smock, Torvi’s hand helping it off. You have no secrets left covered.

The swell of your breasts pulls his eyes as a strong wave brings foam to the coastline. Ubbe palms them. He twists your nipples until they are pebbled. Each strike sends a pang of pleasure throughout your body. It’s only when your mistress touches your sopping cunt, however, that you allow yourself to gasp. The tips of her fingers circle you, one teasing finger around the heat of your entrance. They both abuse your body in sinful, tantalising ways.

He bends to you, his warm mouth wrapping around one pebbled peak. His tongue swirls then suck. You arch your chest in his direction, unable to control yourself. A pretentious grin is smeared on his face when he spreads his large hands on the dip of your waist. The taunting index finger Torvi has playing with you slips inside, which makes an unexpected yelp leave you. There's so much happening at the same time, your mind whirls, dizzy with the growing pleasure at the bottom of your tummy.

Her thumb presses down on your clit, her teeth nipping at the shell of your ear. She works you at her pace, slowly but surely. Just the one finger going in then out. You can hear how wet you’ve grown, as sloshing noises echo each time she moves. Ubbe bites the tender skin of your neck, stealing your attention to him. He reaps the most indecent sounds at each small assault. You’re too sensitive.

Pleasure pours all over you like sticky honey, and you’re unsure if it was brought by the constant rasp of Ubbe’s beard, and his bewitching mouth, or the words that began dripping out of Torvi’s lips while her hand quickened, a welcoming burn within you when another of her thin fingers joined. Your body shook, giving in to the feeling, letting it break you. It’s so good.

Had they not been holding you, you’d have fallen. He scoops you into his arms, naked and limp, to place you in their bed. The soft mattress hugs your back when you’re lying down there. In front of you, Torvi is undressing. She’s wearing the most gorgeous silk dress you’ve seen. It’s screaming red. It flatters her fair complexion, but, if you must have an opinion, she looks a lot better without it. Ubbe takes the same care he did when he helps her out of her clothing, he kisses her neck all the way up to her cheek. You stay still, observing.

She eases him out of his heavy clothes, unbinding the brown leather straps of his vest. The dark-green tunic underneath follows suit, his chest exposed for you. A mess of dark blond hair on his chest tugs your attention, the expanse of it makes you feel so small. Torvi steps away so he can kick off the sturdy leather boots, and his breeches. Both man and woman are a sight for sore eyes. They kiss in an urgent fit, a wet tangle of tongues that makes you clasp your legs together.

Unlike the soothing touches he gave you, Ubbe squeezes her breasts hard, enough to leave a ruddy streak behind. He lifts her, too, tossing her on the bed, careless, her body bounces as she laughs next to you.

“Say, sweets,” Her voice rings as she looks in your direction, him with her foot on his hands, his mouth slithering its way up to her knee. “Have you ever been with a man?”

“Once,” You confess, ashamed of your inexperience. “A long while ago.”

“She’s going to be so tight for you, darling,” Torvi giggles. “Think you can take him?”

“If that is what he wants.”

“Such a good woman for your husband,” You’re pulled down for a heated smack of lips. “Will you be good for me, too?”

You nod, in a near delirium state. He’s sneaked between your legs, prying you open to him. The glisten of gathered slick makes his eyes glisten in a crushing lust. Ubbe bullies your snug entrance with just the tip of his index and middle fingers, his are so much thicker than Torvi’s. You wince, a pained whine leaving your quivering lips.

“Does it hurt, pup?” Concern swims in his light tone.

“A little,” He stopped, his eyebrows knitted together in a preoccupied grimace. “I can take it. I want you to take me.”

“She is feisty,” Ubbe grins up to his wife. “Then I shall take you, pup.”

His fingers slid deeper into you. The stretch is new, it burns, but it’s appeased by the gentle touch of the pad of his thumb on your clit. Torvi palms your chest, your nipples hard and sensitive. You were in paradise. This had to be what paradise was like, unwinding and everlasting satisfaction.

She leans in to bring one hard peak into her mouth, her round breasts standing too close for you to deny yourself a taste. Your eyes are keen to notice the flutter on her belly when you do, your tongue sliding tentatively around one pink nipple. She smiles, then clamps her teeth around you, drawing a broken sound from you, muffled on her skin.

A small whimper echoes when Ubbe pulls his fingers out. Torvi kisses your parted lips one last time before moving to where he stood, at the foot of the bed. She nudges you to move back, the crown of your head pressed up against the headboard. She lies on her stomach, each hand settling at the base of your thighs. It flames the growing pain from being denied a peak seconds before, to watch this beautiful woman with her head between your legs. The fair strands of her hair tickle when it touches your skin. You’re surrendered.

The first contact of her warm mouth on the tender flesh of your inner thigh sends you into overdrive. You tip your head back, eyes sealed shut. Ubbe is there, you can feel his heat. His hands rub your arms for a second, only to pull them up, holding you as his wife has her first taste of your cunt. She laps with confidence only a woman could have. Confidence that she would please. That she can take one more from you before her husband has the chance.

“Gods,” You say, gripping Ubbe’s arms. “I-I…”

“So sweet, look, she doesn’t curse,” His deep voice mumbles out, inclining forwards to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s going to be fun fucking you until you do.”

Her spit dribbles down when she takes a breath, hot and dirty. Torvi slides a finger into you again, pretty mouth nursing the painful pulse at the crest of your sex. The high feels like it’s a breath away. He whispers sweet encouragement words, his grasp of you the only anchor you possess to the palpable world while hers only sent you further down the chasm.

She eats and eats. It’s a feast that leaves your brain in a muddled daze, your hips rolling against her face as if you have no control over what your body does. You look up to find his eyes on you, nothing but want in the fine tint of blue left. Perhaps that’s what it took for you to break down. Whatever it was, it hit you much stronger than the first one, disjointed words blubbering out from you. You fell limp on the bed, heavy and spent. But she didn’t stop until you were begging her to.

They let you take a rest. You hear him curse, you hear the slaps, the dirty words that would make you mortified, though now they bring a wave of heat down on you. Head tilted back, your tired eyes almost fail to comprehend how tight he's holding her, how rough he's kissing her lips, with a hunger comparable to a wild animal. Yes. Ubbe ravished her like a wolf would its prey. His fingers rub her pussy, easing his fingers much more easily than it eased on you, her having much more experience than you did. Shame stung your cheeks, you were so innocent.

“Look at her, dove, staring at us,” He had one arm looped around her arching back. “You want to know how good Torvi tastes, pup? I can tell you it’s the best thing you’ll ever have.”

“She tastes good, too,” Torvi moans, his pace growing alongside her sweet noises. “So fucking good. Ah, fuck, Ubbe-”

“See, pup, you have to curse, too,” Ubbe quickens, his wife clinging to him for dear life. “Like she does. To let me know I’m making her feel good.”

You prop yourself up, sitting back on your knees on one corner of the bed. No words leave your lips, but your hand finds its way between your legs, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable throb that grows anew there. Ubbe smirks, so full of himself, that he has two beautiful women on his bed, that he has them both worked up. He beckons you to come closer, which you do, his warmth makes you sigh.

“Touch her,” His voice dips to silky sweetness. You gaze at him, unsure, pitiful even. “I will show you how.”

His hand must feel much better on her than yours, being so big and dexterous while yours was smaller and clumsy. You breathe out, hash and desperate, when he guides you to the hot, drenching mess of Torvi. Her blissful features let you know she enjoys what you’re doing, though it’s more her husband’s doing than your own. A tiny smile stretches your lips up, your thumb giving her clit o-shaped strokes. Ubbe mumbles that you’re doing so good for them, so, so good. Confidence bathes you at that moment. You can understand how he walks around so smug like the world belongs to him. Treasuring this woman did that to you.

Once you get the hang of it, he lets you do you, his touch lingering on the curve of your waist. One finger sneaked up her tight entrance, daring to pump in then out, still working her bundle of nerves, appreciating each bubbly noise she let out. He teases you, biting down on your neck, sucking marks to the fragile skin. Slick pools at the tight crevice between your legs, you’re so aroused. You didn’t know your body could do so much.

She falls apart on your hand, you edge it out of her, and you whine in tandem with her, so delighted to just watch her. To observe as pleasure wrings her up then release, her thighs clamping your hand. Ubbe paints a wet kiss just below your ear, his teeth grazing as it goes down again, the rough of his palms on your breasts, he gives them absent-minded squeezes. The pressure builds on your lower abdomen from it all, ebbs and flows as the tide does in the early morning.

Torvi kisses you, sweet and slow. Your finger is still inside her, the spasms of her peak chewing it up. It’s hot and wet, it squelches when you pull it out from her. He moves away from you as she begins to push you down, it’s an unhurried, deliberate motion. You can tell she is just trying to make you more comfortable, even tucking a pillow below your hips to raise them.

Rain begins to spatter against the closed windows, or perhaps you’d been so inattentive, you didn’t notice the change in the weather. The dying fire of the fireplace crept, its fainting sounds just now discernible. The brief moment of silence let you soak up as much of this place as you could. If this falls through, you want to remember each tiny detail of this day.

“Be gentle with her,” Torvi warns. She’s sat back, your head on the soft plush of her thigh. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” You smile up at her, then nuzzle on her, a careless display of affection you didn’t know where it came from. “So very much okay.”

His warmth spreads over you when he lies on top of you. It’s so intense, the weight of him pinning you down, your legs spread apart to welcome him between them. You could feel every ridge of him, every single detail. This newfound closeness is heady, it confuses your thoughts, all the coherence fleeing as losing troops during a battle. It’s there, the steady pulse of his heart, while he whispers that you can trust him. That you can give yourself to him, that it is okay to do so.

The fat head of his cock teases your pussy, sliding up and down for a beat or two. It pushes a noise out of you, in pure distress, you’re so desperate to have him. To feel him inside, the stretch that would be likely to leave you with a limp. You dreamed about this. You longed to be craved in a way that wobbles your legs. Right now, with the enticing words he mumbled out of honeyed lust, you felt wanted. When Torvi touched you, it felt like a drug, and this was the final nail that locked you in. You were stuck with them now.

Ubbe eased himself in, breaching you. In his eyes, there’s nothing but true regard, even in silence, you can feel he wants this to be good for you too. A soft smile paints across your face, your short nails digging to the firm flesh of his shoulders. A slight trace of pain washes over you, one you do your best to conceal, though useless since he catches it, slowing things down even more. His low grunts do not help, the sounds make you clench, in need.

Torvi strokes your hair. You tip your head back to look up at her. She’s so beautiful. You could get used to being pampered by her, not just while her husband fucks you, but all the time. It had never crossed your mind that you could feel this much at once. The roll of his hips on yours, her delicate hands on you. It brought the alluring pressure at the bottom of your tummy right back, so quick it felt impossible.

He hides his face on the crook of your neck, staining the unblemished skin. The sounds being knocked out of you grew and grew. Being so vocal was atypical, when you were bedded, you had been quiet, when you touched yourself, in the silent, cold nights, hidden beneath thick furs, you were quieter. Each snap, however, had them coming. His cock was so deep in you, the bottoming out only made him go further when sliding back in, as if he was in want to claim each inch within you, to mark as his all tiny crevices you had.

You search for the hot press of his lips on yours, a kiss that’s not at all about love, it’s feral, wild. Your tongues roll together, the sounds muffled by the other’s mouth. The hairs on his chest scrape yours, you can’t help but grip tighter onto him. Each nerve in your body seems to be attuned to the littlest movement he does, all of them capturing how close you are to breaking.

When it comes, it’s hard. It topples you down to a bone-crushing fall that rattles you. A pleasure that takes and takes. A tired, spent moan bubbles on your throat. You’re wrapped on him, you realise, taking all the hard ruts he’s still giving. It helps you through the rush you’re feeling, a lingering aftertaste that you are not willing to let go of just yet. Somewhere beneath your ribs, you feel the rapid pulses of your heart.

Had you not been so wrung out already, you mulled over the thought that it’d be possible he’d rob another one from you just by the way he looks when he falls apart. The animalist growls. It sounds like he'd slash and maul and break anyone who would dare to take you from him right now. With his bare hands. Scorching, thick ropes of cum root deep into your cunt, Ubbe spends himself until he can’t anymore.

Instead of moving away, he settles his head on your chest, one arm holding his weight up so he doesn’t crush you. For the longest time, the three of you remain in silence. Torvi moves to lie down beside you, holding your tired hand on hers. You sigh, life starts to down on you, the bruises you’d be sporting for weeks after. His seed, if it stuck, would be with you, too. If it didn’t, you would have fun trying all over again.

At last, when the cold starts to be uncomfortable, Ubbe rolls to the other side, so you’re between him and his wife. You try to will yourself to stay awake, though it’s to no avail. Something tells you, you would have a long night of sleep, undisturbed if you were blessed.

“Can we keep her, then?” The sweet voice you knew belonged to the blonde woman to your left.

“Oh, you can be assured of that, my dove,” Ubbe kisses your cheek, nosing your temple. “This pup here is ours to keep.”

#ubbe x you #ubbe x torvi #torvi x you #ubbe #torvi #ubbe smut #ubbe x torvi smut #ubbe x you smut #torvi x you smut #vikings #ubbe x reader #ubbe x ofc #torvi x reader #smut #fluff-ish #no use of y/n

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wonglix · 4 years

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➺ ᴀᴛᴇᴇᴢ: ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴄʀᴜsʜ

⤷ fluff

*•.¸♡ hongjoong ♡¸.•*

hongjoong would be a bit shy at first, until he realised that keeping his distance from you to avoid getting nervous wouldn’t benefit him in his mission to get closer to you

he’d love to invite you over a bit more often, starting slowly by making sure there always were other members around because it would be weird if he’d ask you to spend time alone with him all of a sudden

he’d come up with excuses like “we need opinions on our new choreography!”, “we’re not sure if the song sounds right, could you listen to it?”

slowly but surely he’d start to invite you while less and less members were around until it was just the two of you and he realised that these moments, just you and him sitting and talking were definitely his favourite ones

this would also confirm his crush for him, since he was doubting his feelings a bit. seeing you joking around with him in his studio, listening to him rant about some irrelevant stuff his members did that seemed like the biggest problem at that moment would really hammer home the fact that he did indeed fall for you

he’d start to be a bit more touchy, his hand resting on yours, brushing hair out of your face, innocently letting his hand rest on your knee, tugging you closer to him when he was showing you something on his phone.

he’d also begin to be a bit more bold when asking you to spend time, offering to let you stay the night if it was late, taking you to his favourite restaurant, meeting up at a convenience store at 3 am just to have some cheap ramen and talk about anything.

a cutie that gets really soft once he confirms his feelings, getting close to you one pretty smile and hand holding at a time

*•.¸♡ seonghwa ♡¸.•*

he’s already very caring, protective and gentle, but once he started crushing on someone he’d essentially just start showering them in love whenever he could

he’d check in on you way more frequently, always asking how you’re doing and if you’ve eaten. he’d be the one to walk you home whenever you visit them, and if it got too late he’d offer to sleep on the couch to you could sleep in his bed

i feel like his caring nature could be very easily be mistaken as brotherly and he knows that, so he makes sure to flirt with you from time to time, just to hammer home the fact that he is interested in you.

he wants to make sure that you slowly start to understand that there’s a reason you’re always the first one he serves dinner to, or that there is a reason that makes him value your opinion over anyone else’s

he’d accidentally brush your hands together and wink at you once you look at him, would compliment you very cheekily and might even drop a cringy pickup line here and there

he loves to take care of you and he’s the first one to show up when you mention that you’re not feeling well. it’s hard for him to keep his feelings to himself when you’re laying there like that, glossy eyes and weak smile on your face

he might’ve mentioned something about having fallen for you while you were having a bad fever, rendering you unable to remember anything. he was glad you didn’t remember, he wanted it to be special once he confessed; something you could think back to that would make your cheeks flush and heart race

caring, flirty love bug that just wants to take care of you and cuddle you close to him and make you happy

