#( charon : nods sagely )

[charoin]

what i'm saying is : you should spend two full hours telling charon abt your day . he'll listen dw

[nightingaelic]

Fallout 3 companions react to the Lone Wanderer getting in contact with the Followers of the Apocalypse and asking to join them. (Possibly resulting in the creation of a Capital Wasteland chapter of the Followers?)

With the Enclave in full retreat and the Brotherhood of Steel officially installed at the Jefferson Memorial and Adams Air Force Base, the kid from Vault 101 seemed to be adrift. They wandered from Megaton to Underworld, Canterbury Commons to Rivet City, helping those they met along the way as they always had but growing more and more despondent with each passing day. "It's just me out here," they would mutter to themselves occasionally, after particularly tough run-ins with raiders or wasteland vermin. "What am I supposed to do?"

That question didn't have an easy answer, or so they thought. Then, like a lighthouse cutting through fog, a summons on Galaxy News Radio brought them to Three Dog, who parked the Lone Wanderer in an office chair and jammed a set of headphones over their ears. The kid talked for days, tuned to different frequencies, scribbled notes on every piece of paper within reach, and their missing smile gradually returned. When they finally stood up and gathered their thoughts together, a new dream came from their lips like a sermon: "There's a group on the West Coast that heard about me. They're called the Followers of the Apocalypse, and they help people. They like what I've done so far, and they want me to start a chapter here in the Capital Wasteland. I want to do this."

Butch DeLoria: Butch stared at them, flabbergasted. "You... haven't we... what more do you think you owe to these people?"

The kid he used to bully sighed. "What do I owe to anybody, Butch? This isn't about settling a debt. I think it's pretty clear now that I can make changes around here, big changes, and this is just another opportunity to do that."

"But why?" Butch pulled out a comb and ran it through his hair, visibly anxious. "So you purified the water, ran those Enclave upstarts out of town. Leave it there. Kill anyone who tries to jump you on the road, and stop worrying about everyone else."

"I..." The Lone Wanderer clenched their fist, unclenched it. "I can't. If I can make things better for everyone, I have to."

"Well that's not what Tunnel Snakes are about," Butch replied angrily. He seized his traveling pack, shook out his leather jacket and headed for the radio station's door. "You change your mind, you can find me at the Muddy Rudder."

The door slammed behind him. Three Dog, who'd been eavesdropping from the next room, poked his head in. "Is your friend coming back?"

"Ugh." The Lone Wanderer sank into their chair again. "Give it an hour or two. He'll come around. Probably when he runs into the super mutants in Georgetown."

Charon: Charon nodded. "As you wish."

The Lone Wanderer pressed a hand to their forehead in exasperation. "Okay, I tried to phrase that as openly as I could so I could get your thoughts, but I realize now that I should've just said... Charon, what do you actually think about this idea?"

The ghoul shrugged. "I don't."

"Come on Charon, there has to be something-"

"Fine." Charon rolled his eyes. "It's more of the same. More time on the road, more time building up and securing settlements, more time spent fending off attacks from those who want your stuff. I'd say you're also more likely to die, but you've defied my expectations before."

"And..." the Lone Wander pressed. "Are you okay with that?"

Charon, who was still unused to this kid's attempts to include him in decision-making, glared at them. "I am."

They studied each other silently. The Lone Wanderer broke first. They always did. "I'm not going to order you to do this with me."

"You don't have to," Charon reassured them. Half-facetious, half-sincere. "That's not how this works."

Clover: Clover examined her nails, clearly not that interested. "So what's the angle, lover?"

"Clover..." the Lone Wanderer hesitated. "What if it's not an angle? What if we just... did this?"

Clover stuck her tongue out playfully. "Whatever, honey. You probably have some scam cooked up already. Lure them out here, take their stuff, feed them to a deathclaw... you're such a tease."

"Uh-huh." Her companion crossed their arms. "A real scam. Like that time I used a GECK to purify the DC basin. Or that time I led a giant robot to fight the Enclave and eventually took over their crawler. Or that time I rescued a bunch of slaves from Paradise Falls. Clover, we've been on the road together a while. You know I'm not like that."

"I know, I know..." Clover trailed off and looked away. "S'just that I need a good story to tell when you take me back to Eulogy. Otherwise..."

The Lone Wanderer dropped their headset and took her hand. "You're not going back there. Ever. You hear me? You don't belong to that motherfucker anymore. You don't belong to anyone."

Clover still couldn't meet their gaze, but her eyes filled up with tears. "Mmm-hmm. Sure, lover."

Star Paladin Cross: The Star Paladin smiled. "I've encountered the Followers. They bring a noble cause to the wasteland, even if they stretch themselves too thin."

"Well, the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood is stretched too thin right now." The chapter's newest Knight sank back against the desk they'd been tethered to for the better part of the last 48 hours. "Scribe Bigsley is tearing his hair out about water caravans, the Enclave still has holdouts in the area, and Elder Lyons..."

They trailed off and sighed. "We need help. I don't know if I can be a Follower and a Knight, but I know they're more open to working with me because of Elder Lyons' decision to break with the High Elders. We have the same mission: To help the people of the wasteland."

"Our missions are similar, but there are a few fundamental differences," Cross corrected them. "The Followers emphasize the sharing of knowledge and learning, while the Brotherhood seeks to protect it. That said, your assessment of the Elder's decision for our chapter is apt. Perhaps we have opened ourselves up to common ground, in our desertion of our primary mission."

"Right." The Lone Wanderer nodded. "We're deserters. Let's use it. I'll start making plans and a list of potential recruits. I'll start with Reilly's Rangers and the Temple of the Union and get some leads."

Dogmeat: The mutt that accompanied the Lone Wanderer wherever they went barked, excited by his owner's excitement. The noise drew Three Dog's attention from the other room.

"Kid, I'm trying to run a radio station here," he said, leaning on the door frame with a mug of steaming tea in his hand. "Don't get your little buddy too riled up. Fight the good fight and all that, but do it outside."

"Sorry, Three Dog." The Lone Wanderer dropped to their knee and scratched the mutt's back and neck. "Just thinking out loud."

"You take their deal?" the DJ asked, before taking a sip from the mug.