*•.¸♡ yunho ♡¸.•*

yunho would probably be quite obvious, showing all the telltale signs of someone having a crush: he’d be glued to your side with a constant blush on his face, he’d giggle at everything you said whether it was actually funny or not and he was trying his absolute hardest to make you laugh, even if it meant embarrassing himself

his members caught on fairly quickly and kept teasing him about it, getting closer to you on purpose to make him jealous. yunho hated the fact that he couldn’t really do anything, he couldn’t just walk up to you and san as you were sitting extremely closely together on the couch and demand san’s seat, right?

so a lot of his pining was spent observing you and his members, how they would purposefully hug you just a second too long, hold your hand just a bit too much, sit next to you just a tad bit too closely - it all got on his nerves and he made sure to nag them once you left. it might be childish but he was scared that you might fall for one of them, that you might interpret their closeness as flirting.

after realising that making him jealous wouldn’t lead to him confessing but rather to him doubting himself the others knocked it off for yunho’s sake. they ended up hyping him up a lot, telling him to just do the same they did - staying close to you and making you see him in a different light

they kept hyping him up and mysteriously vanishing every time you came over from them on, leaving you two alone and causing poor yunho to almost suffer from multiple heart attacks because wow, you’re so pretty!!

even though he was close to you and always made sure to stay close to you, he also ensured that you would be comfortable around him. if you had a bad day and didn’t want him so close to you he would understand, scooting away and listening to you talk about what’s been bothering you

he’s also ready to shower you in all the affection you need though, wrapping you in his arms when you come to him crying, his heart hurting and his mind telling him to press a little kiss to your head, just a small peck to calm you down-

all in all he’s very obvious and soft, his heart definitely on his sleeve and you would be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way he smiled at you with hearts in his eyes every time your eyes met

*•.¸♡ yeosang ♡¸.•*

he’d be so incredibly shy once he realised that he had a crush and it would definitely take him a while to warm up to them again

everytime he’d see you he’d feel his hands get sweaty and his mind was racing; what was he supposed to talk to you about? would you be uncomfortable if he sat next to you? he really wants to hold your hand but god, that’d be so random and out of place, he couldn’t possibly do that

it was really hard for him to be nice to you again, scared of outing his feelings if he ended up being too gentle with you. he wasn’t ready to confess yet, he didn’t even know how to yet and the last thing he’d want is for his crush to just get exposed without him planning to

he would probably confide in some of his members, hoping that they could help him out with the problem at hand. they’d give him some tips on how to subtly get closer to you, how to express his feelings without actually confessing

while he was still shy and a bit quiet around you, he managed to get himself to spend some time alone with you. he realised that his pounding heart and the occasional shy stammer were nothing compared to the happiness he felt when he talked to you, so he began to talk to you more often

on the phone, on face time, when you came to visit them - you and yeosang were talking a lot, and while he still got the soft blush on his cheeks and sweaty hands he’s more than happy to spend time with you

over time the casual talks would evolve into deeper ones, the two of you confiding into each other. this would mean a lot to him and it took everything in him to keep himself from kissing you

shy sweetheart takes some time to come out of his shell but once he does, he swears there is no place better than with you next to him

*•.¸♡ san ♡¸.•*

san would turn into a bit of a show off, doing his absolute best to get his crush to praise him and swoon over him, like look at me!! did you see that? yeah, you saw that. amazing, right? yeah, amazing

though he liked showing off, he caught himself getting soft and mushy over you a lot. it’s hard for him to keep his crush to himself, so he confessed his feelings towards you to his members and to his surprise they all already knew somehow

like?? how could they’ve possibly known?? he was so discreet while balancing three plates on his head while trying to jump rope just to get you to laugh??

he doesn’t mind making a fool of himself as long as it meant to hear you laugh and giggle at him, but what made his heart flutter the most was by far the way you’d scold and care for him every time he accidentally hurt himself during one of his skits

his mind was racing and his heart pounding, a lovestruck smile etched on his face while you were frantically searching for a bandaid. all he could think about was that there was no way you’d care for him this much if you didn’t like him too, right?? no way you’d be so mad at him for accidentally hurting himself like that!!

while san loves to get praise and see you gush over him and care for him, he was also very big on showering you in praise and adoration. every time you told him about something you achieved he was there to hype you up, to praise you and tell you how well you did

he would get so happy for you that he sometimes couldn’t hold back and you would occasionally feel a very gentle, almost unnoticeable kiss being pressed to the to of your head while he was crushing you in a hug

adorable goofy show off that really is just a very soft gushy mess for you on the inside, that sometimes struggles with keeping all the affection he has for you to himself

*•.¸♡ mingi ♡¸.•*

it’s like a lightbulb went off over mingi’s head once seonghwa asked him if he planned on confessing to you. he genuinely just thought that he really enjoyed your company and that that was the reason for his blushed cheeks and pounding heart

he didn’t expect to fall for you so the signs were a bit unclear to him but once he knew, he could barely think about anything but you and the others would catch him just sitting somewhere, daydreaming with a dumb smile on his face

he keeps asking you to go to places with him, if it’s grocery shopping, visiting an arcade or just going to the company to record - he thrives off of your presence and he’s addicted to the bubbly feeling in his chest he gets when he’s around you

he used to be quite open when it came to his work, mingi loved showing you what he was working on; now he’s just way too shy to show you what he’s working on because he catches himself writing about you a lot and it makes his cheeks burn every time he realises that his mind drifted to you again

he fell for you and wanted to be with you, but he also fell in love with the idea of crushing on you; the shy glances and the way you’d look into each other’s eyes just a bit too long for it to be friendly excited him a lot. yeah he was shy and feels his heart hammer in his chest at the smallest things you do, but it’s such a nice feeling to make you smile and look at him with eyes as enchanting as yours

he enjoys seeing the occasional blush spread on your cheeks a lot and it made him fantasize about how nice it would be if you were dating because he wants nothing more than to kiss those pink cheeks, to have you giggle in embarrassment in his arms-

he likes to take you to experience new things, the thought of sharing memories with you all too exciting for him to pass up. he tends to innocently take your hand in his, excuses flowing out of his mouth each time, “i don’t want to lose you!”, “i know the way”, “it’s dark and i feel better like this”

lovestruck honeypie that is not only in love with you but also with the idea of loving you and crushing on you

*•.¸♡ wooyoung ♡¸.•*

wooyoung would amp his teasing up to the max, almost making it seem like he was picking on you while simultaneously flirting shamelessly

he’d never took it too far though, always very in touch with your feeling and hyper aware of the smallest changes in your behaviour or facial expressions

he never wants to hurt your feelings with his snarky comments or make you feel uncomfortable around him with his weird flirting. the second he notices that you’ve stopped giggling at his antics, he immediately stops

as confident as he was, he was still too shy and nervous to just confess - which leads to him relentlessly teasing you all the time. he’d either tease you about things you do or say, or simply try to make you nervous because how dare you make him this feel this shy? that’s not fair, so now it’s your turn to be nervous!

he’d love to show up randomly, taking you out for a spontaneous dinner or a calming late night walk - anything to spend some time with you

he always uses the excuse that “the others are asleep”, “they’re all busy”, “they don’t like that restaurant” even though the only thing he wanted to tell you was “i just wanted to see you”

he tries his best to keep his teasing masquerade up, refusing to let the soft part of him take over. he doesn’t want to think about how beautiful you look when you laugh at one of his mindless jokes, how stunning it is to watch your expressions change while you’re telling a story, how incredibly cute it is when you struggle with something, how bad he wants to press a kiss to your tear-stained cheeks when-

a teasing softie that has to figure out a more efficient way to get closer to you apart from picking on you and making you blush with his excessive flirting

*•.¸♡ jongho ♡¸.•*

jongho could be described as “confused”. he wasn’t really sure what to make of his racing heart and sweaty palms at first until it finally clicked - which made him switch from “confused” to “panicked”, back to “confused” because he had no idea what to do

he didn’t know how to handle his feelings, on one hand he just wanted to tell you what he felt and hold your hand and maybe even give you a little kiss on your cheek. and maybe he’d be confident enough to kiss the cute little pout away you get every time he teases you, and oh how badly he wants to take you out to his favourite restaurant, just the two of you, and-

on the other hand though, he was also really nervous, like what if you didn’t see him that way? what if you were in love with someone else? his mind was racing just as bad as his heart was and it was draining

every time you interacted he was torn between flirting with you, making you realise that he thought of you as more than just friends and continuing to treat you as a simple friend, staying in his lane

it ended with him being very flirty and playful with you one day, and very distant and quiet on the next. he kept going back and forth, never knowing what exactly he’s supposed to do - one day he’ll hold your hand while walking, the next he’ll not even sit next to you

it left you confused while jongho was panicking inside, because oh god, why did i scoot away? oh wow, they’re smile is so pretty! i like y/n so much, i really want to-

while he was usually calm and collected on the outside, nervous or affectionate thoughts were bouncing around in his mind. you did manage to break through his calm exterior, making him blush and giggle shyly. it was really hard for him to decide which approach it will take and you will definitely realise that something’s going on at some point

a little shy and unsure, but is genuinely very infatuated with you. has to figure out how to approach you and has a hard time calming his thoughts when he’s with you

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rachelbethhines · 3 years

Text

Vintage Shows to Watch While You Wait for the Next Episode of WandaVision - The 70s

So Friday has come upon us again and I’m still playing catch up. I’m going to spit out the list for episode 3 before watching episode 4.

1. The Monkees (1966 - 1968)

Ok, so I was real torn on the placement of this show. It’s clearly a 60s show, but the song “Daydream Believer” plays at the end of episode three giving this series a more direct link to Wandavision than most others. In the end it went here cause the 60s list was already over stuffed.

But oh how I loved the Monkees growing up. You can keep the Beetles, these were the real hotties of the 60s. Yeah they didn’t play their own instruments, but who cares, the music still sounded great and the tv show was a hilarious off the wall surreal fever dream.

2. The Brady Bunch (1969 - 1974)

Often considered the last of the classic family sitcoms, The Brady Bunch, is heavily refenced in episode 3. Right down to the house Wanda and Vision are living in.

The main gimmick of the series was of a blended family trying to learn to live together. It has over time gained a cult following and a spin off series in the 80s called The Brady Brides. (which is even funnier imho)

3. Night Gallery (1970-1973)

Rod Sterling’s spiritual sequel to the Twilight Zone. Night Gallery follows a similar format but is firmly in the horror camp as oppose the to sic-fi trappings of the latter.

4. The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970 - 1977)

Elizbeth Olsen took great inspiration for Wanda’s character from Mary Tyler Moore and the episode three titles pay homage to this series opening credits. Other then that though there’s not much in common with Wandavision as the series is about a single woman and is firmly an office comedy not a family sitcom.

5. The Partridge Family (1970 - 1974)

The only real competitors to The Brady Bunch at the time was The Partridge Family. A music loving family that becomes a a hot band sensation over night. The series focus on juggling show business with normal small town life.

6. Good Times (1974 - 1979)

Arguably the first real family sitcom to feature an all back cast, Good Times is ironically a spin-off of a spin-off. First of the sitcom Maude which is itself a spin-off of All in the Family, a series which we will talk about later on. This series however focuses on the Evans family and their three teenaged children growing up in inner-city Chicago. The series is more topical and satirical then some of the other family sitcoms on this list but still very much following the family sitcom formula.

7. Happy Days (1974 - 1984)

Happy Days is a juggernaut cultural phenomenon that popularized coming of age sitcoms and , in the case of Wandavision, the trend of setting sitcoms in the past. The story focuses on teenaged Richie Cunningham as he tries to figure out life and growing up in 1950s America. The show lasted for a decade and spawned five spin offs, including the successful Laverne & Shirley and another series that’s on this list.

8.The Jeffersons (1975 - 1985)

“We’re moving on up!”

In honor of Geraldine/Monica landing a promotion this episode lets look at The Jeffersons. Another spin-off of All in the Family (we’re getting to it, honest) The Jeffersons took the bold move of showing a wealthy black family on American televisions. Proving that indeed tv was ‘moving on up’ from it’s measly Amos n’ Andy days.

9. Wonder Woman (1976 - 1979)

Time for the ladies to shine as well. Now there were other superhero shows on at the time, most notably Shazam, The Secrets of Isis, and The Bionic Woman, but it is the first lady of comics who has left the greatest cultural impact on society today.

10. Mork and Mindy (1978 - 1982)

One of the many spin-offs of Happy Days, Mork and Mindy is a return to the quirky fantasy sitcoms of the 60s. It’s basically the plot of My Favorite Martian but with an added will they/won’t they love affair with two best friends. It’s also ten times funnier cause it stars the late, great Robin Williams in his first break out role.

Runner Ups

Now here’s a bunch of 70s shows to check out even tho they have little to do with Wandavision.

Dark Shadows (1966 - 1971)

My mother was aghast that I didn’t include this in the 60s list cause it was her favorite show growing up. It’s a soap opera with vampires and other classic horror monsters. Well, it went into the 70s so I guess we can put it here.

The Odd Couple (1970 - 1975)

Based off both a successful stage play and later movie, The Odd Couple is about two devoiced guys rooming with each other to make ends meet. Now say it with me, “Oh my gosh, and they were roommates!”

All in the Family (1971 - 1979)

All in the Family is like the I Love Lucy or Honneymooners of its day. The series perfected and popularized the dysfunctional family trope and catapulted the formula for satire sitcoms that is still in use today with the likes of the Simpsons and King of the Hill. However it’s often mean spirited humor has little to do with Wanda’s idyllic fantasy world.

Sanford in Son (1972 - 1977)

Another early satirical sitcom with a hilariously awful father, this time featuring a mostly black cast.

The Bob Newhart Show (1972 - 1977)

Kind of like the spiritual successor to The Dick Van Dyke Show, but with less physical comedy and more quips.

MASH (1972 - 1983)

Yeah, a dark comedy about the horrors of the Korean War has nothing to do with Wandavision but still worth a watch as it’s very powerful.

Mama's Family (1974 - 1984)

The first redneck sitcom since the cancelation of Rural-verse. However this series has a more satirical bite than those shows. Getting it’s start on the Carol Burnette Show the skit about a grouchy old southern matriarch found its way to audiences televisions as it’s own hilarious half hour comedy.

And there’s loads more I could recommend but I’m going to cut things off here to save on time and possibly those later shows will make it on to the 80s list as they’re very late 70s/early 80s.

#wandavision #70s #all in the family #brady bunch #happy days #the monkees

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mechawaka · 3 years

Text

Spring in Derdriu

A commission for @artsytardis

Words: 11.7k

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Claude/Byleth

Rating: Teen

Mood music: Roses & Revolutions - Dancing in a Daydream

Summary: Five years after the war, Claude is the king of Almyra and Byleth is the queen of United Fodlan - but neither of them had the courage to propose at the Goddess Tower. When Byleth comes down with a sudden fever, they might have another chance.

---

They couldn’t possibly name Derdriu the new capital of United Fodlan, Lorenz had declared the very day after Byleth’s coronation. It would ‘imply things,’ he’d said, aghast that she would even suggest it.

Lo and behold, Ferdinand and Sylvain had expressed similar worries about Enbarr and Fhirdiad, respectively, and what ‘things’ their hosting would ‘imply.’

And Garreg Mach was also out of the question. Archbishop Seteth, recently crowned himself, wanted to keep the reformed Church of Seiros as far removed from political power as possible. Byleth couldn’t make her capital there, he’d insisted. The implications!

So which will it be? her newly appointed cabinet - four representatives from each geographical region, with twelve in total - had prodded, each sect adamant that theirs couldn’t possibly be the permanent home of the new government.

And Byleth, already exhausted despite only being in charge for a grand total of one moon, had replied:

All of them, then.

That day, United Fodlan’s migrating government, colloquially known as the Wandering Court, had been born. Byleth spent one season in each capital - spring in Derdriu, summer in Fhirdiad (on which she was insistent), and winter in Enbarr. In the fall, she and the entire cabinet gathered at neutral Garreg Mach to conduct any business which required everyone’s presence at once.

For five years, the system had worked perfectly. There had been some inevitable pushback at first, mostly from anti-Imperial factions who were upset that Byleth had adopted the old Empire’s ministerial structure, but they had gradually quieted down as the continental economy stabilized and flourished under its guidance.

Moreover, Byleth liked being on the road. She was raised in tents and on horseback, always moving between destinations, and the frequent travel helped soften long days of paperwork and political debate.

It also let her document certain supply and infrastructure problems firsthand; to this day, Byleth fondly remembered a tiny village on the Rhodos Coast whose inhabitants had sent in an official request for a new bridge - and had been shocked senseless when the queen herself, in transit from Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach, had shown up to build it.

(Petra had put her personal stamp of approval on that one; you only rule what you can see and touch, she’d written of the event.)

Today, though - this season, this cursed spring - the system was not working.

Oh, it had started normally enough. Byleth, once settled in the palace at Derdriu, had taken up her usual duty of hearing the cases which had passed since her last time in residence and breaking any tied votes.

It wasn’t until her ministers were tying up the season’s work that a heavy rain swelled the Airmid, causing flooding in four different territories and knocking out a siege-battered section of the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Suddenly, they were swamped with petitions: drowned fields, lost livestock, choked roads. All with less than a moon remaining before the court’s transition to Fhirdiad.

In short, Byleth hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.

Her head was a splitting fissure of tectonic activity, rumbling in the background of every meeting, every hearing, and roaring to life at random intervals that left her gritting her teeth and glaring at Lorenz, wherever he was in the room.

Oh, we simply can’t stay in Derdriu permanently, she mocked him mentally as, again, a searing wave of pain spiked behind her drooping eyes. It would ruin everything, or whatever.

“- and with that in mind, the Merchants’ Association asked us to move the boundary twenty feet down the riverfront,” Marianne recited from an open ledger. She, like all the other ministers, was dressed in a smartly cut, floor-length robe of office that bore the seal of United Fodlan, with her hair gathered neatly at the back of her neck.

“Ministers Victor and Goneril voted in favor of the merchants, while Minister Gloucester and I voted in favor of the fisheries. How do you rule?” Marianne looked up from her record and across their round discussion table. Her eyes were bright and serious at first, but they creased with worry upon taking in Byleth’s pinched expression.

“Are you feeling ill, Your Majesty?”

This garnered the other ministers’ attention as well. Ignatz pushed his glasses up his nose to study her better, staring in that perceptive, sympathetic way that said he’d already identified all the faults in her appearance.

Hilda, who’d been twirling a quill pen between her fingers, glanced up and gave Byleth a detachedly brutal once-over, indicating with an arched, sculpted eyebrow that she disliked her findings.

Lorenz, meanwhile, simply regarded his queen with a dry, ‘I told you so’ stare.

“No, no. I’m fine,” Byleth asserted, avoiding everyone’s concerned faces, and especially Lorenz’s. He had warned her against overworking only a week prior, and here she was zoning out like a bored student. She’d get an earful from him later, no doubt, about a ruler’s responsibility to their subjects extending to self-care and time management.

“My apologies. Minister Edmund, please recount the case again.” Byleth pushed herself up, ignoring the pounding rhythm inside her brain. She often paced the length of the room for difficult petitions, anyway, and maybe movement would help ease the pain - but she took one step and the world went sideways.

She swayed dangerously on her feet, catching herself on the edge of the throne. Her legs were soft and wobbly as a dessert jelly; her vision swam with blots of darkness and intense color at random.

In a hushed, grave voice, she whispered, “Oh, that’s not good.”

“Quite,” Lorenz agreed curtly, having materialized at her elbow to aid in stabilization. He turned to the others, lips pursed and demeanor supremely unamused. “I believe Her Majesty is finished hearing cases for the day. All in agreement?”

Byleth barely registered the other ministers’ responses; her ears were suddenly full of cotton, dampening all incoming sound. Even Lorenz’s voice, so close at her side, was fuzzy and jumbled. She could only nod and follow him out of the throne room, vaguely aware that Marianne had joined them.

When had her headache gotten this bad? It must have been a slow progression, she reasoned as the trio headed toward her chambers, building in intensity during the meeting. She vaguely recalled an old medical lecture of Manuela’s about blood vessels in the brain, and how moving suddenly after a stationary period could cause...something. Something bad, probably.

Not for the first time, nor even for the hundredth, she wished she’d paid closer attention to the other teachers’ seminars back at Garreg Mach.

Lorenz politely turned around while Marianne helped Byleth out of her heavy court mantle and into her gigantic bed, busying himself by preparing a teapot at the dresser.

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Byleth professed as she collapsed onto her mattress, allowing Marianne’s white magic to flow over her in a soothing current. “We can re-convene at first light.”

With his back still turned, Lorenz scoffed. “I highly doubt that.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s right,” Marianne corroborated, ceasing her spell and pressing the back of one hand to Byleth’s forehead. “You have harvest fever; you’ll need to rest for at least a week to let it run its course.”

“A week?” Byleth demanded, sitting straight up again. “But I leave for Fhirdiad in two!”

Lorenz brought the teapot over on a wheeled cart, putting his hands on either side and warming it magically. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have taxed yourself to infirmity, hmm?”

At that, Byleth shot him an impotent - and, in all likelihood, given her state, pathetic - glare, but the mere action of tensing her forehead muscles worsened her headache and she fell back onto her pillows, defeated. He was right, damn him.

“Byleth,” he continued, exasperated, dropping all formality as he always did in the absence of prying ears. “Just rest. We designed this government to run in your absence - let us handle things from here.”

Marianne echoed the sentiment with a soft smile, pouring some strong-smelling medicinal tea from the pot. “We’ll see that Ordelia and Hrym are well cared for,” she said, holding out the teacup like a peace offering.

Byleth grudgingly took it.

---

Lorenz squinted down at Byleth’s sleeping form, sprawled and content amongst her blankets, and sighed. No one had ever prepared her for a life of leadership and politics, but she’d risen to the challenge admirably in the last five years. Perhaps too admirably, if situations like this were any judge.

Her problem, he’d decided long ago - and informed her whenever the chance presented itself - was moderation. Temperance. Byleth Eisner tackled every problem with a single-minded determination that, while remarkably efficient during the war, had tended to cause a variety of problems in peacetime.

In that regard, she was quite similar to him. To Claude. And speaking of Claude -

“We had two guards and a trio of footmen at our assembly today,” Marianne observed, keeping her eyes on the bed, but her message was clear.

“Indeed.” Lorenz tapped the heels of his polished boots restlessly against the floor. He could practically hear the wagging tongues from here; he could picture the story of their fainting monarch billowing out from the palace like blood in water, ripe for scenting - and there was one particular green-eyed shark always circling for a whiff.

He forced a long, resigned breath out through his nose, and said dismally, “I’ll direct the staff to prepare the guest wing at once.”

---

Thanks to whatever was in that tea, Byleth slept straight through the next few days. Even when she woke, she was groggy and mostly insensate to the world around her; she recalled Marianne’s visits to administer medicine or urge a few sips of water, but other than that - nothing. Only light and color and sound, all indistinct and running together.

The fever itself wasn’t so bad. She was being treated by the most studied healer in the region, and the rest was good for her, as much as she resisted the notion.

No, what had her itching for freedom, for an escape, had nothing to do with the sickness and everything to do with her own shoddy mental compartmentalization. Byleth had a single unbreakable rule, and it had kept her safe and stable for most of her life: don’t slow down.

Her friends - formerly students, and now United Fodlan’s new ministers - had always struggled to understand what went on in her head, and Byleth had to confess that it was often a confusing place for her, too. That was why she spent as little time there as possible. If she was solving governmental disputes or plotting a route through the Oghmas, she wasn’t thinking about her problems - and for someone that had attended the Jeralt Eisner school of “don’t confront your problems until they literally confront you first” coping strategy, that suited her just fine.

But these hours cooped up in her bedchamber were slow, and Lorenz had taken great strides to ensure that nary a tax report breached its threshold. And when there was no work to do, no roadblock for her mind to chew on, it drifted to contemplation, to nostalgia, and then, inevitably, to Claude.

What would he think of the stalemate between the merchants and the fisheries? That one was easy. He’d find a third option, something neither of the institutions had proposed but that benefited both, and dazzle them with its presentation. He’d find a way to spin the conflict so that it wasn’t about competing guilds, but about the betterment of the city as a whole.

She wondered if he looked different now compared to when she’d seen him last, at the Alliance Founding Day celebration the previous Horsebow. They only ever saw each other in formal wear these days, painted and decorated and utterly without privacy. Had he let his hair grow over the winter like she had? Was it curling near the base of his neck, thick and wild?

Oh, here we go, she thought, rolling her eyes and then squeezing them shut. This was why she kept herself preoccupied; any lapse in activity brought these sorts of ideas to the forefront, and they always turned to indulgent fantasy. Only Claude brought out that side of Byleth - and it made her so paradoxically angry, and afraid, and lonely.

Angry because she hadn’t intended to let him in; he was just there one day, snugly by her side, a few months after she’d joined the faculty at Garreg Mach (and she would always lament, at least a little, that Rhea hadn’t put her with the students instead). Even after he’d admitted his ulterior motives in getting close to her, Byleth never had the heart to be mad at him for it. He was so damn endearing.

Afraid because, as easily as he’d attached himself to her, he’d un-attached. Byleth could admit to herself, alone in her darkened bedroom, that most of her mental evasion strategies centered around one specific memory: that early morning conversation they’d had right before her coronation, in which Claude had spontaneously announced his departure from Fodlan.

(“There’s something I need to do,” he’d said up at the Goddess Tower, and she had been so sure he’d wanted to say more, but instead he’d just...left.)

Lonely because their friendship had never been the same after that. They were both so busy, now, and with so much responsibility - and she missed him. Missed their easy conversation and matching drive; missed the academic dissections of famous battles and the late nights spent comparing various cultures’ names for the constellations.

Her remaining friends were certainly a balm, and she wouldn’t trade them for the world, but none of them were him. She’d never filled that spot at her side. Couldn’t fill it. Nothing and no one else fit there.

But she also couldn’t ask him back. He was the king of Almyra now, fulfilling everything he’d wanted and worked for and talked about with stars in his eyes - and Byleth could never begrudge him his lofty and admirable goals. Never. Instead, she’d had to accept the possibility that the grand arc of his ambitions no longer included her in its trajectory.

She sprawled out sideways on her bed, letting the warring emotions flood her body. Maybe this was good for her. Maybe, like the fever, she just needed to let them run their course. Maybe these were the natural consequences of escapism and denial.

And it wasn’t like she’d be able to get away from herself any time soon.

---

“Of all the - absolutely not,” Lorenz stated, planting himself in the center of the hall that led to Byleth’s bedroom. “There are procedures, Claude. Royal protocol. You know this!”

But Claude had already danced around him, utilizing that foot speed the mages never needed to master. “Come on, Lorenz, I’m not some Srengan diplomat - we’ve all seen each other covered in mud and guts. What’s a little illness between friends?”

To his credit, Lorenz didn’t ask how Claude had come by that knowledge. Nor were his protestations very vigorous, as if the man had foreseen this exact scenario - and for that, Claude was proud of him.

That pride wouldn’t keep him from his goal, however. He’d saddled up his wyvern as soon as the words “queen” and “sick” had left his spymaster’s mouth.

“She’s not well. You’ll be interrupting her convalescence - Claude,” Lorenz said sternly, holding his friend by the elbow and fixing him with a soul-searching gaze. “She cannot receive visitors in this state. What’s gotten into you?”

For an instant, Claude’s happy-go-lucky mask slipped. He’d been too pushy, so much so that even Lorenz got a glimpse of the panic underneath - the cold terror that had driven him across the continent and still gripped his heart. He knew it wouldn’t let up until he could confirm Byleth’s condition.

But he was a consummate faker, and so the mask slotted deftly back into place. “Why don’t you go ask her, hmm? I’m sure she’ll be positively overjoyed.”

---

When Lorenz walked in, Byleth was still in the same position, all spread out and despondent.

“How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” he asked pointedly, and his use of her title - coupled with his formal position near the door - should have clued her in to what he was really asking, but Byleth was far too addled for nuance.

She tilted her head in his direction and flatly, shamelessly said, “Fine.”

Lorenz’s disciplined expression soured a fraction. “Well, that is wonderful news -” his ironic lilt suggested that this news was anything but wonderful, “- because you have a visitor.”

He stepped back to clear the doorway, giving Byleth a look that said she deserved everything that was about to happen. “May I present King Khalid ibn Riegan of Almyra.”

Claude poked his head in much too casually for Lorenz’s theatrical introduction. “Byleth! I brought you some -”

He paused, staring at her depressed-starfish pose. Byleth, in the blink of an eye, sobered completely and experienced all the stages of grief in quick succession.

“- fruit,” Claude finished lamely. Behind him, Lorenz pinched the bridge of his nose.

---

“Claude,” Byleth intoned, dredging up her ‘serious teacher’ voice for the occasion. She’d bathed and changed her clothes since his impromptu arrival - Byleth had never possessed a single modest bone in her body, but, again, he just incomprehensibly brought it out in her - and now she sat on the edge of her bed while he occupied the bedside armchair.

“It was so nice of you to drop in,” she continued, folding her arms across her chest.

Claude laughed anxiously, holding a woven basket full of fruit in his lap half like a shield and half like an offering to an angry deity. “Okay, why do I get the feeling you’re mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Byleth said icily. It wasn’t a lie; it was more like she was mad around him - mad at the space surrounding his stupid, handsome head - mad that he’d shown up, as if summoned, right when she was feeling so sorry for herself about him.

But that was far too complicated to explain, so instead she asked, “What’s your business in the city?”

He brightened a bit, perhaps relieved to divert the topic. “Thought I’d tour the Goldroad - see what travel is really like there outside the official inspection dates.”

Byleth cocked her head to the side, staring out her west-facing window. He referred to the winding trade route that now spanned the Throat, starting at the Locket and ending at a similarly sized fort across the border in Almyra - but that was over a day’s travel from Derdriu.

Following the path of her eyes, Claude went on quickly, “And, you know, I was in the area, so why not visit my very best friend?”

She wasn’t sure she’d classify a seventeen hour wyvern flight as ‘in the area.’ Byleth narrowed her eyes, looking from his rigid smile, to his posture, to the basket he carried, then back to his face, waiting for the actual answer.

“- All right,” he confessed, exhaling deeply. “My spies said you were sick, so I came to check on you - how are you still so good at that?”

She smiled despite herself and pointed at the basket, which he promptly handed over. Popping a dried date into her mouth, she asked coyly, “At what?”

Claude laughed heartily, reaching over to get one for himself, and that simple action propelled them effortlessly into a comfortable, familiar rhythm, dispelling their outer veneers of royalty.

They traded stories about travel, about new friends, about insufferable opposition; Claude told her about one of his subordinate satraps - which served a similar function to Byleth’s ministers, but with more concentrated local authority - who had threatened to raise an army in his territory over the price of grain, and then panicked when Claude had called his bluff and negotiated a lower price.

(“Did he even have an army?” she asked, completely absorbed in the story and eating sour cherries by the handful.

Claude, with a wide, gleeful grin, replied, “Not a chance.”)

In return, Byleth told him about last year’s failed rebellion in eastern Faerghus, in which a group of Blaiddyd royalists had tried to rally the region’s former aristocracy under the banner of House Fraldarius - and how Felix himself had ridden out to personally disband them.

(“Oof. Embarrassing,” Claude commented, making a face like someone had punched him in the gut. “What did he say to make them listen?”

Byleth snorted and modulated her voice to match the prickly swordsman’s. “‘This is not happening. Leave.’”)

As the afternoon wore on, servants brought in tea service and then dinner - and Byleth’s temporary surge in vitality upon seeing her dear friend started to fade, replaced by the fever-aches she’d come to know so well. Her movements grew slower and her answers shorter, overcast by brain fog.

Claude watched this change in her with considerable worry, helping her back under her blankets after they’d finished eating and re-situating the pillows around her head.

“Oh, stop it,” she chided, swatting away his hands. “I’m not completely helpless.”

He backed off, smiling easily, but stayed within range to aid her again if needed. “I don’t know about that,” he teased. “You know what they say about people who catch colds in the summer.”

“It’s spring,” she insisted, wrinkling her nose, but he didn’t laugh. In fact, there were no traces of mirth left anywhere on his face.

Byleth sat up straighter. “Claude, it’s only harvest fever. Marianne said it should clear up in a few days.”