The kid grinned. "You bet your ass I did."

Fawkes: The super mutant that had shadowed the kid since Vault 87 nodded sagely. "These Followers. Would there be room within their organization for an individual such as myself?"

The Lone Wanderer shrugged. "I didn't ask. The woman on the radio made a point of saying they were okay with ghouls, but she didn't say anything about mutants in general. I've heard that the mutants out west are more like you though, so probably?"

"Then I would like to be the first to sign up for your new chapter," Fawkes replied.

"Okay." The kid from Vault 101 grinned. "Great. Even if they aren't good with mutants, it's my chapter, and I say it's okay. It's not like they're going to be peering over my shoulder."

"And what do you intend to christen your first project?" Fawkes asked.

"Hmmm." The Lone Wanderer scratched their head. "Well, after recruitment and finding a base of operations, I think we should help stabilize the water caravan system. From there we can move on to tackling the slave trade."

Fawkes chuckled. "'From a small seed a mighty trunk may grow.' Then let us begin."

Jericho: The retired raider, who had been taking a nap in one of the office chairs, snapped awake with a snort and grabbed his assault rifle. "Who-whatsit?"

"Chop-chop." The Lone Wanderer tossed him his pack and punched him playfully on the shoulder. "We're going to shake up the Capital Wasteland hierarchy a bit."

"Well, that sounds like something worth getting up for," Jericho replied, somewhat more agreeable. "Where are we going?"

"Seward Square," they answered, throwing their own pack over their shoulder. "I know a crew over there that might be interested in helping."

"Reilly's gang?" Jericho stopped them. "Wait a minute. This isn't more of your usual goody two-shoes shit, is it? I told you, I was done after the business with the Enclave. Can't we just roll into a settlement and take their chems like the good old days?"

"Thought you were awake, Jericho." The Lone Wanderer smacked him on the cheek a couple of times. "You want to sit on top of the Capital Wasteland, you have to make yourself indispensable. Capisce?"

"Oh, fuck you," Jericho grumbled. "Should've kicked you off my steps back in Megaton, kid."

Sergeant RL-3: "Sir, yes sir!" the Mister Gutsy agreed. "Anything for our good old Uncle Sam!"

"Right then, soldier," the Lone Wanderer replied at the same level of enthusiasm. "Pack our gear and have this place spotless, on the double!"

"All recruits will be responsible for their own bunks!" Sergeant RL-3 shot back, before moving to retrieve the traveling packs from where they'd been stashed away.

Three Dog, who was watching from the door, shook his head with a grin. "I need to get me one of those models."

"Well, I know a guy out by Tenpenny Tower that might have a bot with your name on it," the Lone Wanderer offered. "Or at least the parts to build one."

"No time to dilly-dally, sir!" Sergeant RL-3 commented from across the room.

[tired-fandom-ndn]

Zagreus: Hello old friend, what's going on with you today? Or maybe tonight, I'm not sure.

Charon: Urrrnnnggghh. . . .

Zagreus: Oh, really? I can't imagine that went very well.

Charon: Hahhhhhhh, grrrruunnnh!

Zagreus: That's unbelievable! The nerve of some people these days!

Charon, nodding sagely: Grrrrrraaaaoooh, hnnnn. . . . . . Mmnnnnrroooaaaggh. . . .

Zagreus: You're always such a delight to talk to, mate. Please tell me more!

Everyone around them:

[kodiakwhiskey]

This is a couple pages from the novel I'm writing, based on a dream I had.

It's very Romeo and Juliet esque, and it's been taking me a minute to work out the final details. I hope you all enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My father and sister would be furious." It's hard to ignore his charming smile as he continued trailing kisses down my neck.

"Can you blame them?" He pauses and pulls me into him, his arms circling my waist, comforting. "Kayli… I love you. I would cross galaxies to be with you." My heart leaps into my throat.

"Nik…" I cup his face in my hands, kissing him. "I love you too" I never imagined that a prince like him would say those words to me. Let alone while trying to rescue my family. 

It was never easy. His life was a whirlwind of chaos, and I was too swept into the storm of his love. 

There was a time no one opposed us being together. Where I could be with him without either of our family assuming we kidnapped the other. I felt his thumb brush a tear of my cheek, his lips still moving with mine. I had realized I was crying until he pulled away.

"Kayli. We will be together. Even if we have to leave the galaxy, I won't leave you alone again." His eyes met mine, the gold from the magic swirling with his red irises again. I felt the warmth from his hands on my face before he pulled away. "I have something to give you. I'll be right back." He left the room, the door clicking behind him. 

This had to be normal right? There has to be more than one prince and princess who ran away that didn't end in tragedy right? I swore I could feel my heart break on the spot. I knew the moment I stepped on to the Nautilus that Nik would do anything, including tossing himself in harm's way to reunite me with my grandfather. But the closer we got to the Ice Mines, the closer we got to the danger, and the fears I've been keeping locked inside my Pandora's box.

My breakdown was halted when the alarm system went off. I turned around, staring out the window  at Charon, his father's main warship. I could see the blue in the shield as it deployed, steel moving over the windows. I scrambled towards the door, snagging my weapons from the rack on the wall. Scanning the hall as soon as the door sealed shut behind me. The ship rocked and I slid into the opposite wall, bracing myself with my arms.

"CLAIRE" I heard Jack's voice and ran, ignoring the small sparks of electricity coming off the panels.

 My heart was racing as I ran, throwing myself into whoever had grabbed Claire. She grabbed my shirt, pulling me off her assailant and running to Jack, grabbing his second pistol.

"You have a lot of nerve, princess." My eyes widened as his helmet came off, his golden curls tumbling out.

"Kayden." I tried to keep my voice strong, but he smirked and his dark eyes met mine, just like his brother's bearing a storm. "I'm going to have so much fun fighting his captor."

"No Kayden, listen please. Your father is lying." I felt like a cornered animal, that glint in his eye I knew far too well.

"No Kayli, you listen." His energy sword buzzed as he pulled it out. 

I hit the button on my staff, the scythe blade coming out of it, extending to its full length. 

"Kayden, you know I'd never hurt him."