He dropped back into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees so he could bridge part of the gap. “But what if it’s not, though?”

A nearby Church of Seiros’s evening bells rang out across the palace grounds. The brassy sounds changed with each echo, reaching her bedchamber as ghostly distortions.

“What, you think Marianne got it wrong?” Byleth asked, pulling her blanket up subconsciously.

“No, just -” Claude ran a hand back through his hair, pushing it even further out of its usual style, “- what if it’s related to...whatever Sothis did to you after the siege?”

He’d spoken so quietly that Byleth had to lean forward and slow her own breath in order to hear it. The concern in his tone - the restraint in his clasped hands; the uncertainty in his eyes - made her take a second pass over everything.

She no longer saw a casual check-in made by a concerned friend. Claude had traveled here with speed and intent, and now she knew why; just like their parting words at Garreg Mach had stuck with her, her long and mysterious slumber had probably stuck with him.

(The realization, while illuminating, didn’t hit her as hard as it should have. She thought some version of that truth, formless and undefined, must have been swimming around in the back of her mind for a while. It explained so succinctly why Marianne had insisted on treating Byleth herself, and why Lorenz stood vigil so often outside her room, even though the two had comparably little free time.)

Now that she thought about it, the long-term consequences of merging with a goddess should probably be a bigger concern of hers, too.

“I haven’t heard Sothis’s voice, nor felt her presence, in six years,” Byleth explained calmly, striving for an affect that would put him at ease. “And I’ve been in perfect health, besides.”

Claude gave her a long, lingering look - one that took in not only her face, but her long, mint-green braid and her customary wardrobe, unchanged from her days at the monastery - as if he wanted to commit her current state to memory. Byleth returned it with a confused frown, ready to comment on the odd behavior, but then his usual smile returned in a flash.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced with a little shrug, standing and straightening his riding harness. “It’s probably nothing serious. A few days, you said?”

Byleth’s confusion skewed into suspicion. Claude never let anything go that easily. “Yeah,” she answered slowly, searching his face for signs of duplicity. “Marianne said I’m already over the worst of it.”

“That’s great,” Claude enthused in the exact manner he’d use to win over his enemies, and Byleth’s misgivings quadrupled. “You should get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was out the door in a flourish of his royal half-cape, paying no mind to the official etiquette of departure. (Byleth didn’t care about such things, but Lorenz was surely fuming about it in the hall.)

She let herself fall, warily, back onto her bed, pondering what Claude could possibly be up to - because he was up to something. It was only after she’d started to drift off, her head nestled warmly in one of about a dozen pillows, that the implications of his parting words struck her.

---

Ignatz rushed down the administerial wing’s main corridor, clutching a stack of accounting ledgers in one arm and several sheaves of operational business licenses in the other. Sunlight was just starting to peek through the hall’s windows, painting slowly elongating bars of yellow on the opposite walls; nobody would be in their offices yet, but if he could deliver his cargo before breakfast, he’d be able to get a head start on his own day’s work -

Thus distracted, he pushed his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose - using an occupied hand. Fifty business licenses, previously sorted alphabetically and geographically, drifted to the ground in a fluttering cloud of failure.

“Oh, no,” Ignatz muttered, dropping to his knees and gathering up the papers as best as he could without dropping the ledgers. If he didn’t deliver his cargo before breakfast, that would delay all of his tasks by at least an hour, thereby pushing back tomorrow’s tasks as well, to say nothing of his meeting with the merchants’ guild -

A head of shaggy brown hair and a pair of leather-gloved hands bent to organize the papers into a messy but holdable pile, then helped to situate it more snugly in Ignatz’s grasp.

In his haste and immeasurable relief, Ignatz threw a grateful, “Thanks, Claude!” over his shoulder as he resumed his flight down the corridor.

At the threshold of Hilda’s office, though, while balancing both stacks with one hand so he could turn the doorknob, he froze and shouted back the way he’d come, “Claude?!”

---

Instead of the usual morning sounds - like the rustling of Marianne’s skirts or the trundling of a breakfast cart - Byleth woke to singing. It originated somewhere to her right, winding and unhurried, and she knew this gentle melody; Claude had taught it to her during the war.

So he really was still here, then. He’d really stayed.

She opened her eyes just a hair, hoping for a chance to observe him before he noticed that she was awake.

It was still early. All the curtains were tied back and the windows cracked, letting in pale, diffused light and a sea-salt breeze off the bay. Claude stood at her personal writing desk, which Marianne had turned into a makeshift apothecary, weighing a small pile of freshly ground coriander. He was dressed more casually today, having discarded his courtly attire and riding leathers in favor of a belted Almyran-style tunic; his hair was bound in a simple but flattering tie at the nape of his neck.

Byleth watched him work - watched him thoughtfully consider the ratio of coriander to ginger to water, his hand hovering over each as he deliberated. All the while he sang that soft tune, so beautifully laden with memory and affection.

When he’d finally settled on a mixture, he reached into a pouch at his belt and uncorked a vial of honey, adding a spoonful to the mug. She tried her best to hold it in, but a tiny, breathless laugh escaped her; that rich wildflower honey was a signature of Claude’s home-brews - a sweetener to make his questionable concoctions more palatable.

He jumped and whirled at the sound, his cheeks darkening somewhat at being caught unawares, but Byleth just shook her head slowly, reassuringly, and hummed the next few bars of his song. At once, his embarrassment morphed into a wide, slanted smile, and he turned back to put the finishing touches on his creation.

“What are you still doing here?” Byleth asked, pushing herself up to a sitting position. Her hair must have been a mess, but she had to settle for a quick smooth-down.

Claude chuckled and sat on the edge of her bed, holding out the mug of steaming medicinal tea. “Really? No ‘Good morning, Claude, and thank you for taking such good care of me?’”

She took the cup and shot him a faux-scowl. “Who’s running your country, though?”

“Oh, it basically runs itself.” He waved a flippant hand, staring out a window in the direction of the Throat. “Our scholars say, ‘A king is a great ship’s rudder.’ It just so happens that my ‘great ship’ has a good heading right now.”

Byleth regarded him doubtfully. She knew this proverb, and its wisdom was definitely not intended to excuse literal flights of fancy.

“What?” he asked, rolling his head to the side playfully. “If anything happens, Nader knows where I am. Besides, aren’t you happy to see me?”

Her stern facade - only performative, anyway, since Claude never failed to disarm her - softened. “I’m always happy to see you,” she said quietly, hiding her vulnerability with a big sip from her mug. (It was delicious, of course, after being assembled so skillfully.)

The curious look he gave her in response lasted a little too long, probed a little too deep for comfort, so she followed it up with a nervous, “Where’s - where’s Marianne?”

Claude, ever-insightful, let the moment pass without remark. “She allowed me to perform her caretaking duties in exchange for a little, ah...discretion...on my part.”

That was easy to imagine. Her ministers had enough on their legislative plates without the obligatory fanfare that would accompany an ‘official’ royal visitation - so the last thing they needed was King Khalid, the former leader of the Alliance, showing his highly recognizable face all over Derdriu.

“We’re both locked up, then,” Byleth said plainly. That explained his wardrobe; a casual observer might think him no more than a member of the staff. As long as he didn’t linger in unfamiliar company, he could move freely about the palace.

“Yep.” Claude smiled contentedly, like he’d gotten the best possible end of this deal. (Byleth begged to disagree.)

In a comically professional, woefully unconvincing physician’s voice, he asked, “So, how are you feeling today, my liege?”

Byleth choked on a sip of her tea, cough-laughing and beating her chest to clear her airways. “Much better, doctor,” she spluttered, setting down her mug to prevent any spasm-related accidents. It was true; her head and body aches had been fading with each passing day, and the fever was low enough that she didn’t feel like a boiling crab leg anymore.

“Good, good,” he mused, looking far too pleased with himself. “Then what do you say to a bit of chess on the balcony?”

She gave her sternum a few more good thumps to really get all the spicy ginger out of her lungs, using the extra time to examine Claude more closely. He knew he couldn’t beat her at chess; what was this about? And was it related to - to whatever inscrutable scheme he was currently enacting?

“Sure,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t give up his plans if asked. (Not until the most dramatically poignant moment, anyway.) If she was going to figure it out on her own, she’d need more opportunities for candid observation, and chess should do nicely.

His face split into a grin immediately. “I saw a board in Lorenz’s office. Meet you back here after lunch?”

“Yeah, it’s a date,” she agreed lightly, and didn’t miss the way it tripped him up on the way out.

---

“You’re still here,” Lorenz observed with the same sort of weary derision one might direct at a persistent rug stain. He stood in the doorway to his office, holding a tea tray and projecting an aura of disappointment.

Claude, who was currently inside said office and in the midst of burgling a marble chess board, hastily clicked all its pieces back down and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am! Very astute of you to notice.”

Lorenz’s eyes flicked pointedly from his uninvited guest to his now-askew board, then he calmly strode around both to reach his polished mahogany desk. “Well, then. Would you join me for tea, Your Majesty?”

The way he gestured to the opposite chair spoke clearly of interrogation, but Claude sat anyway. It wouldn’t be polite to steal a man’s gaming paraphernalia and refuse his company.

“Why, thank you, Minister,” he answered, exaggerating his friend’s formal air, “we are simply delighted by your invitation.”

Lorenz’s poker face had improved over the years, but Claude still caught the subtle tightening of a jaw and the slightest arch of a brow; dead giveaways that he’d still snap at a piece of bait like a Brigidian piranha. Good to know.

“All right,” Lorenz said, clipped, like he’d come to a decision at the end of a long internal debate. “What are you doing here, Claude?”

Claude blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “Uh, well, Marianne and I -”

“I quite understand the generous arrangement which Marianne has afforded you,” Lorenz cut in quickly, pouring out two cups of tea. He handed one over the desk with the gravitas of a commander handing down orders. “What, precisely, are you here to do?”

Faking affrontation would be a moot point here, Claude thought. Lorenz was chasing down a specific answer, and from the set of his brow, he’d probably figured out most of it.

And that was fair. Despite their rocky interactions, Lorenz was one of the few people that Claude would say he trusted, and he knew that Lorenz felt the same (even though he had a peculiar way of showing it).

However, while Lorenz looked confident in the answer to his question, Claude didn’t even know where to start. How could he sum up this whirlwind?

Should he begin with the primal fear of hearing that Byleth had collapsed? With the breakneck flight to Derdriu, imagining all the worst possibilities in his head? (The mild shock in her eyes as she toppled backward into the chasm; her ensuing five-year absence, silent and absolute.)

Or at the boundless relief - the sheer, joyful knowledge that she had not, in fact, been re-afflicted with Sothis’s ancient sleeping sickness?

Or, should he skip straight to the certainty that he wouldn’t survive another such scare, and the unwillingness to be apart from her for even a second more, political repercussions be damned?

In the end, holding a steaming, fragrant cup of bergamot, Claude - in one of only a handful of occasions thus far in his life - couldn’t find the right words.

Luckily, Lorenz, who must have witnessed his friend’s rapid expression shifts, found one instead. Gently, and with more sympathy than expected, he asked, “Still?”

Ah, so he had figured it out.

Claude raised his teacup in a silent toast. “Still,” he confirmed, then downed it in one gulp.

“Hm.” Lorenz paused to serve out refills and scones, and Claude knew exactly what his friend was remembering.

(For five years during the war, Claude had periodically returned to Garreg Mach, even though everyone else had given up the search for Byleth. As the visits persisted in the face of increasing danger, one by one, and with varying levels of understanding and acceptance, his friends had all come to the same conclusion: their leader was in love with their former professor.)

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Lorenz said curtly, but not unkindly. “You have a plan, then? - Oh, what am I saying? Of course you do. The Master Tactician wouldn’t have shown up without a plan.”

Claude, who had been trying to decide if Lorenz was mocking him or not, visibly fumbled his cranberry scone at that final comment.

Instantaneously, Lorenz’s face went from invested concern to mortification. “Goddess above - you don’t have a plan.”

Claude didn’t have the heart to say that his “plans” often sprung from gut feelings like this; that, very often, he was building a bridge to his goals and walking it simultaneously, trusting that there would be another plank when he reached back for one.

In this particular instance, his bridge took the form of an impromptu and extended stay at the palace while he figured out the world’s most diplomatically sensitive marriage proposal. He wanted to tell Lorenz that, actually, he had several possible scaffolds in place, he just hadn’t chosen one yet - but Claude could see the foundational flaws in all of them, and still hovered at the juncture, unsure where to lay the next plank.

“- No, I don’t,” he finally admitted, steepling his fingers on the desk. “I’m taking suggestions, though, if you have any?”

Lorenz took a slow, calculated sip of his tea, giving Claude one of his patented ‘how did you manage to become the leader of anything’ looks. “Marianne assures me that Byleth will recover in a matter of days -”

“I know,” Claude interjected miserably. His timetable was tragically inadequate.

“- And, while your presence here is temporarily acceptable on the basis of friendship, it will become much harder to justify after the palace returns to its normal operations -”

“I know, Lorenz,” Claude said, letting his forehead fall onto the points of his fingers. The pain, he thought, was well-deserved. “Sheesh, you don’t have to rub my nose in it…”

Lorenz laughed softly. “Apologies. I’m simply savoring the moment; it isn’t often you need my strategic input.”

With his face downturned and concealed, Claude grimaced. He supposed he’d deserved that, too.

“But,” Lorenz went on, “I do have a suggestion. Given your limited available time and lack of direction, we should enlist outside support.”

Claude raised his head incredulously. “Your solution is to have more people laugh at me?”

“Yes. Hilda and Marianne, to be precise.” Lorenz smirked and crossed his legs. “And they won’t laugh - in fact, Hilda will be delighted.”

His tone of voice was too amused for the answer to be anything good, but Claude still asked cautiously, “Why?”

“Oh, because I owe her quite a bit of gold, naturally - I thought it would take you and Byleth far longer to act on your feelings, and my money was on her acting first.”

---

Byleth loved the balcony off her bedchamber. It was on the same side of the palace as the throne room, only higher, with a wider perspective of the canal below and a down-angle view of the opposite block. Sitting on it and looking out, with the stone railing acting as an artificial horizon, she really felt as if she were floating above Derdriu; the city sprawled off endlessly to her right, while its great network of canals spilled into the bay on her left, all set in miniature from this height.

A tangy sea breeze teased through her hair, rustling the many and vibrant plants - in pots, hanging from the roof, and mounted in window boxes - that scattered the area. They were in perfect health, she noticed, despite the rarity of her visits, and Byleth wondered if it was some palace staffer’s entire job to maintain luxurious spaces like these, even though some busy official might seldom use them.

She privately resolved to appreciate the balcony more often.

It didn’t take long for Claude to come whistling through her chambers, bearing a chess board like a server delivering a high-end meal. He put it down on a small, circular table where Byleth’s own board was already set up, then carefully aligned their edges to create a double-long playing field.

(They’d invented this game early on at Garreg Mach after discovering that neither of them felt challenged enough by the base rules. It had gone through several name changes before they’d agreed to just keep the original; after all, if either of them ever mentioned the game to the other, they both understood which (clearly superior) version was being referenced.)

“So, you managed to get Lorenz to part with it,” Byleth commented as he arranged his pieces and sat down opposite her. “What’d it cost you?”

Claude made a face like he’d just licked a lemon. “Oh, nothing much. Just my reputation and dignity.” He laughed it off, but there was a distinct, hollow ring of truth to his words. “Anyway. Sixty-point game?”

She cocked her head, intrigued. Their special rules allowed for custom “armies” to be built from the standard chess units, each with an individual point cost. Byleth personally liked to run an army without pawns - high risk, high reward (usually reward).

“Not forty?” she asked mildly, picking out her standard array plus an extra frontline of knights. Claude would regret handing her such an aggressive opener. “Are you trying out a new strategy?”

He grinned and laid out his own army, which seemed to focus around his sovereigns - and, as usual, contained a robust line-and-a-half of pawns. What he sacrificed in speed, he made up for in defensive surface area.

“I am. I think you’ll really like this one,” he said, playing his first (highly predictable) move.

That was the thing about Claude, though. Byleth thought his move was predictable right now, at the beginning, but he was a highly intelligent improviser. The long field between armies meant that most of the game was based on ranged path speculation.