"She's telling the truth." Nik's voice came from behind him, and his brother swung around to face him, disbelief written on his face. "Kayden, we don't have much time. Naskiar has been taken to Odin."

"The Great Sage Naskiar?" My eyes widened.

"Wait wait… my grandfather is The Great Sage? Of Rowan?" Nik and Kayden nodded unanimously and Claire put her hand on my shoulder.

"There's a reason why your father's started this war…"Jack's voice was quiet. "Of course your father never told you about your heritage. He swore everyone in the palace to secrecy." My scythe dropped, reverting back to its sheathed form.

"That's why I was trying to keep tabs on you two during the war." Kayden said something in his com, the warship powering down.

"Nik…" I felt his arms around me the warmth of his magic spilling over me. 

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't think you'd inherit those abilities, let alone pass some of them to me." The tears stung my eyes as I remember the feeling of him cold in my arms. "Kayli… you're amazing." 

Kayden spun around, walking back towards the hangar. "I informed the crew. We'll be deploying my team to help you guys." He paused, noticing the shock on my face. "But don't get used to it. Until this war is over you, Kayli Leonne of Atlas, are still an enemy of the house of Rowan."

He disappeared down the hall, Claire putting her goggles on and starting the repairs for the ship, her androids running around at a faster pace taking care of the small problems. Nik took me back to the cockpit, situating in the seat, pulling up the com link for Charon.

"Nik. My secondary ship will link comms in a minute. We can't bring the Charon close enough to Odin without looping them into the war." Kayden's eyes turn serious as he dips his head, leaving to grab his team. 

"If things get too dangerous, have Claire ping Charon, and we can provide back up. Charon out." Kaydens second, Alec, cuts the feed and Nik takes the helm, waiting for the Helios to pull into range before taking off, eyes focused on the vast expanse of stars in front of us.

[author-morgan]

Title: It Will Come Back

Pairing: Deimos-postDeimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: You pluck an arrow from his back and he turns around like Eros and shoots you right in the heart. 

SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN dead litter the shores of Amphipolis –a feast for crows. Though among the dead few are luckily have clung to life. A wave of healers and physicians from both sides descend to collect those injured and those who had already taken the journey across the Styx with Charon.

You bear the mark of Athena –a servant of Athens. Combing the field of battle, you look for soldiers who wear the blue color of Athens. The first man you turn over is dead – his throat slashed and entrails exposed. Another is barely alive, having lost his hand and sustained a long and jagged gash on his calf. Shock will set in soon if he is not tended to. You hold up the silver medallion fastened around your neck –it glints in the sun and soon after two men come forward with a crude stretcher to take the soldier to the infirmary tent.

The next is beyond saving –his right eye is bulging from its socket, a minor grievance in comparison to the shattered back of his skull. He cannot speak, but his delirious eyes say it all. End this. I beg you. You’d never enjoyed this part of your duty. It didn’t feel right for a healer to take life –regardless, you draw the dagger from the sheath on your belt and position the tip of the blade next to his larynx. Pushing down with your weight, the dagger sinks into flesh and then you pull the cutting edge toward you. It’s a clean-cut that will grant the soldier peace before he can take another labored breath.

Rising, you find yourself drawn to a man that does not wear the colors of Sparta or Athens. A misthios, you think to yourself, but as you draw nearer you see his gold and dark steel armor is too fine to belong to a mercenary. A single arrow shaft rises from the center of his back. Kneeling, you push aside the matted locks of dark brown hair adorned with golden beads that’d fallen in front of his face. Against your hand, you can feel slow puffs of air and a pulse beneath your fingertips. He is still alive. You raise your medallion again.

Two soldiers come, though when they see who you are kneeling next to, their faces take on a deathly pallor and fear shins in their eyes. “Take him to my tent,” you instruct. If everyone is as fearful of this man as those two soldiers, no one will wish to tend to his wounds.

By the time the sun has set, those who stand a chance of surviving are within the infirmary pavilion and those who were dead or received final mercy are piled atop quickly constructed pyres. They will be sent off with Charon’s obol as honorable dead.

You draw the flaps of your small pavilion close and untie the leather belt hanging on your hips, letting it fall onto a small table next to a clay washbasin. Scrubbing your hands of the day’s work, you forget about the patient now residing in your quarters until you turn to your bedroll –which is half occupied at the moment. Small lanterns chase away the darkness.

The arrow had pierced the metal and leather cuirass and a gentle pull on the now broken shaft tells you it had sunk into flesh too. Frowning, you prod around the entry point –failing to see how to remove his armor without inflicting more damage. You reach back, fingers curling around the hilt of your dagger and slowly you start to whittle down the olive wood shaft. White pteruges are now stained with dried blood and mud –you set them aside and find the fastenings of the cuirass. Once the ties and hooks are free, you lift the back-plate and the tapered arrow shaft passes through with ease.

Scars crisscross his corded back, though for now, your focus returns to the arrow just to the left of his spine. The barbs had not caught on flesh, nor does it appear laced with poison and for that you are thankful. You ready your supplies –clean linen, a freshly ground poultice of thyme, sage, clove, and garlic, and a needle with silk thread should the wound need stitching.

You test the shaft’s hold on the arrowhead, finding the hide glue had not loosened. Part of you thinks it will be easier to remove the arrow with one quick go, but the strength of his physique leads you to use a more delicate approach. You’d almost had your fingers broken by an archer who’d abruptly woke in the middle of being treated. The man laying facedown before you looks as though he could easily break a lot more than a finger.

Fresh blood wells up after the arrow comes free. You douse the area with a mix of water and vinegar before patting the wound dry. It will not need sutures, just a fresh bandage to cover the poultice. It takes forbearance to finish stripping him of his armor and bind the wound with a long strip of clean linen. He is heavy –fitting for his Herculean build. His features are sharp and handsome, though dark circles ring his eyes. Even at rest he looks tormented. Much like his back, his torso is bestrewn with scars –some longer and wider than others.

Knowing you do not have the strength to move him again after a long day, you gather your blanket and lay on the small part of the bedroll still free. Sleep comes easily.