Was a cluster of pieces actually heading toward her left flank, or would it divert to threaten other units at the last second? She’d have to put a metaphorical shield in place for the first possibility, and a sword for the other - and with Claude, it was impossible to tell ahead of time which he would actually pick.

But, despite the chaos his playstyle caused, its spontaneity was also what made him such a compelling opponent. The tactical element never got stale.

“It’s bound to be more exciting than your rook phalanx idea,” Byleth teased, starting her knights off on their long journey.

Claude gasped like she’d just insulted his mother. “Hey, that was not my fault - it was a good attack pattern in theory!”

She made a tiny sound of agreement to humor him, but remained privately unconvinced.

As usual, they lapsed into silence for the first phase of the game, each trying to dissect the other’s overall strategy. Of course, at this stage, it was largely conjecture; there would be many, many reactive and counter-reactive moves before any two units actually engaged.

The quiet was nice, though. Ships’ bells echoed in from the piers, mingling with street noise rabble and the shrill cries of bay gulls. There was no one to demand her ear or her time - a rare commodity. She could tell Claude enjoyed it, too, by his easy smiles and relaxed posture.

Why had they ever stopped doing this? It dawned on Byleth that it had been years since their last game.

“- Hey, Claude,” she said at the thirty-turn mark.

He didn’t look up from his spread. “Hm?” “What in the world are you doing?”

His green eyes, which had been bouncing between forward pawns, flicked up to her face. “Setting up my midgame?” he half-asked, gesturing to his formation like the answer was obvious. “Why, what are you doing?”

Byleth narrowed her eyes at the board. He’d split his pawns into two staggered ranks with his sovereigns in the middle, like some sort of sandwiched convoy, and the outer ring of mid-tier pieces looked to be guards.

“Your brilliant new strategy is to hand-deliver your king to my army?” she contended, tracing his column’s trek down the board with her hands, then opening them wide, fingers hooked, to mime the pieces being eaten by a sharp-toothed monster.

Claude laughed confidently. “You’ll see. The king and queen together are unstoppable.”

It was certainly an unconventional approach. By virtue of its novelty, it tripped Byleth up several times in the early game - one might even say, around turn sixty, that her opponent had the advantage. But the sheer speed and maneuverability of her knightly vanguard eventually prevailed, and by turn ninety, she had his entire escort block surrounded.

“Multi-point threat,” Byleth declared, moving in on his rear line. “This was an interesting idea, but I do believe your king is in mortal peril.”

Claude, who’d been standing for the last dozen turns, paced to the other side of the table. (He loved to do that - to see the situation from all angles, like he would in a real conflict. Unfortunately, that expanded perspective could do little for him here.)

“No, I think - listen - he still has his queen.”

Byleth examined the setup again. “Uh-huh, he sure does,” she drawled, trying to understand how that might change their fates.

“I’m just saying,” he went on, crouching so that he could view the board at eye level. “Look how far they’ve already come. Look at all they’ve been through together - it’s not like a little opposition could stop them now, right?”

She crossed her arms, a bewildered smile tugging at her mouth. “Are you seriously trying to Nemesis me right now? My bishops have them both in four.”

Claude gave a frustrated sigh. “No, this isn’t a scheme - well,” he amended, scratching pensively at his chin scruff, “okay, it is a scheme, but -”

I knew it, she thought, vindicated, and grinned accordingly.

“Ugh, forget it.” Claude toppled his king. “You’re right, it was an ill-fated venture that clearly needs outside support.”

Byleth frowned. “What? I didn’t say that.”

He waved his arms like he was dispelling the entire conversation. “Never mind. We’ve still got plenty of light - how about another game?”

---

Later that night, after Byleth and most of the palace had retired, Hilda’s raucous laughter rang out through the entire administerial wing.

“You tried to tell her with chess?!”

She, Claude, Marianne, and Lorenz all sat around a table in one of the meeting rooms, passing around a bottle of strong Faerghan whiskey.

“No wonder she didn’t get it,” Hilda continued, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes (in a delicate manner that spared her makeup). “You know how Byleth is!”

Lorenz refilled his glass, nodding emphatically. “Agreed. Subtlety will get you nowhere in that arena, my friend.”

“I thought it was sweet,” Marianne disclosed quietly.

Claude propped his feet up on an unused chair and dipped his chin gratefully. “Thank you. I also thought it would be sweet. And successful.”

He took a long swig straight from the bottle, much to Hilda’s amusement. “But you were right, Lorenz, okay? So -” he slapped the tabletop in invitation, “- go on. Advise me.”

Perhaps sensing that their friend was already punishing himself enough, no one pushed the teasing any further. Lorenz and Hilda shared a look - one that said they’d already discussed the matter privately - and then everyone got straight down to business.

“First of all, we should discuss the legal ramifications of your union,” Lorenz said, indicating the palace walls. “It’s true that anti-Almyran sentiment has died down greatly since the war, especially here in Leicester, but I fear widespread confusion - how much power would the king of Almyra suddenly have over their territories? Their livelihoods?”

Claude recoiled from the intensity. “Whoa! She hasn’t even said yes - aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves, here?”

(In truth, he had the same worries about his own homeland; it wasn’t like xenophobia was exclusive to Fodlan. His current plan - if she agreed - was to introduce her presence like he’d introduced his own: aggressively and unapologetically, with hopes that the Almyran public would regard it with the same eventual respect.)

The other three gave him bland looks.

“You really, honestly think she’ll turn you down?” Hilda asked in angry disbelief.

Claude gritted his teeth. “I don’t know - I mean, that’s Byleth’s whole deal, right? Unbeatable strategist? You never know what she’s thinking?”

“Oh, Claude,” Marianne said, patting him on the arm. “You should have more confidence in yourself.”

Hilda snorted into her tumbler.

“- Regardless, I don’t want to discuss the politics without her. If she says yes,” Claude emphasized with a stern glance around the table. “I have to get to the actual question first, okay? Lorenz. Ideas. Go.”

The man in question raised his eyebrows. “All right - well, Leonie proposed to me during a horseback ride. She’d painted all of her mounted archery targets with one word each, and in order they spelled out a question...oh, it was very romantic,” he said, his tone warming as he spoke. He then promptly cleared his throat. “But, ah, Byleth isn’t in a physical state for riding, hmm?”

Hilda propped her elbows up on the table and cradled her chin in her hands, recounting dreamily, “Marianne took me deep into the forest at night and professed her love under the light of the full moon. How could I have ever said no to that?”

Marianne hid behind her glass, her face beet-red. “I don’t, uhm, think there are any full moons coming up soon, though,” she managed to squeak out.

“Yeah, you have to do something quick.” Hilda pointed at him with her glass. “Let’s see - we already know it can’t involve winning something, so that’s out.”

Claude laughed sarcastically into the bottle.

“A grand display would not be diplomatically feasible, either,” Lorenz added.

Yeah, that made sense, Claude thought. A single plant in the throne room had brought word of Byleth’s illness to him in under three days - and he wasn’t the only one with eyes here.

“You should do something that’s meaningful to both of you,” Marianne suggested, her face returning to its usual pallid shade. “Something simple but significant. Byleth would appreciate that, I think.”

Simple but significant.

Claude swirled the idea around in his head at the same time he swirled the contents of his bottle. Significant he could do - had been doing - but simple was another story. Maybe that was his problem; maybe he just needed to go back to the basics.

“And don’t get her a ring,” Hilda said. “I never see her wearing jewelry unless the tailors insist.”

He chewed on all of that, taking slow, measured sips of whiskey. Something meaningful to both him and to Byleth - something memorable, but uncomplicated. No rings, he added mentally. That was fine; as an archer, he disliked having obstructions around his hands, anyway. (And while they were out here breaking traditions, who cared if it was one or one hundred?)

“Hey,” he began, doing some quick calculations around wyverns’ seasonal nesting habits. “How quickly could I get something down the Goldroad?”

Lorenz’s brows knit together. “From the capital to here, I presume, and with the use of your royal seal? Within the week. Why? What do you need?”

Claude grinned, luxuriating in the rush of a good plan coming together. “All right, listen to this -”

---

If she could’ve had her way, Byleth would have chosen to remain in those last days of her fever forever. Her symptoms were mild and unobtrusive, she didn’t have to do any paperwork, and Claude was there; simply put, it was the ideal situation.

They spent four whole days together playing games, mixing various drinks, going for (short and supervised) walks around the garden, and reminiscing about old times - but Marianne’s medicines were effective and all things, even good things, must end.

On the morning of the fifth day, she knew she was cured. Her mind was clear and her body strong, if a little feeble from the bed rest. Everyone else must have been on the same page, too, because Marianne came to greet her after breakfast in Claude’s stead.

“So that’s the end of the arrangement, then?” Byleth asked, trying to keep her voice even and normal.

Marianne smiled softly and pressed the back of her hand to Byleth’s forehead. “Yes. Claude will be returning home this evening, as I’m sure he has many decisions waiting for him there.”

That makes two of us, Byleth thought dejectedly.

“Your temperature is perfectly normal,” Marianne reported. “Do you have any lingering fatigue? Dizziness?”

“Nope. Nothing,” Byleth said, heaving a reluctant sigh. “I suppose I should head down to the audience chambers.”

She really, truly hadn’t meant to sound like a pouting toddler bound for punishment, but that was exactly how it had come out.

Marianne laughed. “Yes, you should - tomorrow.” To answer Byleth’s questioning stare, she pointed across the room. “I think you’ll be too busy today.”

Right on cue, something large impacted outside the windows with a dull, cracking thud. Without thinking, Byleth whirled, ready for some sort of threat - (her sword belt was hanging next to her bed, easily accessible for such emergencies) - but it was only Claude on the balcony.

Rather, it was his massive white wyvern, Sahar. She’d perched on the railing, her sharp claws gouging long scrapes in the stone, and he was mounted on her back.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for that!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Good morning! Care for a ride?”

Byleth burst out in surprised laughter, too endeared to be mad about the property damage. She looked back, confused and curious, but Marianne just shook her head.

“Go,” she said, gesturing outward. “Have fun. You have my official medical clearance.”

That was all the permission Byleth needed to throw open the doors and run out, barefoot and grinning, to leap at Sahar’s saddle. The seaside wind blasted her hair back and Claude opened his arms for her arrival, bracing in his stirrups to absorb the impact.

They’d performed this maneuver many times during the war; since Byleth preferred to do her fighting on foot, Claude would often sweep down to reposition her more quickly. Even after five years without practice, they executed the pick-up without a hitch: she landed knees-first at the front of the saddle and Claude anchored her, wrapping both arms around her midsection.

In combat, the move had been utilitarian - the fastest way to mount up. Right now, though, it felt more intimate; with no armor, no weapons, and no urgency, they were basically just hugging on wyvern-back.

Byleth quickly turned herself around, hoping he hadn’t seen the blush rising up her neck.

“That eager to get out of there, huh?” he teased, helping her get situated.

She rolled her eyes and cinched a pair of flight straps around her waist. The fit was snugly familiar, securing her to both the saddle and her fellow rider.

“You know the answer to that,” she replied, glancing down the tall outer walls of the palace. A few people in the canal-side gardens had looked up at the spectacle; they were too far away to see much detail, but this was clearly the queen’s bedchamber. “This isn’t the most discreet escape, is it?”

Claude scoffed, turning his mount skyward with a nudge. “Oh, it’s fine. Not many Fodlanese know about the white wyvern thing. Besides,” he said mischievously, testing the knots on her straps, “didn’t Marianne tell you? Our arrangement is done.”

With that, they were off. Sahar spread her massive wings - leathery and smooth, delicate and powerful all at once - to catch the current, pushing herself off into it and raining stone chips and dust in her wake.

Byleth yelped at the sudden lurch, falling back against Claude, who gladly supported her while they gained rapid altitude in the midday sky. Sahar’s rhythmic wing beats took them high above the notice of anyone in the city, down the palace’s canal and out into the bay.

She watched it all fall away as they climbed. The great trade ships shrank to the sizes of beetles in their lanes; the flocks of gulls that chased them, to mere specks. The ocean itself became an undulating cobalt tapestry, shot through with threads of white and gray.

When they leveled off and the wind died down in their ears, Claude spoke, “Remember when I taught you to fly?”

A series of images flashed in her mind: wrangling a saddle onto an impatient wyvern; losing straps and buckles under flapping wings; falling before she could even take off - so, so much falling.

“I remember when you tried to, sure,” she said, cringing at the memories. Even Leonie, who never gave up on anything, had declared Byleth’s flying skills unsalvageable. “Why?”

Claude laughed a little too hard, like he was recalling the very same foibles. “Nah. You just needed more time - we couldn’t spare any in the war. But now?”

“Are you suggesting,” Byleth said, throwing him a flat look over her shoulder, “that I fall on my ass repeatedly in front of the entire court? It was bad enough when it was just jeering students.”

“No, no, my point is -” Claude directed her attention back to their view of the bay, “- you could come out here whenever you wanted. Get away from it all.”

So he’d noticed her restlessness. Well, of course he did, Byleth admonished herself. He’s Claude.

“That would be...nice,” she admitted, giving him a half-smile. “It’s different, isn’t it? Leading during peacetime?”

He relaxed his hold on the reins and let Sahar go where she would in the open sky; she took full advantage of the freedom, floating into various air currents and skirting low, wispy clouds.

“Yeah, it is.” Claude’s tone was sober and diminished. He prodded gently, “How have you really been, Bee?”

The nickname brought unexpected tears to her eyes; he hadn’t used it since they parted at Garreg Mach five years ago. She’d forgotten how fond and welcoming it sounded - how warm - coming from his mouth.

Byleth faced straight ahead, glad he couldn’t see her expression. It must have been just as regretful and conflicted as her mind.

“I never expected to be here,” she murmured, and in her heart she finished the thought: without you. Her voice barely carried over the wind, but she knew Claude had heard it; he scooted closer to her in the saddle, whether consciously or not. “Everyone around me is so certain of their place, and I’m...not.”

Her thoughts strayed to Edelgard and Dimitri, to their twin drives that - even misguided and corrupted as they were - strove for a better world at their roots. Byleth, who held no grand vision for the future, couldn’t help but feel unfit for the mantles they’d left behind.

(Truthfully, that was one of many reasons why Derdriu was her favorite capital, and spring her favorite season. Fhirdiad’s and Enbarr’s thrones still felt like someone else’s seats to her - someone else’s dreams.)

“I don’t think anyone expected to be where they are now,” Claude said, matching her volume. When Byleth shot him another ‘quit your bullshit’ look, he chuckled and corrected himself, “Okay. Maybe I did, but nobody else did.”

“Lorenz thought he’d be leading the Alliance, hitched to some noble lady. Hilda didn’t think she’d be doing anything.” Claude put up one finger for each example. “Marianne wanted to keep her head down. Ignatz thought he’d be barred from his passions.”

He rested his chin on the top of Byleth’s head. “Expectations and reality don’t always match up. Are you unhappy with where you are, Your Majesty?”

I’m exceedingly happy where I am, she thought, easing herself back to rest against him. And that’s the problem.

“No,” she answered simply. “I’m not.”

Claude, perhaps sensing the dishonesty in her words, hummed doubtfully. The sound rumbled deep in her chest. “Well - if you ever were unhappy, you know I’d help, right? No matter what it was.”

“I know,” she said, tilting her head to smile up at him. “And - I think you’re right.”

He shifted to accommodate her better, crossing his arms over her lap to grip the saddlehorn. “Oh? About expectations?”

“No, about flying.” She settled into their pseudo-embrace, resolving to enjoy it while it lasted. “I should learn.”

Claude made a small, happy noise in his throat. “I’ll teach you. It’ll be great.”

They drifted down the Edmund coastline in a comfortable quiet after that. If not for the Throat looming in the distance - a constant reminder of the hourglass hanging over their flight - Byleth would’ve been perfectly content. The longer they went, the more she wished he would just keep flying straight over the mountains - but the sun continued on its inexorable path through the heavens, and all things, even good things, must end.

Still, though, when he wheeled them around and began the journey back, Byleth thought she detected a resonant note of hesitation in him.