By morning, Deimos is awake –the muscles in his back screaming in agony as he shifts. His armor is gone, save for his greaves, piled up beneath a low table. A bloody basin of water sits on the ground, in it is an arrowhead and broken shaft. White linen is wrapped around his torso. “You’re awake!” You exclaim, readying for your duties.

"Who are you?" He rasps. It feels like a dangerous thing to do, but you give him your name. "My sister," he spits, "where is she?"

"I don't know,” you tell him. He can tell you are being truthful. You know nothing about Kassandra and from the look of it, you know nothing about him either. "I found you after the battle,” you tell him, “you'd been hit in the back with an arrow.” That explains the dull throbbing in his back.

"Need to go," he mutters, turning to reach of his armor.

"No," you say –the boldness of your voice catches you off guard. The man glowers at you. "You're my patient. You can't leave until I clear you."

Deimos sizes you up. "You're going to stop me?" He asks, mirth lacing the question. He has the blood of gods in his veins, and you are insignificant. Breaking you wouldn’t even be a challenge.

Sighing you shake your head. You can’t stop him. It’s likely no one in the entire camp could. "At least allow me to clean the wound and bind it again.” Deimos grunts in response and sits in place while you prepare a new poultice and gather fresh bandages. His arms are thick with muscle, hands rough and scarred. He watches you with his dark gaze, unused to being shown kindness. You spread the salve over the scab and move back in front of him to tie off the new bandage. His muscles contract when your fingers brush against his stomach –it’s like Phidias had sculpted him from Parian marble. "Who are you?"

"Deimos," he answers, watching the shred of fear blossom in your eyes. He smirks. "Ah, you've heard of me."

You no longer meet his gaze, instead, you wipe your hands clean in your apron. "I heard he was demigod," you mutter, handing him the gold and steel armor. Demigods are not felled by a single arrow, though. Deimos may fight like a demigod, but he still mortal –a tortured soul.

"I am,” he says with surety, rising to leave. He would not speak his gratitude aloud, but he can repay this simple kindness by making sure the Cult never harmed you.

PILES OF HERBS lay before you –waiting to be bundled and taken to Zina, the apothecary. One of the local villages had been experiencing issues with recurring fever, and Zina cannot spare the time to collect her supplies at the moment. You’re so focused on the task at hand, you don’t hear the iron-shod footsteps approaching from behind until someone’s hand settles on your shoulder and holds a stalk of tufted vetch before you. “Deimos!” You gasp, clutching your chest as though it can slow the frantic beating of your heart.

Deimos lips tug upward into a faint smile. The dark circles that’d once ringed his eyes are fading. “Alexios,” he supplements. He intends to move forward and leave his life under the Cult’s control in the past, though since reuniting with his family on Mount Taygetos he’s often thought of the healer at Amphipolis who did not show fear, even when the Athenian soldiers cowered in his wake.

Taking the stalk of vetch, you smile and inhale the slightly sweet scent. “What are you doing here?” You ask, you never expected to see him again –part of you wished you wouldn’t given his reputation, but now his handsome face is a pleasant sight compared to the sick and dying. “How did you find me?” You pose before he can even respond to your first question. You’re a long way from Amphipolis.

“I never said thank you,” he breathes, reaching for one of your hands. Besides being thrown off a mountain as a baby, it’s the closest he’s come to meeting Hades.

You shrug. “Many of those I treat, don’t,” you tell him. It was your duty to tend the wounded, not some feat of bravery worth poems or songs.

“HEALER!” SOMEONE CALLS. You turn, seeing an Amazonian woman running toward you with someone slung over her shoulder. As she draws nearer, you notice an eerie resemblance to a certain demigod that’d been occupying your thoughts frequently as of late. “Can you help my brother?” The woman asks, panting. Blood runs down her arm and neck –it’s not hers, though.

You nod, grip tightening on the woven basket filled with herbs, grain and fruit. “Follow me.” The Orchomenos clinic just below the Temple of Apollo is your home at the moment –and where you lead the woman and her brother. She lays him on the table in your quarters and steps back. “Alexios,” you gasp. There’s a deep gash on his side almost the length of your forearm. He groans when his sister starts unclasping the torn leather cuirass while you prepare a needle and thread and gather rags and bandages.

Her name is Kassandra and she watches your every move as you begin cleaning the wound. It still bleeds, but barely –it won’t need to be burned. The hooked needle passes through his skin with ease, each time pulling the gash closed. “What happened?” You ask, pulling on the silk thread when it catches.

“Boar,” she responds. Since training under Hippokrates, you’ve seen your fair share of injuries caused by boars –most are not so lucky and bleed out before receiving proper treatment, or succumb to infection. The wound is no doubt grievous, but in your experience, it could be a lot worse. The line of sutures are neatly done, having used almost an entire spool of thread.

The salve you craft is made of softened beeswax, ironwort tea, and frankincense for inflammation. You dip your hand into the mixture and spread it across the stitches –his entire side has already begun shifting to deep hues of blue and purple. Kassandra helps you wind a thick layer of linen around his torso –it will help with the bruising and keep the sutures clean­– before moving him to the corner of the room where a pallet of pillows and blankets are messily arranged.

She is worried about her brother. “He’ll be alright,” you assure her –wiping down the table, “he just needs time to rest.”

Kassandra sits across from you at the table after cleaning Alexios’ blood from her neck and arms –she nurses a cup of watered wine. “He mentions you a lot,” she tells you and that catches you off guard. Since Amphipolis, he’s managed to find you on several occasions. He never stays more than a day at a time, but it was always a pleasant surprise to have company –especially when it’s. She glances over her shoulder toward Alexios. “You’ve made quite the impression on him.”

When her gaze returns to you, there’s a fleeting smile on your lips. You should see her when she smiles, sister. “I found him after Amphipolis.” Sometimes you still wake in a cold sweat, remembering the carnage –the brutality of war. It was not some glorious thing like the singers and poets claimed. “He said his name was Deimos. The men were terrified of him.”

“He was a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos,” she explains and her expression twists into one of anger. “Alexios is the name our mater gave him.” The sun will be setting soon, and she needs to return to the Adrestia. She and Alexios had been en route to the ship after receiving word about important business on Mykonos when the pack of boar attacked them. Kassandra rises. “I leave my brother in your capable hands.”

Sometime during the night, he wakes. A gentle weight is resting on his chest –your hand is splayed out on the small area not covered by linen. In the dim light, he makes out your features, completely at ease. Alexios braces his arms, intent on pushing himself up, but the hand on his chest stiffens and forces him back down. “Don’t,” you mumble, groggy and barely awake.

“Where’s Kassandra?” He asks in a hoarse whisper.

“Returned to her ship,” you answer, “said she’d be back soon. Business on Mykonos.”

Alexios rolls his eyes. Business, he scoffs. Kyra is what his sister meant by that. He settles back in, covering your hand with his own. “Fucking pig came out of nowhere,” he remarks with a dry laugh. A smile tugs at your lips, you cannot deny it is a nice change to have company –the warmth of another person next to you.

YOU LEAVE EARLY in the morning for the market with a mental list of herbs and flowers to purchase for the clinic. The sun is blazing by midday when you return. Pylenor is tending to a new patient, though when you arrive the physician pulls you asides –asking if you could deliver a fresh batch of tonic and salves to Zosimos in Lebadeia.

Behind your quarters comes the rhythmic sound of wood splitting. You drop off the basket and round the corner of the stone building. Alexios lifts the axe above his head and brings it down in a fluid motion, splitting a piece of wood in two with ease. Sweat beads on his brow and the off-white chiton clings to his chest and back. Perhaps if not for the wound on his side, you would have enjoyed the sight a moment longer. “Alexios!” He looks in your direction and immediately knows he’s in for a scolding –after all, it’d only been three days since he’d been gored and stitched up. “You shouldn’t be doing that yet,” you chide.

“I’m fine,” he says and proves his point by showing you the line of stitches –still as neat and undamaged. When you tell Alexios about needing to run an errand to Lebadeia, he offers to come with you. Trypho lends you and the misthios a horse to complete the delivery –it’s quicker and safer than traveling on foot.

On the way back, you stop for a quick reprieve, letting the horse rest and drink from a pool of water fed by a small waterfall that flowed to Lake Kopais. Today had been exceptionally warm, and now that the sun is dipping lower in the sky the dried sheen of sweat on your skins becomes tacky. You strip off your peplos and apron, sinking into the cool water in nothing but a sweat-stained apodesmos and perizoma. Alexios follows suit, leaving his tunic and sword on the banks –you’d taken his armor to the tanner to be repaired.

He circles you, as a predator does its prey –it sends a cold chill down your spine and warmth to your insides. You step into his path, both hands pressing against his chest. Beneath your palms are numerous scars and ever since you first saw them, you’ve wanted to know more. Your hands slide across his pectorals and up a pale brown scar that runs parallel to his right clavicle. He tells you it’s from when he was a child –he’d stumbled into a wolf den in the forests of Argos. “And this one?” You ask.

He looks down at the raised vertical scar on his left breast. It’s not from a recent injury as portions of it have begun fading. “Don’t remember,” he replies, in earnest. It was easy to forget the stories behind minor injuries when they were so numerous.

“What about this?” One of your fingertips follows the raised scar that crosses over his navel. Something stirs in him and a spark turns his dark eyes to burning amber.

“Training recruits,” he tells you.

“This one?” You inquire, following the crooked line from his uninjured side up to his ribs. 

“Arena in Pephka.” His voice drops and is noticeably rougher. Alexios presses your hand flat to his chest and steps closer –his heart is thudding beneath your palm. You feel a lump form in your throat when his thumb traces over your lips but it quickly fades when he settles his lips against yours.

The hand on his chest slips up to his neck and you press yourself closer to him. You’ve always wondered what I would be like to have the love of a god –this is the closest you’ll ever get to fulfill that curiosity. One of his hands finds your lower back, the other brushes against your cheek. It’s difficult to think this is the same man who was once Deimos –a weapon. His lips are soft, hands gentle. You both pull back at the same time, but then his lips are on your neck, laving, and suckling –the coarse stubble on his jaw dragging across your skin. “Alexios,” you gasp, tugging at the ends of his hair.

He finds the pin holding your apodesmos in place and opens it with one hand, tugging on the soaked material covering your breasts and then his lips are on yours again. Ravenous and needy. Without looking, he throws the strip of wool toward the edge of the pool and glides his calloused hands over your bare breasts, lightly kneading one of your nipples until it stiffens beneath his palm. You know what lies along this path and no matter how much you want him, you step back –breathing heavily. “You could tear the stitches,” you warn. Torn stitches will only hinder him from healing properly.

Alexios wades back to you, pressing his face against your neck. “Then we’ll take things slow,” he proposes, voice a heady gravel. You mold into him –like wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter. His hands dip below the water, untying the perizoma around your hips –it finds a place next to your other garments. Rough fingertips trail the length of your body and find a resting place between your thighs. “Tell me what you want,” he rasps.

“I want you,” you whisper, hand resting on his cheek. You’re not one to plead, not even for the love of a demigod, but there’s a first time for everything. Alexios catches the spark that appears in your eyes and smirks –thinking about what’s to come when his side is healed. One finger slides into you, stroking and exploring. He adds a second finger and watches the shift in your expression. You grip onto his shoulder, head falling back with a soft whine when his thumb presses against your clit. His cock twitches as a pitiful pule escapes your lips. 

His lips drag across your jaw. A precipice is fast approaching, evident in the way you’re breathing hitches and how your walls constrict around his fingers. Alexios wants to watch you come undone whilst he’s inside you. You whimper at the loss. Though when you notice him fumbling at the knot in his loincloth, your hands slip beneath the water and gently pushing his away. He takes your swollen lips again –kissing you may very well be one of his new favorite things, even more so than annoying his sister and step-brother.

He groans and bites down on your shoulder when you take him into your hand and give a tentative stroke from base to head. His cock is just as impressive as the rest of him. It takes all his willpower to pull your hand away, but then he is lifting you from the water. He groans again when your slick folds slide over him, ankles hooking low around his back. You want to protest –thinking of the stitches, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything lest the moment be lost.