By the time they’d reached the bay of Derdriu, the sun hung low and the sky had turned to vibrant oranges and indigos; the frothy crests of waves, the metal fixtures on ships’ masts, and even the scaly tips of Sahar’s wings shone golden in the rich evening light.

The palace’s white marble exterior reflected sunset-colors onto the streets and canal below. In any other instance, she’d find it beautiful, but right now it was no different than the Throat: an ominous, prohibitive barrier.

Claude guided Sahar to the balcony again, wincing as her claws ground fresh holes into the railing.

“- I’ll pay for that,” he reiterated sheepishly, then hopped down to offer Byleth a hand.

She took it, letting him assume her weight while she scrambled much less gracefully to the ground. The stone tiles, quickly cooling with the onset of night, chilled her bare feet on contact; she shivered, looking back wistfully at the evening sky.

When she turned around again, Claude was watching her intently. Unreadably.

“Did you enjoy the ride?” he asked.

“I did. Thank you.” She tried to match his tone, to hide her sadness - to appreciate the time they’d had together instead of mourning its conclusion. “I suppose you need to get going, then?”

“Mm, not quite yet,” he replied with a secretive smile, wrapping Sahar’s reins around her saddlehorn. He muttered a phrase to her in Almyran, to which the great wyvern nuzzled into his hand and took off in the direction of the aviary.

“Let’s get you warmed up, first.” He strode past her to the open balcony doors, jerking his head toward it encouragingly when she didn’t immediately follow. “Come on, it’s okay - I have time.”

Byleth trailed after him, instantly suspicious. He was using his ‘false sense of security’ voice again, like he had on the first night. “Claude, what are you planning?” she called out warily, stepping into her darkened bedchamber.

A spark struck in the hearth, setting the tinder inside ablaze and silhouetting Claude in a red-orange halo. “Why do I have to be planning something?” he countered, overly defensive, as he stoked the fire. “- You looked cold, is all.”

She gave him a skeptical once-over, then turned to grab a cloak from her wardrobe - and there on her dresser, shining in the firelight, was a lacquered ebony box the length of her arm.

It was decorated with glittering gold leaf along its edges, clearly meant to hold something valuable. Byleth whipped around to fix Claude with an accusing glare, but he just shrugged innocently and motioned for her to open it.

He had a long history of bequeathing strange gifts to his friends, always seeming to enjoy the reactions a little too much. Byleth wasn’t aware of any current holidays, though, either in Fodlan or Almyra.

She sighed and lifted the lid. “I swear, if this is another apron -”

The breath caught in her throat. It most definitely was not an apron.

Nestled in a bed of burgundy velvet, only slightly smaller than the box itself, laid a porcelain-white wyvern egg dotted with flecks of pearlescent ivory.

This time when she glanced back, it was in affectionate curiosity. “So this is why you were pushing flight training,” she said, gingerly touching the warm shell. “But - aren’t white wyverns only given to members of the royal family?”

Claude moved to stand next to her, drained of all his earlier mirth and bravado. In its place was a tense energy she hadn’t sensed in him since they’d last met at the Goddess Tower.

“Well, yeah, that’s the idea,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I was hoping you’d, uh, well - I wanted to ask you, since -”

He stopped and grunted, looking disgusted with himself. “Let me start over.”

Byleth nodded, absolutely baffled. What in Sothis’s name was he trying to say?

Claude ran a hand back through his hair and took a deep, steadying breath. “We both didn’t have the best experiences with family growing up. I mean, you had Jeralt and I had my mom, and they were great, but other than that it was…”

“Lonely,” she offered. They’d discussed their respective childhoods many times before - commiserated in the shared wounds of alienation and neglect.

Delicately, he took her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah. Lonely. And if I’m reading this correctly, so were the last five years, right?”

Byleth swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded again.

“Yeah,” Claude repeated softly. “For me, too. So, I thought - maybe neither of us has to be lonely anymore.”

His meaning dawned on her like a sunrise, blooming heat high in her cheeks. Her embarrassment fueled his, in turn, and they were left staring at one another in stunned silence; from an outside perspective, they must have looked - fittingly - like a pair of panicked deer.

“Claude,” she pronounced thickly, needing to verify her theory, “are you asking me to…?”

“Mhm,” he confirmed, a portion of his usual confidence flickering back to life in his smile. He tipped her chin upward with his index finger. “I want to be your family. I want you to be my family.”

Byleth had spent the first part of her life without adequate modes of expression. Before meeting Claude, she’d gotten by on curt gestures and a flat affect - and now, in the face of overwhelming emotion, she regressed right back to that state.

All she could do to communicate her answer was to jump and reach for him, just like she was leaping onto his wyvern - and, predictably, protectively, his arms closed around her. Anchored her.

Like always, she thought. A perfect catch.

“Woah - I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Claude asked, tentatively hopeful, laughing and stepping backward from the unexpected force.

Byleth buried her face in his shoulder and nodded, unable to speak; hot tears spilled from her eyes, soaking into Claude’s tunic collar, and her wrists trembled where they were clasped at his neck. Her heart had never beat, yet now it was overflowing, filling her chest with something happy and potent and home that she’d never dared to covet before.

In the glow of the hearth, to the crackling of logs and the faint rush of a sea breeze outside, Claude rocked them back and forth at a measured, soothing pace. He kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone, wiping away her tears with his thumb and whispering in a shaky voice, “It’s okay, Bee. We’re going to be so happy, I promise. I promise.”

---Epilogue---

Lorenz understood the severity of the Airmid flooding - really, he did - but he did not understand why it needed to translate into a six-in-the-morning assembly. Anything the ministers discussed there could be handled just as easily, and with more lucidity, during their regular working hours.

Still, he trudged diligently up the stairs to the meeting rooms. If there were emergency measures to enact, then, by the goddess, he’d see them enacted. The peoples of Hrym and Ordelia had already suffered enough for several lifetimes.

He was just inside the threshold, blinking and stifling a yawn, when he saw them: Byleth and Claude, seated side by side at the head of the meeting table, the former digging into a plate of food and the latter grinning like a madman.

Lorenz’s yawn cut off abruptly; his jaw snapped shut with a click.

“You’re still here,” he grumbled, sliding into a chair on an empty side. “Somehow I doubt this is about the floods.”

Hilda and Marianne, who were sitting opposite him, giggled quietly together, their hands clasped on the tabletop. (Frankly, it made him jealous. Leonie hadn’t wanted to touch the office of royal minister with a ten-foot lance.)

“Nope,” Byleth said, pointing at Claude with her fork. “This is about the legality of our marriage.”

Hilda clapped frantically with excitement. “Congratulations! Ooh, this is going to be the biggest wedding ever - can you imagine the guest list? We’ll be curating it for months.”

“I think I’ll exclude my paternal cousins,” Claude mused. “Just to watch them squirm.”

Marianne nodded. “They deserve it.”

“Wait. Hold.” Lorenz slapped his daily ledger down on the table like a judge calling for order, and it worked just the same. The rabble died down, all eyes turning to him. “First of all: congratulations, you two. You’ve made me a marginally poorer man.”

Hilda snickered triumphantly.

“Second: this is going to be a legislative nightmare - and don’t you tell me differently, Claude von Riegan,” he added, holding up a finger when it looked like Claude would cut in.

“I’ll abdicate,” Byleth suggested, stabbing into a sausage.

“No -!” all three ministers shouted in unison - even Marianne, who’d also half-stood from her chair, hands braced on the table.

(Meanwhile, Claude simply watched his new fiancee with moon-eyed adoration; Lorenz was sure he’d humor anything she said right now.)

“That - that won’t be necessary,” Lorenz said, clearing his throat and smoothing down his ascot. “I only mean that it will take time and collaboration. Claude, I insist that you stay another week while we draft something for you to take home. I’ll write to Nader.”

Byleth let out a rare exuberant gasp; beside her, Claude glanced down the table and gave Lorenz a sly, conspiratorial wink.

“- Oh, try to act professionally about this, would you?” he insisted, but an infectious smile was already spreading across his own face.

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

Author’s Notes

candidates for game names:

byleth: better chess (rejected - judgmental)

claude: long chess (rejected - misleading)

hilda: chess 2 (considered but ultimately rejected - legality)

lorenz: tactician’s chess (rejected - boring)

#mega writes #fe3h #claudeleth #images are free to use and sourced from pexels pixabay and unsplash

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michaelsheenconfession · 3 years

Note

I RARELY simp at all over irl people like celebrities or actors or artists. And even then it was never really like this. And Michael is nothing like the other few I have simped over. But I dunno, something about him. I never have celebrity crushes or anything, but days into discovering him I was rather taken. Some weeks after discovering Good Omens and Michael Sheen, I got a cold, and the fever daydreams were a thing to behold.

Me: There's no much to add here, except that I am very happy you were supported by your mind during your cold, coming up with wild dreams. :p Wish I could remember mine. xD

There's something about Michael Sheen. Maybe because he is, indeed, a very talented actor full of an energy which is unique to him.

(Not my GIFs)

#michael sheen #michael sheen confession #michael sheen confessions #michael sheen imagine

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jiejie-eonni-onee-sama · 3 years

Text

The art of seduction...

For the lovely @fandoms-are-my-friends-1321

Hope you’ll enjoy!

"OMG, what have I done?"

(Y/N) wanted to disappear six feet under after her fiasco. How could she manage to embarrass herself in front of her boss?

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed: she worked for the most powerful man in Gotham City, she should not fail like this!

A small smile came across her lips when she thought about her employer. Oswald Cobblepot, the elected mayor of Gotham, was also one of the rising crime lords.

She worked for him for 5 years, and she witnessed his rise to power with amazement.

And she fell in love with him. Madly, truly, deeply.

But now, she just managed to look like a fool, and she wanted to erase this inglorious moment from her memory.

"Are you alright, (Y/N)?"

The familiar voice woke the woman from her daydreaming, and she noticed the presence of Victor Zsasz.

The henchman and (Y/N) get along since they started working together under Cobblepot's orders. And he was the only one who knew about her feelings for their boss...

"Apart from humiliating myself in front of the boss? Yes, I feel like a million bucks!"

The bald man chuckled.

"I have noticed... Don't worry about Oswald: he did not even pick up on your failed attempt of flirting!"

"Are you here to put the boot in again?"

"Hey, it's not my fault if you say I would say God bless you, but it looks like he already did. Seriously girl, do you know how to flirt or what?"

(Y/N) sighed.

"Not really. Most of the time, I am the one men flirted with. Oh wait, harassed would be a suitable description!"

"I'm sorry for you..." mumbled Victor as he massaged the back of his neck.

"Don't be. Now, if you don't mind, I want to be alone and dig my own grave in peace!"

"Come on, don't be over-dramatic! He did not fire you!"

"You got the point..."

Victor cogitated a few moments before declaring:

"Okay, I have a proposition for you!"

"What?" asked the young woman.

"Well, if you want, I can teach you how to flirt!"

(Y/N) raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"You? You know how to hit on someone?"

"My dear (Y/N), I am a man full of surprises! Now, chin up, lady: we have some lessons ahead!

A few moments later, they were alone in a room.

"Okay, first of all: let's check all the qualities you find in Oswald?"

"Physical appearance or character?"

"I don't care... Both, if you want!"

"Alright... So, he is charismatic, smart, powerful, elegant... So charming..."

"Oh my god, put yourself together! It's not the moment to daydream about your twisted prince charming!"

"It's not my fault!"

"Alright, nevermind!" Victor sighed as he raised his hands in a sign of defeat.

"What next?"

"Well... The next step is subtly complimenting him. Let me demonstrate with you..."

He cleared his throat and said:

"Dear, you have the brightest eyes I've ever seen!"

"Uh... Thanks ?"

"You're welcome. Now, your turn: imagine me as Oswald, and say something flirty!"

"Right now?"

"No, in the next century! Of course, right now!"

"Okay, okay! Let me think about something..."

She turned things over in her head before she finally said:

"Sir, you are the most brilliant genius in all Gotham!"

"Not bad, but I am sure you can do better! Go ahead!"

"Right, so... Mister Cobblepot, I wonder how Gothamites did not notice before how amazing you are!"

"Mmmh... Nah! A bit toady for him. Try again!"

"Mmmh... Oh, I know! Sir, no matter what others would say, you are the best man for Gotham!"

"We're getting close... One more time!"

"Oswald, thanks to you, my life has another goal... and it's you!"

Victor slowly clapped.

"Well done, girl! You learn fast!"

"Really?"

"Yes, it's good! Now, next time you want to seduce the boss, you know what to do!"

"Thanks for your help, Victor!"

"Anytime, (Y/N). Anytime."

A week later.

"Okay, (Y/N), time to put into practice what I've taught you!"

"Yes, I know... It's just that I have a knot in my stomach!"

"No need to worry: act naturally! Now, make me proud!"

"Okay, here I go!"

She pulled herself, smiled, and entered Oswald's office. As for Victor, he hid behind the door.

"Good morning, Mister Cobblepot!"

"Ah, good morning, Miss (Y/N). Please, take a seat: we have a lot of work to do!"

During half an hour, they discussed the different projects The Penguin had for his city.

"For the last project, I thought about funding a scholarship for children from single-parent families!"

"Excellent idea, sir! They deserve the same chances as the others!"

"Indeed... Besides, it's a cause close to my heart as I was raised by my mother!"

"I understand, Mister Cobblepot... May I know the name of the scholarship?"

"Of course, where is my mind? I decided to name it "The Gertrude Cobblepot Scholarship for Children in Need"; I named it after my mother!"

A sad smile appeared on his face.

"I owe her so much..."

Seeing him so vulnerable moved (Y/N) who sighed:

"Aw, it's so cute!"

"I beg your pardon?" exclaimed Oswald.

"WTF is she doing?" muttered Victor, surprised.

Panicked, (Y/N) lost her mind and started blattering:

"Sorry, I mean... You are very cute!"

"Cute? Really?" asked Oswald, unconvinced.

"Oh no!" grumbled Victor as he facepalmed.

And it was not the end of the show...

"Nevermind, let's go back to work! So, I was saying..."

He stopped as he noticed (Y/N) staring at him.

"(Y/N)? Are you sure everything is okay?"

"Yes, sorry... It's just that I get lost in your eyes!"

"What ?!"

"I must be dreaming!" groaned Victor as he clasped both his hands on his face.

"It's true: you have such beautiful eyes!"

"Miss... Are you sure you do not have any fever?"

"No... But I am sure being in your arms is the warmest place on Earth!"

"What's this nonsense?"

"It worsens every second! Stop it, (Y/N)!" discreetly whined Victor as he seemed desperate.

But the young woman was not ready to stop...

"Either you're drunk, (Y/N), or you're making a fool of me, and I don't like it!"

"But I'm not making a fool of you, Mr. Cobblepot! Speaking of that, you're not far from the truth: I'm drunk in love with you!"

Oswald was wide-eyed: in his entire life, he has never seen such a scene!

Crossing his arms against his chest, he sighed:

"Tell me the truth, (Y/N): are you just trying to flirt with me?"

Blinking like she woke up from a dream, the woman realized what happened and sputtered:

"OMG, NO! Tell me it's a nightmare!"

"No, welcome to the real world! But I'm waiting for an answer!"

Ashamed by the situation, (Y/N) confessed:

"Yes, indeed! You've finally noticed..."

"Oh, come on! This is a disaster!" whispered Zsasz.

"So, you're flirting with me... Okay, may I know why?"

"Where can I start? You're the most amazing person I ever met, and I am so happy to be among your trusted people! And... As I said before, I fell in love with you on the first day. I tried to subtly flirt with you but, as you can see, it's an epic fail!"

She lowered her head, waiting for a fit of anger. Instead, she saw Oswald chuckling.

"Well, I must say that I admire your bravery (Y/N). You're right: your flirting attempts are not a success... Moreover, they are not really necessary!"

"I guess so..."

"Don't you want to know why?"

"Because I am a silly girl who thinks she can have a romance with her boss?" (Y/N) answered with a sad tone.

"No, you're wrong... Your flirting was not necessary because I already like you!"

"Wait, what?" she exclaimed.

"Oh my, what a twist!" thought Victor.

"That's the truth, (Y/N): you are an astounding woman. I admire your strong will, your loyalty, your smiling character... Everything in you is perfect for me!"