He sits back on the bank in the tall grass with you astride his lap –hard length pressing against your stomach. You roll your hips forward and are rewarded with a ragged groan, but you can see it in his eyes –he likes being in control. A smile crosses your lips as you repeat the same action. It’s enough to drive him mad. The growl rising in his throat is feral –his fingers dig deep into your hips, a gentle reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of.

You shift onto your knees, raising your hips and reach between you, sliding the head of his cock through your heat before beginning to sink back down. “Fuck,” he hisses as your warmth envelops him and his hands slide from your hips around to your backside, pushing you down until your hips meet. Your head falls forward, resting on his shoulder and for the moment, the world around you vanishes.

Alexios shifts and it brings you crashing back down –skin alight with his touch. You take his rugged face into your hands and kiss him, slowly, just as your hips begin to roll into his. He breaks away and dips his head low, teeth scraping over your breasts down to one of your nipples. His name falls from your lips like a sacred prayer.

He’s moving your hips how he sees fit and lifting his to meet yours. Your hands slip into his hair, ruining the small bun of matted locks tied up with a thin leather thong. Alexios bares his teeth when you tug on his hair, hip snapping up into yours. Brown eyes flecked with gold bore into your own.

The air leaves your lung when he abruptly turns, laying you on the soft woven grass. Alexios holds tight to one of your thighs as he ruts into you –face buried deep into your neck. Your fingertips dig into his shoulder blades, between scars. It’s a slight shift in your hips that causes breathy moans to flow from your lips each time his cock slides back into your heat, hitting the one spot that makes you feel like Aphrodite herself. He thrives off the wanton sounds. “Alexios,” you pant, toes curling and walls clenching around him.

He moves erratically, grunting between thrusts and continues to strike that spot deep inside you. All is lost when the rough pads of his fingers find your clit. Alexios raises his head and basks in the moment you come undone –mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, heels pressing into his lower back. Your grip on his shoulders loosens and your hands slide down his back, finding the scar from when you’d met in Amphipolis.

Alexios breathes your name as though he speaks to a goddess and with several slow, deep thrusts he finds his end. He hovers above you, bracing most of his weight on his forearms. You trace over the wrinkles in his brow and push up on your elbows. The kiss is so soft, sweet, and slow it makes his heart ache and understand why Orpheus would follow Eurydice to the underground.

He rolls off to the side, and you weakly protest the loss and warmth running down your thighs. Then you are slipping effortlessly back into the role of his healer. You sit up, looking over the sutures in his side. None of them have torn, but several are trying to bleed again. Alexios rolls his eyes –he’s endured far worse than bloody stitches. He sits up –looking like both Ares and Adonis– and gathers his damp undergarment to clean both of you up.

You both lay back in the grass, legs intertwined and tracing obscure patterns over one another’s skin until darkness looms on the horizon. Alexios traces a line down your cheek when you prop your chin upon his chest. “We should head back,” you tell him, “these forests are treacherous at night.”

Night falls, and the main gates of Orchomenos come into view. Alexios stables the borrowed mount and drapes his arm over your shoulders as you both return to the clinic.

Days pass and Alexios takes up completing odd tasks for people around the city while you work with Pylenor tending to those who come sick and injured. Every morning you and Alexios break your fast on jams and bread and every evening you share a meal too. It frightens you to think about how accustomed to his presence you’ve become.

Finally one evening, you motion for him to sit for you to remove the sutures before the wound completely seals. A few days later you bring his leather cuirass back from the market, fully repaired by the tanner. You expect him to leave soon after, but he stays and each kiss and tender caress will make it even harder when he does rejoin Kassandra.

A GOLDEN EAGLE named Ikaros brings word that his sister has docked in Lokris and it just so happens that you have a delivery to take Marpsas in Alponos. By the day’s end, you find yourself standing on the docks of Opous with Alexios. Your fingertips ghost over his cheek, following the scar below his eye. “I’ve quite enjoyed having my own misthios around,” you admit. He’d been with you now for more than a full lunar cycle. Between this time and his sporadic visits, you cannot deny the extreme fondness you hold for him. Given more time, it may blossom into something more. 

“Every misthios needs a healer,” he remarks. During his time with Kassandra and Barnabas, he’s witnessed the damage pirates, bandits, and other mercenaries can do, especially when no one aboard the vessel is trained in medicine.

“I could come with you,” you offer –life at sea does sound like a fun adventure.

Alexios glances back at the Adrestia and knows deep down that he cannot take you from your calling as a healer without condemning innocents to death, but he can always be a misthios on land or sea. Besides Kassandra can look after herself. He takes one of your hands and kisses the center of your palm. “Or I could stay,” he whispers. Your lips part in surprise and Alexios sees it as a good excuse to crane down and place a soft, lingering kiss upon them. Against his lips, he can feel your smile. “Let’s go home,” he breathes.

[highsviolets]

breathless, chapter 3: an obi-wan x 90s!reader au

summary: in which you and Ben discover that nothing is like the first time, but maybe time is a construct anyway

word count: 3.2k+ 

cw: kissing. light references to smoking, a lil angst, some language  

A/N: this could not have happened without @afogocado​. Thank you for encouraging me to continue this lil fic and an endless supply of ewan pics and listening to me ramble and omg ilysm 

 references // previous // next // series masterlist 

“my curfew’s at midnight.”

Ben doesn’t look at you when he speaks. Well, he does. Just not right now. He’s busy at the moment, tinkering with something in the hood of his car. hunter green t-shirt — auburn hair — something out of goddamn salinger novel ((or maybe dos passos))

you look up at him. you’re settled on a skateboard ((he’s far too trusting of your ability to remain upright)). listless currents from a fan — somewhere, in the garage, you think — ripple in that nomadic space between his t-shirt and your skin.

remarks are so curious a thing, and you watch yours descend upon him. not quite a cascade. not quite a pittance of cleansing summer rains. it’s something other — but not ethereal — it’s here, it’s now, it’s taking you, too, holding you in thrall — words bump into skin ((sinew and sin)).