"Mr. Cobblepot..."

"Please, call me Oswald!"

"Oswald... Thank you... For not shut me away!"

A sly smile appeared on Oswald's face.

"Pleasure is all mine, (Y/N). Now that everything is settled and the misunderstanding has disappeared, would give me the greatest honor to join me for a date?"

A wide grin appeared on (Y/N)'s face.

"Of course!"

"Wonderful! Friday evening, 8 p.m.? I know a nice restaurant in the neighborhood: you're going to love it!"

"I am sure..."

"By the way, (Y/N)"

"Yes?"

"I can't give you the world... But I can promise to give you my world!"

"I cannot ask for more!"

While the two lovebirds talked about their future dates, Victor smiled, relieved to see it ended well:

"At least, she reached her goal... But Lord, that girl was close to giving me a heart attack!"

Sometimes, a bad pick up line can bring you the right way to your crush's heart...

#requests #gotham tv show #oswald cobblepot #victor zsasz #robin lord taylor #sandra bullock #anthony carrigan

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thesunlounge · 3 years

Text

Reviews 370: Coyote

I have been mostly absent as of late due to the pressures of completing my PhD studies, but now that the work there is finishing, I am trying to return to regular reviewing. And for months and months now, one of the records I’ve most wanted to discuss has been Coyote’s Buzzard Country, released last year on their home station Is it Balearic? Recordings. In fact, my delay has been so extreme that, not only has Coyote released an accompanying Buzzard Country Remixes 12”—which I will cover here as well—they have also dropped the incredible Return to Life 12”, and even announced a new 2xLP slated for the summer called The Mystery Light. But better late than never, and there is no way I can pass up the chance to at last write in depth about the music of Timm Sure and Ampo. I say “at last” because, despite the fact that I consider Coyote amongst my very favorite recording artists, you would be forgiven for not knowing that by scanning the Sun Lounge archives. Though I’ve had opportunity to discuss their work here and there via remixes (such as on Blank & Jones’ Relax: The Sunset Sessions 2 and Joe Morris’ Cloud Nine 12”), by some strange turn of fate, Coyote has released no vinyl of their own since this blog’s inception...something that only changed very recently. Indeed, prior to 2020, the last time the duo put out solo works on wax was their stunning 2016 run, which included the Song Dogs LP, the Fight the Future 12” on Clandestino, and the seventh EP in their long running self-titled series on Is It Balearic? Which is not to say they weren’t active, and in fact, Timm Sure and Ampo delivered a really great set of digital singles and EPs in collaboration with Music for Dreams, and additionally, they remained active with remix and DJ work. As well, Buzzard Country was due quite a bit earlier than 2020, but was unfortunately plagued by production delays. To at last get to the point, this is all a roundabout way of saying that I am really excited to have plenty of Coyote to write about now and in the future, so that I can finally pay proper tribute to this foundational duo of the modern balearic beat.

As I’ve explored the balearic soundworld, Ampo and Timm Sure have always been beacons of light guiding me on my path, whether through their eclectic productions as Coyote, through the curation of Is It Balearic?, Über, and the Magic Wand edit series, or through their mixes and DJ sets, which are typically loaded with unheard treasures that lean towards the trippier and dubbier ends of the chill out spectrum. And it is this tendency towards the psychoactive that most endears me to Coyote, for the duo have always championed an authentic balearic spirit, one that foregrounds the music’s connections to the hippie hedonist heydays of Ibiza, to the second summer of love, and to a spirit of ecstatic abandon, one that is equally imbued with a magical sense of melancholy…of a feeling of being in paradise, but knowing it can’t last…as if the moments of revelatory magic—of wild nights dancing and sunrise comedowns—are tempered in real-time with senses of longing and regret. Which brings me finally to Buzzard Country, Coyote’s fifth full-length LP and a pitch-perfect encapsulation of their signature mixture of wistful melodic nostalgia and daydream seaside grooving. Across the album, baggy beats morph between downbeat disco, stoner dub, and world exotica while bottom heavy basslines work the body. Echoing vocal samples thread around hand drums tapestries, emotional washes of synthesis flow over radiant piano chords, and at crucial moments, the exotica guitar flourishes of longtime collaborator Saro Tribastone carry the mind away to lands of faraway fantasy. As for the Buzzard Country Remixes 12”, the A-side is given over to the Hardway Brothers, who brilliantly transform the album’s “Sun Culture” into varying landscapes of ultra deep Chain Reaction style dub wizardry. Then on the B-side, Woolfy vs. Projections and Max Essa respectively flip album stand outs “Shimmer Dub” and “Ranura de Marihuana” into their own specific strains of equatorial dancefloor euphoria, with each remix pushing the mind, body, and spirit towards maximal beach boogie mania.

Coyote - Buzzard Country (Is It Balearic? Recordings, 2020) “Soaring” begins with buzzard calls and hovering breaths of synthesis evoking a new dawn. Ripples form in the ether via bubbling squarewave synth leads, and pulsating dub bass sits beneath a blanket of sighing strings. The carrion calls continue streaking through the mix and celestial pianos rain down while echoing playfully across the spectrum. Plucked bass electronics bounce in counterpoint and hesitate woodwind glimmers call to mind flashing laser lights beneath a beautiful sea surface…almost as if a flute has been transmuted into a rapid fire fractal vibration. At times the strings back away, leaving layers of rainbow colored ocean ambiance to flutter and dance, all before ending with white noise delay oscillations that mimic the swell of ocean waves. Then in “Soft Top Saab,” an echo-soaked voice muses on the sunrise, with chills running down the spine as the solar affirmations are increasingly surrounded by space age string synths, and by Sara Tribastone’s mystical guitar filigrees. Reversing melodies enter the spectrum and swell the heart while shakers and tambourines hold a gentle beat. Tribastone’s guitar serenades softly overhead, with plucked textures of synthetic wood and stone dancing in the background. Further delay-laced pianos fade into view, with the track ebbing and flowing…growing and receding…and sometimes backing down into understated back and forth between guitar and piano, wherein harmonious brass layers and swells of spectral space glitter moving at the periphery. The result is a conversational interchange between seaside melancholy and romantic nostalgia, one which is eventually superseded by cosmic flutters, soft six string dances, and the spoken spells of a reggae mystic, who gives thanks to the sun, and its bounty of restorative light.

Dusty acoustic guitars and sunrise vapors introduce “Shimmer Dub,” while dancing dub bass portends the first real taste of a groove. A rocking hypno-rhythm comes into focus and laid back snares guide the infectious glide, while tablas roll overhead and evocative vocal layers thread through the mix. Steel pan synths are seen through the titular shimmer and wavering wavefronts of blurred melody wash over everything, until the mix drops down into a haze of stoned exotica comprised of a minimalist pallet of tabla rhythms, bleary-eyed pads, and thrilling vocal incantations…the effect like awakening on the shores of some faraway ocean paradise, with visages of desert caravan rituals preceding in the distance. The dubbed out groove eventually resurges, with passages given over to extended echo percussion experiments and the fragile songs of tropical idiophones. Feminine vocals glow like some intoxicating gas of multi-hued magic, and springy basslines guide the body while hi-hats and snare work through a psychedelic skank. Smoldering currents of ether move through the stereo field and moments of subtle intensity erupt from the horizontal vibe out…with airy woodwinds shrouded in static, claps cracking, and hand drums creating webs of groove mesmerism. And as the beat starts to vaporize, echo oscillations set the air aflame amidst fantasy orchestrations.

“Ranura de Marihuana” bathes in echo acoustic guitars that seem beamed in from some distant past…these evocations of classical folk music futurized via layers of fx. An ecstatic scream washes the mix clean, and a four-to-the-floor kick drum emerges to pound in the void, while overhead, Flamenco-indebted guitars spin webs of magic and reverberating vocals call to the spirits of sea and sky….sometimes whispering, other times shrieking wildly into the night. Sub-earthen bass movements are felt more than head, with exotic dub lines moving far beneath the surface. Bongos and congas pop and nervous shaker patterns lead the downbeat disco strut, while guitars work through further Mediterranean hooks and Iberian flourishes. A moment is given over to heavy bass and kaleidoscopic hand percussion–with scatting vocals, reverberating snaps, and lost souls wailing in desperation–and when the groove snaps back, there are touches of tango kissing the preceding, which bring to mind a rose-in-mouth glide across some dark and mysterious dancefloor, wherein spindly psych folk guitar melodies work the mind and airy drum rhythmics entrance the body. The kick climbs back towards dancefloor strength, with desert mystic percussions moving all around the mix and vocals morphing though fever dream echo layers. Elements from across the track refract through oscillating delay machines, and touches of rave haunt the rhythms, especially as subsonic basslines and subdued breakbeats work together.

A single piano note brings light to the darkness in “Sun Culture” and layers of radiance rain down in the form of heart-melting piano chordscapes, with some of that Screamadelica soul bliss suffusing the progressions. Warming pads envelope everything and deep dub pulses walk down white sand beaches, with shakers and lysergic breaths giving shape to the groove. Hi-hats, snare taps, and beachside bongos enter and buzzing guitar notes give off waves of golden light while overhead, liquids drip from the roofs of ocean cliff caverns. The single piano note continues to glow while souflul chords hold the mind in a state of psychedelic rapture, and space age ethers blind all vision as they spread outwards, then recede. Coyote move the track progressively towards a state of horizontal bliss, with almost everything washing away except the summery piano incantations, which are so soaked in reverb as to generate billowing cloudforms with every single note. Hushed rhythms return and hand drums take on a slight sense of urgency while pads generate layers of oceanic warmth, resulting in an audial invitation to greet the rising sun, and a naturalistic tribute to crashing waves and drifting clouds.

Intergalactic pads breath in “Dos Canas,” with tones wispy and suffused with inner light. Palm-muting electric guitars dance like bubbles through the ocean blue, and a touch of kosmische ambiance is soon tempered by bulbous dub basslines and splayed out layers of percussion, wherein the mechanic and organic merge seamlessly. Electroid sketches and seed shakers move in time as a slow and low balearic skank emerges, with glorious tones of brass pulsing overhead before ascending to the heavens on currents of humid tropical air. Hand drums circle the mix as the heavy atmospheres recede, leaving vaporous rhythms and golden synth strands to intertwine. Heartwarming chords give off mirage shimmers as the dub bass works its way back in, bringing with it further layers of world drum delirium. Soft sirens pan before giving way to more of the ascendent brass synthesis, and hisses of white noise add layers of subtle psychotropia. Snares are blasted into bursts of desert sand and all throughout the mix, various strands of melody and harmony are caught within oscillating delay cycles…progressively distorting and roaring into the ether. Shakers and 16th note hi-hats lead the groove while bongos and idiophones dance playfully against the snare and kick, until it all breaks down into an ambient outro of serene static, sighing strings, and layers of phasing rainbow light.

“Feedback Valley” closes the show with synth incantations portending the glow of a glorious sunrise, while shakers generate an infectious shuffle. Tribastone and his acoustic guitar explore Flamenco landscapes and a four-four kick drums hits against the body while layers of synthesis radiate compelling colorations. Babbling voices ride a serpentine synth sequence and touches of acid bass move in support, with cut-off filters opening as the snare drops, creating a head-nodding and body bopping groove that lifts the spirit towards the sky. The sequential electronics are so effective as they bob and weave through the mix, creating an effortless vibe of beach dance perfection…of hands-in-the-air euphoria and the abandonment of all worry or fear. Additional touches of six string sunshine push the mind every towards the shores of Ibiza and during a breakdown into burning delay feedback, synthesizers filter into solar squelch and guitars drift towards psychedelic delirium. A slow yet anthemic snare roll calls to mind big room trance as it brings the groove back into focus, now with 3D synth snaps firing in the left ear as the ever-present sequence reduces to a calming purr. Tribastone continues letting loose threads of sunshine lysergia and points of synthetic light swell into magnificent globes of blinding incandenscence. And towards the end, an echo-shrouded choir of the sea sings beneath a brief guitar fantasia before it all washes away in a scream of oscillation.

Coyote - Buzzard Country Remixes (Is It Balearic? Recordings, 2021) The Hardway Brothers take “Sun Culture” into ultra-deep territory across two versions on the A-side, with the first being the very aptly named “Balearic Channel Remix”…which is of course a reference to the work of Mark Ernestus and Moritz von Oswald. Underground warehouse kick drums pound beneath hissing space fluids, as a low down Chain Reaction-style groove emerges, though with its eyes locked on a melting sunset panorama. Liquiform chords flow into cold industrial caverns and string synths suffuse the reverberating spaces with splashes of sunshine, while sub bass motions vibrate the soul. Shadowy tracers flit across the sky and DMT vibrato waves squiggle at hyperspeed, yet their effect is blunted and muted. Claustrophobic clouds fade in then out while melodic piano chordstrokes reflect in strange ways off of glowing walls of stone, their effect like gemstones glimmering underwater, yet with their luster sanded away by the march of time. Muted dub chords are caught in crackling delay chains and the deep kicks and jacking bass never relent in their heads down, hands-in-the-air stomp. Snares are reduced to a whisper and shaker patterns cause head-bobbing hypnotism as funky chords bring touches of liquid fusion grooving…only as if proceeding in the middle of a dub techno fever dream. Insectoid chitters move in from all corners of the mix, sawing sirens swirl into screams of feedback, and all the while, drum circle flourishes are shattered into a web echoing delirium.

Next comes Sun Culture “(Hardway Brothers Meet Monkton Uptown),” which sees the bass going even deeper somehow, as growling riddims menace the mind and rattle the ribcage. We soon find ourselves in another subaquatic dub techno dopamine dream, wherein kick, snare and hi-hat lock in for maximal hypnotic effect. Sometimes the bass guitar of Duncan Gray seems to take on a post-punk drug chug edge, and at some point, the rhythms pull away, leaving chopped up voices to decay into the void. Bassline and beats return and streaks of feedback sing softly over everything, while fogs of seafoam move at the outer edges of the stereo field. Clouds of solar static are seen from millions of miles away and traces of flamboyant fuzz guitar are submerged into a pooling vortex of deep dub delirium, emerging stretched out and mutated into currents of neon starshine. Gray's melodic basslines serenade through the underground club grooves, those funky chords return to sing their 70s fusion songs within layers of sighing feedback, and increasingly, the mix is overwhelmed by distorted blasts of drug-induced haze. Abstracted voices filter from one ear to the other…their unintelligible spells of esoteric mystery pushing the mind ever further towards astral activation. And towards the ends, the original tracks Primal Scream-style piano chord structures can just be heard amidst feedback fires, delay detritus, and morphing vocal abstractions.

In the Woolfy vs Projections mix of “Shimmer Dub,” the original track’s hand percussions intermingle with gurgling rhythmic fluids…the effect like wandering upon some tribal jungle ceremonial. Big blasts of downer synth bass are soaked in reverb, repetitive synth pulses tickle the mind, and pillowy arpeggios flow into view while those familiar synthetic steel drums shine in the sunlight. Fingers roll across myriad skins as the kick drum drops away, leaving the mind to swim in a world of equatorial energy. Then, as the bass drum resumes–with shakers never relenting–a new bassline emerges, bringing with it a heavy touch of wiggling squiggling Italo boogie. The vibe is hesitant…anxious even…with a persistent refusal to lock in, and as bass bursts grow in intensity, the rest of the mix begins reverberating into a balearic dreamscape. Following a delirious pause, the track explodes into flamboyant disco funk perfection, as sweltering chord hazes melt from the sky and bouncing basslines join an infectious and tropically tinged body groove. Chords scat, virtual marimbas dance, synthetic steel pans shimmer across the spectrum, and swells of white light synthesis overwhelm the mind...the whole thing as massive a groove as there could possibly be. Touches of electro kiss the rhythms and futuristic synth riffs fire as we back down into a swinging breakbeat, with rapid keyboard riffs locking into heady funk cycles and stadium-sized tom tom fills splaying out across the stereo field. Guitar licks are soaked in sunshine as they lead a dubwise swing, and as we explode once more into the block rocking groove, double time shakers and hats push the vibe towards dance party mania…all as coral-colored leads rush through star ocean fx clouds.