“it’s about doing the right thing.” the grind of one metal locking its relatives, corollaries, corrosions, into place has ceased. or maybe only paused. you’re not sure the car is done. but Ben looks at you, and you know he’s done. done explaining himself.

the skateboard’s wheels squeak and cry out against the pavement when you adjust. legs stretched out — ragged vans pointing above ((wherever that is)) — violet tipped hands clutching the back edges — knees exposed — just kissing the faintness of tangible ((affection or affectations, what’s the difference?))

“i know.” freckles gaze into the sun, his eyes, reflections. he expects your explanation to be plaintive. institutional. it’s not. “i just wanted to know why.”

Ben shakes his head, once, twice, thrice — face still half-soaked in the shadow of the hood — astonishment is plain to see in the flatness of his cheeks — the waltzing of his tongue on his upper lip.

Two seconds later he is right there, crouching ((muscles straining)) next to you, the leather tips of air jordans exotic and smooth against the external lateral bone of your left knee. His eyes, screwed up at the invasion of the sun against their tranquility, stare at the meeting of his shoes and your body and then he is gazing at you.

angels manipulate his mouth into a smile — Ben’s yours, now — hands are clasped — battles halt in the ceasefire. “I should really stop underestimating you.”

Ben reaches out. Two fingers ride the length of your cheekbone. They still as skin morphs into frizzled, sun-bleached hair at the crown of your head, in that space between your ear and eyebrow. your head nudges into his terms of surrender. “That would probably be best,” you say. The pause between conditional tense and adverb is like the space between you and him, an assured hesitancy, caught between becoming and being, trapped in an interstitial existence.

it’s so fucking americana it hurts.

hair , secured by a scrunchie the same shade as your fingertips, is given a light tug. let’s get you home, he says, and your presence wilts in upon itself , he senses the rush of photosynthesis exiting your body and brings your lips to caress his.

it doesn’t feel like the first time — nothing ever does — familiar in semantics — murky in meaning — singeing and sweet — a transfusion of significance between you and him.

the breaking away comes with a solemn sigh. he’s rising and bringing you with him. you resist the urge to stage a coup and use the skateboard to rocket yourself into his arms ((a safehouse you’ve found)).

___

time: a nebulous concept for you. it’s pages dogeared and how many days until the next cd is shipped to the store and how many t-shirts you’ve accosted from oaken drawers.

it’s a far more solid object for him. a tangible weave of textures and patterns that he notices in the scrunchies now in the car’s island of misfits ((he still hasn’t told you the make and model)) and how many times you guide his hand around your waist while you eat ice cream ((vanilla in a cone with sprinkles)) and the pens he’s busted through since you first met ((he knows the number , they’re immortalized in a tin cup on his shelf))

Ben’s holding one that has yet to join its brothers in the tin graveyard. The clicker rests against his teeth. It looks seductive in his mouth. Like he can make you keen with just an imitation of the real thing, with words and ideas. Words twirled around the air have power. You both know this.

You’re the one who’s twirling, though. spinning around his bedroom — boombox emitting a Billy Joel song at least ten years mature — mouth forming words you have yet to possess the courage to blare — so much like your kisses.

((the words come through in the translation , the body moves but he hears the soul))

he watches you and he is transfixed. he knows you do not know how much you are revealing to him. at least not consciously. but you want him to crawl into your soul and never leave. he does not see it or hear it or feel it as much as he experiences truth, the clumsy trio dotting patterns across his extremities and seeping into his essence ((what it means to be human)) like an antibiotic ointment. he is scared you will stick to things for which you are not designed. but it’s too late and he’s covered in the stuff, slick with you. unleashed in a trigonometric function of three sides ((him / you , other)). sins and signs and echoing sunlight.

your smile mimics his as you edge toward the bed where he’s sprawled out. you laugh and he matches you, shaking his head in rare & unguarded ((unabashed , unembarrassed)) regard. you are in harmony.

skin meets skin — heels arched into the carpet — he’s too strong too stubborn — and you fail and fall and spill over him — tumbling over his torso, legs mashed — the heat of his victorious grin burns the atmospheric bubble arching over the two of you.

You’re not sure if the record stops or if you’ve just ceased hearing it. he arranges you ((like a bouquet, like a song)) on the bed. he stares down at you. the eyes are stormy again, like before he kissed you the first time ((but nothing’s ever like the first time)). they say eyes are the window to the soul. Your hands whisk the hair that’s dangling there, like you can quiet him by quelling his independently-minded locks. it seems to work. he blinks and when you see the sun again it’s brighter, bluer, but maybe that’s because he’s so still now.

he does not move. He may not have danced but his soul is pressing into you like a dagger ((did you fall on a sword)). Ben cuts off your impending speech with conciliatory kiss. “i know , darling” , and the words etch themselves into reality against your body.

—-

Ben is distant and he is near to you all at once. There are corners of his being that you want to slide and drag and push to the surface. maybe if you do he will start to make sense. form follows function, he tells you, and the words feel as yellow as the pages on which they’re inked.

it doesn’t make sense to you — “you have too much sense, dear one” — elinor and marianne — but for all his purity he does not dance — no ricochets in his lever and pulley soul.

you are glass and flannel and he is steel and silk. he is not quite your sun, or your moon, or your stars, and not even your world. but you are rapidly terraforming to his sundry heights and arid permafrost and the devil’s sun that makes a home in his fingers, in his mouth ((yet he is not lucifer, nor abdiel perhaps he is raphael)).

Ben watches you soak in him. He takes note, n.b., nota bene, notes well, excellently, the stillness of your hands ((the tremors have lessened, but have they learned?)). your words are teal and vermillion and ecru and weeping with tannins. Ben deduces ease, easel, paint, art as you furrow into his chest. His mind infers souls through their bodies. Form follows function. Function follows form. Maybe it’s all the same, and Maybe It Isn’t.