Max Essa’s take on “Ranura de Marihuana” sees a four-four kick smacking with infectious disco dance energy and hand percussion flowing all around. A snare crack introduces another groove indebted to Italo boogie, with big bottomed synth basslines accentuating the vibes of beach dance euphoria. Shakers spread into sandy clouds of atmosphere and heatwave pads sweat and squelch as starlight arppegios race across the sky. The vibe of Ibizan melancholia is here perfected, causing body and soul to merge in hedonistic ecstasy, and though the track resembles one of Essa’s characteristic blue ocean dancefloor cruisers, its a little slower and baggier than usual, which fits completely with Coyote’s zoner stoner vibe. Seascape pianos bring a peaktime fee and at certain moments, the groove momentarily recedes, only to rush back in on an infectious snare crack. Ivory melodies are increasingly strange and psychotropic as they flutter across the mix, with decaying vibration tails carried away on an aqueous breeze. The radiant piano chords and vocalizations from the original swim into the stereo field as Essa barrels down into a heavy bassline stomp, with every pulling away aside from smeared out voices and 70s prog rock pads that evoke a string orchestra tuning to the sounds of the stars. Further clap cracks bring back layers of equatorial euphoria and the vocals are used to incredible effect, with echoing snippets repurposed as anthemic hooks. Pianos continue their alien dance over relaxed disco rhythms and snapping funk basslines, and as we move towards the end, claps and basslines fire rapidly as vocals morph through slapback oscillations…all before dropping into one last expanse of seaside dancefloor magic, with dub disco beats, infectious world percussion rolls, and a pleading voices diffusing towards a gorgeous sunset horizon.

(images from my personal copies)

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 4 years

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Always (DonnyxReader)

A/N: it's got some supernatural/mythological stuff in it. I haven't written anything like this before, so it may not be your cup of tea, and it may be a heckin disaster XD

Requested by @redroseedits

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :) __________________________________

There was a harsh, red flash of light in the horizon, like a crimson strike of lightning in a dark storm as gloomy clouds began to gather overhead. Donny didn't know if he should trust his eyes anymore. He was hungry, tired, and beaten. There was a bullet hole in his chest. But he wasn't done fighting. He'd been captured by a patrol of nazis, and was being held by them in the forest.

His eyes lingered on the sky, which looked totally normal now. But, it hadn't been the first time he saw that flash of red. It always seemed to be out of his reach, but beyond the end of the horizon. Sometimes, he reasoned it was nazis lighting fires to stay warm, but...it wasn't logical. Still, that was all he could come up with. No one else seemed to see the red light. He gave up asking if anybody else saw that. He looked around, one of his eyes was swelling up, and blood was dripping down his forehead. That was the least of his concerns. He’d be executed if he didn’t die from that bullet wound. Still, he had hope in the basterds, and that he could pull through. At least, he still recognized where he was. They were in a part of the woods near the edge, close to a village. It wouldn't be long before the basterds came, Donny was sure of that. He didn't understand a word, but he knew they were jeering at someone (other than him, this time). He managed to look up, and saw the nazis were harrassing a passerby, probably from the town. The passerby was just trying to, well, pass by. Tall, almost bone-thing, and covered in a red, smooth cloak, pleading to be let go of in what sounded like French with an accent Donny, and frankly, anyone else there, couldn't pin point. The harrassing turned into interrogating, as one of the nazis grabbed the figure's arm. Turning, the cloak dropped down, exposing a face. Rotting strips of flesh clinging onto a grinning skull, as red eyes seemed to mock the nazis right back. The nazi that had grabbed the figure fell to his knees, shaking and screaming, as another nazi, their leader, managed to bark orders through his terror, "Töte es!" 'Kill it!' His voice was cracking, trembling seeing that the bullets did not stop the grinning, mocking bones. Donny shut his eyes, knowing it had to be a fever dream. That's all it could be. He heard a cackle. He opened his eyes, and saw that the camp fire was raging out of control, despite heavy rain drops beginning to pour. He felt the heat in his face, and he shut his eyes, collapsing from the pain and blood, listening to the shrieks of horror. The nazis' screams a lullaby to him. ***** When Donny opened his eyes, he was in the same place, but he was alone. He looked down at his chest, where he had been shot. His clothes were bloody, but there was no wound. Just a scar. The ropes around his wrists were cut, and lay just beside him, next to his bat, which had been confiscated days ago. He picked it up, his hand running slowly over the engraved names. Then he remembered. He remembered the skull... He didn't believe it, though. It had to have been delirium, from the wound! But... he couldn't figure out what happened to the nazis....or the wound itself. Still, he knew he had to get back to the basterds. He held his bat over his shoulder, and started to walk away. He took a single step, and felt a sickening, harsh crackle under his boot. Looking down, he saw fragments of a skull, accompanied by a nazi's dog tag. His eyes widened, and he turned around, realizing the campfire was still smouldering, and was surrounded by the remains of the nazis and their tags. Anyone other than a basterd would had run away in fear, but he was mostly perplexed. Maybe he was still dreaming? He just walked away, deciding not to think about it. Still, there was a sly smirk on his face... If it was a dream, it may have been his favorite one. Still, the further he walked into the woods, he couldn't help but realize just how strange things were. He knew this part of the forest like the back of his hand, and somehow, he couldn't recognize a thing. "Where the fuck am I?" "Where, indeed." He turned, and saw you. Perhaps the most beautiful person he'd seen in his life. You seemed innocent enough, though...the accent...Not quite French, or German, not even Swiss, or Italian. Not anything he'd heard so far in the war, and he'd heard a million and one accents at that point. He got closer to you, his head tilted to the side, and suddenly, his breath caught.

You were wearing a soft red cloak. Cunning eyes, seeming to dare him to follow, and a grin playing on your lips. His voice was nearly a whisper, which for Donny Donowitz, was rare. "Who are you?" You simply giggled. The notes of your laugh had the smoothness of the moonlight, and the power of a war cry. It struck him, far more than your accent had, though he needed to know, "Where are you from?" You laughed again, and it unsettled him, "What's your name? Wh...who are you with?" "That's hard to answer, boy." You grinned, as you stepped closer to him. He saw that your skin was as smooth as the cloak, appearing timeless. You seemed to be young, but the way you spoke threw him off. It wasn't just the accent, it was sheer power in your few words. And...why did you call him boy? He was sure he was older than you, you couldn't be any older than Utivich... He raised an eyebrow, "Alright, here's an easy question, how old are you?" You shrugged, as a playful smirk tugged at your lips, "If I knew, I'd tell you, boy." He threw his hands up in frustration, "Oh what? Asking people's ages is rude, that it?" You leaned against a tree, "I'd tell you my age if I knew it, boy. But time itself had no name when I first woke." He narrowed his eyes, "Ok. You're on something, aren't you?" Your lack of answers only made him ask even more. "Where are you from?" Even that had no definitive answer. "From the soil where the first violent drop of mankind's blood fell. Under the sky that heard the first war cry." "So you wanna play games, huh?" He started walking away, but took no more than three steps before sighing and coming to a stop, "If you're gonna follow me, then at least tell me your name, kid." You laughed again, and he soon started to wonder if you had been behind what happened to the nazis. "What are you?" This time, you didn't laugh. "Your language has no name for what I am." He stared at you, seemingly confused, but not the least bit scared. "I was here when the huns first marched through those trees." "So what, 1940? You been hiding out here for three years? That it?" You shook your head, "I mean the huns. And the visigoths." Donny blinked. "Just what I needed. A crazy kid followin' me around. Fuck's sake." You giggled, and caught up to him, "You humans never change..." "What?" You smirked, and brushed his cheek. His breath caught again, as he looked into your eyes, seeing the depth of a millenia as your voice mellowed his heart, "I was here when Rome rose. I watched from that hill as it fell. I was here when the world beyond the mediterranean was nothing but a myth." "A myth?" "I hear there are seven lands now," You grinned, and he nodded slowly, "C-continents? Sure.... You...feel ok?" You grinned, taking a step forward, looking up at the trees and sky that you called home, "I was here before Napoleon marveled at this land from Corsica. When the vikings first ventured on their ships, when those darling Mark Antony and Cleopatra turned this world upside down. I was by Alexander the Great when he took the horizon. I was there when Sparta fell to ashes. I was there was when Hammurabi's code was first written. I was thousands of years old by then...anything I saw before then, your books have no memory of." "You're saying that you're....a...You're not...." You nodded, "Not human." Again, anyone else would have been terrified, but Donny was more intrigued than anything else....somehow it didn't seem right to pry. "Do you know what year it is?" "1943." Donny was more at ease, grinning himself as he remarked, "So you're not completely insane." "Well, you said 1940 was three years ago. Unless you mortals have gone and changed your dreadful number system," You sneered, and shook your head, remembering the exact moment you knew generations of students would be doomed with those infernal figures, "The year must be 1943." You smiled kindly, as you sat by the roots of an ancient tree you'd known as a sapling, "I'm old, not senile, boy." Donny was overcome with a wave of ease, and felt a need to sit. It would be rude to leave you there, after all. He sat by a tree, across from you. He looked around, still not recognizing where he was. The sun was setting, judging by the dark red tint sifting through the leaves. He leaned his head against the tree, and you sat in silence for some time. As the first distant stars began to emerge, he asked, "That was you, wasn't it?" "What was me?" "The thing that scared the nazis, and burned them." The only response he received was the sound of your laugh, and somehow, that put him at ease as his eyes began to droop with dreams.

******* When he woke, the sun was beginning to break through the leaves again, and he realized you'd covered him with your cloak. Looking at you, ethereal, like a fleeting daydream. Looking at you was like looking at an ancient statue, or an old painting of a nameless myth. He wrapped your cloak back around you, and began to walk down the forest, hoping to find his way. He'd been walking for an hour or two, and stopped to rest under a tree. Then, he heard your voice, which startled him a little. "You're lost." "... No I'm not." "Which way's north, then?" You grinned, as you emerged from the dense brush up ahead. "...." You sighed, "That way, boy." He got a little defensive. You know, back in Boston, he wasn't the type of guy that like to ask for directions. He crossed his arms, and began to mutter, "My name isn't ‘boy,’." "Well, you never told me your name," You shrugged with a sly smirk, knowing exactly how he'd retort. "You never told me yours." You nodded, "So it would seem." His frown turned into a chuckle, and cheeky grin as he started to walk along with you. You glanced at him through the side of your eye, and grinned. He was chaotic. A man of vengeance. You knew spirits like his, long before. They were rare, and the ones enemies feared the most. You smiled, when you caught a glimpse of him. You'd long admired him from afar... When you stopped for him to drink water from a creek, you asked, "You're the one these 'huns' are scared of, aren't you?" He chuckled, "That would be me, doll." He froze for a moment, questioning why he'd called you that. He hoped you wouldn't catch on to it, and from the looks of it, you hadn't. But you knew far more than he could ever imagine, and hid a blush and grin expertly. "They say you're a golem." You smirked, "But I don't think you're made of clay..." Donny felt your cool hands running over his shoulders, and he smirked, turning around, taking you in his arms, "So you've been watching me?" You winked, "Always."

He laughed as he let you sift through his hands like sand, "So, what are you made of?" You smirked, knowing he could take it. So you showed him. Your hair was made of fire. Your eyes became the piercing color of midnight. Your grin was the incarnation of chaos. Your clothes were forged into armor, a kind that hadn't been forged in thousand years. "Y...you're a d-demon...." You shook your head, as the fire died down to an ash, the smoke falling back into place as your (h/c) hair. The darkness in your eyes diluting into the laughing (e/c) pools that eased him. Your armor covered again by clothes of the era and your cloak. Your grin stayed your own. "I'm a trickster, with an allegiance to Themis, Tyr, Justitia...whatever you've named her this time." "Justice?" You nodded, "I'm a spirit of combat, and justice. The Greeks had a name for my sisters and I." He had composed himself by then, eased by your voice, and your promise of justice. "What did they call you?" "The Greeks called us the Hysminai..." You sighed, looking down into the creek, wondering what had become of them. You knew what humans were capable of, so you didn't linger on the thought. "But we're a long way from those empires now, aren't we, boy?"

You spotted your reflection in the water, looking into the forgotten legend, into the very face of combat. You sat by the edge, and in a moment, he followed. "I haven't seen them since..." Donny spoke softly, "Must be lonely..." You didn't want to dwell. "Living a life other than a mortal one? It gets lonely and boring...Especially when mortals are at peace." He chuckled, and looked into the water with you. "You have brothers, don't you, boy?" "Donny." You glanced at him, then smiled softly, just as the water rippled so he wouldn't see. "You have brothers, Donny. Others fighting with you." He nodded, "I don't know where they are." "I'll take you to them." "Thank you...." You looked at him, and told him your name "Y/n..." It had been nearly a thousand years since a human knew your name. You hadn't heard it uttered since then, on a battlefield covered in blood, your hand entangled around the hand of a warrior whose name was forgotten by history, but not by you, as you brought him before victory and vengeance, as he watched a red haze of light, with a grin on his face. You looked at Donny, before he could say anything, and said "You're tired, and unclean." "Hey!" You smiled, "Here, to the riverbank." He raised his eyebrow, definitely lost. There were no rivers near where the basterds were hiding out. You laughed as you walked him to the edge, "It's no wonder your enemies found you. All they had to do was follow your scent." Donny groaned, and splashed some water at you. You giggled, as your hand turned to fire, and turned the water to steam mid air. You turned your back, and waited among the trees. As Donny stepped into the river, his hand rested on his chest, over the scar. He glanced back at you, and didn't even have to ask. It had been you who saved him, he had no doubt. When he was done washing up, he joined you by the trees, "How did you find me?" "I was never too far from you, soldier," you grinned cunningly, "I'm a spirit of combat and justice. That's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" He grinned, his hands finding their way to your hips, "Damn right, Y/n..." It had been near a thousand years since you found a soul like his, made from the ashes of revenge, forged in a flame of honor. It had just been so long.... You kissed him. He kissed you... In a moment, his bat and your cloak were left on the ground, shortly followed by the rest of your clothes and armor. *********** Your head was resting on his bare chest, his hand laced into your hair, as his arm snaked around your shoulders. His heartbeat was like the beat of a war drum, music to your ears. You knew a mortal's life was fleeting. Especially that of a good warrior like him. Your cool hand rested over his chest, "Promise to always fight for what's in your heart." You felt him pull you in tighter to his side, as he murmured, "Always." When he woke the next morning, he followed you deeper into the forest, your hand entwined in his, "You must go back to your brothers." "I don't know where the fuck we are. I don't know where they are." You pointed deep into the forest. In the distance was a low, red haze, a dim light calling to Donny. "Follow the light, my soldier boy." He took a reluctant step forward, then looked back at you, "Will I see you again?" You laughed that laugh that echoed like a thundering war cry, and eased him like a lullaby, "You're at war, boy. Don't you remember?" His hand stroked your cheek, "I'll always remember." You smiled, and with a kiss, you sent him away. When he turned to take one last glance at you, you were gone. He followed the dim red light. Once again, it always seemed to be just out of his reach. He was beginning to stagger, tired of wandering for days without a soul to speak to, wondering how you could go on like that for an eternity. Just then, the lights vanished, and somehow, his heart shattered, thinking he was lost forever. "Y/n?" "Donny! Where the hell have you been?! God damn it!" That accent was unmistakably southern, and unmistakably that of his lieutenant. Donny laughed in relief, "Aldo?!" Aldo emerged from the brush, followed by the rest of the basterds, with a myriad of questions.

"Where have you been?" "Krauts we been getting said they got you!" "What the hell happened out there?!" He simply grinned, knowing if he told them a word, he'd be discharged and locked in an asylum. They'd heard rumors of a nazi patrol being burned alive. "How'd you make it out of all this?!" Donny chuckled, waving his bat over his shoulder, "How do you think?" The basterds laughed, and as they carried on, Aldo said, "Got word there's a kraut patrol fuckin' 'round bout ten miles north from here. You up to it?" Donny looked north, into the horizon, spotting a low red light beginning to glow. He smirked, and spoke softly with a nod, "Always."

#Donny Donowitz #donny donowitz x reader #donny donowitz imagine #Inglourious Basterds #inglourious basterds imagine

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