Through your mirror he sees himself with you but he does not comprehend. He is bewildered.

nails boards cones sheets — teeth fingers knees breath — swerving form yielding function clutching grasping — all so very , sine qua non — aspectu sine logos — why does the latin transform into Greek

Morpheus, he thinks, nods sagely. he hurls ticket stubs and lipstick napkins and sense ((you)) into shoeboxes and mailboxes and shadowboxes. he refuses a photo of you, with you, for you and takes your knotted eyes and throws them, too, into the nearest body of water. you are close but you are not near ((droplets on tanned skin, drowning in the water)) and it is all he can do to obey his life and he does not know that sartre laughs at him and de beauvoir pokes her lover.

you are not at the middle of your life and neither is he. the path is still obscured by the trees. is charon delivering you to this threshold of the styx ((stones, bones, death)) or the tip of the world where the stars scrape into the heavens with a different edge? he is rising: he brings you with him. so it was in the past, but does the past presage the future? if he is raphael then he is virgil ((Maybe it’s all the same, and Maybe It Isn’t))

epic firestorm of righteous creation myths — empirical histories — imperial truths. but no. dante, where is dante, is he off in firenze, dancing in florid colors? no. dante is in exile, civitas ex nihilo : in need of virgil. guide him to transcendence.

____

you do not see him for several days. maybe it is weeks. you aren’t sure. time is not empirical, Ben has told you, it’s something you have to feel through its measuring ((sometimes vibrancy tips out of his ridges)). but you wish he had let you take a picture of the two of you. you are more like him than you realize , the truest truths are the ones you can touch.

it is the longest you have not seen him, and it is very hot. the pool, the lake, they’re not the same when you can’t thread sand through his hair and be abducted by his gaze as you read ((spirited away from his bookshelf)).

you’re running out of books — running out of time? — but time is not statistical — multidimensionality of you and him — there is no space where he does not compress himself to exist with you.

“it’s not a phase, mom,” you say, and take another bite of cereal.

“you need to make up your mind.” the crunch is effective at blocking out the noise, and your mind continues on its path. you wonder if DJ Tanner ever felt like this. hair surfaces in your bowl, and you pluck it out, grimacing. Maybe you should cut your hair. it’s hot out. DJ had short hair.

a rap on the table — spoon? knuckle? you can’t tell — strikes you. the words reality and wake up and decisions and wasteful are abrasions on your knees, still sore from too many tries on Ben’s skateboard ((he had smiled at your earnestness and kissed away the latent tears , let your body do its healing)).

you do not speak words so much as you give birth to emotions, agonizing and cruel and hideous. you do not know what you say or if you even say it ((dissociation)). but it is metallic in your mouth and turncoat shaking fingers and the sinking sound of unharnessed emotion in your ears.

it is hot and stifling and too much when you leave. nothing is feeling right — that stillness has lodged in your diaphragm again — opaque skies mock you — rain comes and you are colliding with nature and you are losing

Ben is standing underneath the overhang at the library ((it always comes back to the library)) and you wonder if you’re finally hallucinating. you voice forms itself to his name and he turns, damp hair following a few seconds later, and he drops his cigarette at the sight of you.

Exhilaration delivers specks of mud on your legs and arms but it is no matter. the time and space continuum has rectified and he is in front of you, giving you a cigarette, gray t-shirt abstracting to his muscles as much as your vans cling languidly to soggy toes.

he exhales smoke the way he says your name. it is precise and pious and it blooms over you like pink and purple hydrangeas.

Ben sees the gouges in your eyes and chastises your traitorous hands and absorbs you. cigarettes slump, abandoned, as he presses your cheek to his heart ((the conjunction of your logic and heat meeting his fervent center)). you cling to him and he does not resist but molds himself to you. time stops ((it’s an illusion)). rain continues. Ben’s kisses glide along your hairline, your forehead. it tickles and you laugh and his smile takes shape against your frontal cortex.

you pull him into the rain even as he protests ((but he’s laughing and the clouds pause, time takes a breath , are you time)) and you kiss him. it is like something breaks in him or perhaps the rain has induced erosion or maybe he is like you and there is a filigree thread connecting his head with his heart and constructing a railway through his body. Ben is all the lightning — the sky has crowned a new Zeus —  you hold him as the thunder in his soul cracks and pulls

((maybe kant was wrong about time and heidegger was right about dwelling and nothing crystallizes in his soul like you do))

the two of you alight to his car ((still unknown yet cordial, native)) and when you reach his building he opens your door and scoops you up in his arms and it is like that first time by the pool ((but nothing is ever like the first time)).

your hand makes a fist in his soggy shirt and his hair is pasted to his forehead and you cannot censor the searing, violent, desideratum swooping over you ((nor can you pause the absurd laugh that gushes out of your heart at his display of exorbitant chivalry)).

“i can walk,” you say as he wades through water that’s now folding over his skin, lapping up his electrolytes.

“yes, dearest, but you can’t swim, can you?” he likes to respond with questions, but this one’s  an answer. Ben’s clutching you so tightly that you can’t see his face but you feel the contentment in his tone—it dashes into you like the rain currently encompassing the Earth, hesitant with the effort of exertion, with the weight of metal souls. “I’m just preemptively forbidding a disaster, darling.” there’s a tenderness bridging Ben’s raw power and mischievousness —  the network protrudes — extracorporeal ((does he know?))

He cherishes the rain, Ben tells you later, when existence reduces to you and him and incandescent petrichor and the pasticcio of kisses, heartbeats, palms on skin.

___

Ben is not carefree, but he is not serious. it is like he has learned that he can take up space ((empirical)). there is less constriction, tension, stenosis in his body ((the filigree is stretching his limbs)). movements are not languid but nor are they demonstrations of correctness. not slouching — just not strictly upright.

your hair gets tangled, like his sheets, like his legs in yours, and you tell him you want to cut it. An auburn eyebrow lifts archly, and he runs a finger down the length of your arm, tracing the veins ((your life)). “how will I teach you how to swim if you chop off your legs, darling?” Ben’s voice is charcoal. gray, yellow red orange burning, glowing at the edges. He draws up blueprints for cities in your open palm.

You make a quip about the ship of state and he snorts. When he shakes his head, his other hand — the one not serving as an architect on your body — shags through his hair, tanned skin meeting with copper effervescence in a ragged tryst. “i like its hows” he murmurs against your lips and you cannot protest, not when his caustic tongue ices, soothes, pacifies your conflagration.

The two of you are at the pool, again. He’s on his break. The air’s circulation is viscous, shoving over your skins. It straps you in — like the fanny pack around his waist. Ben’s donned his lifeguard pack for work, swapping out his array of gauche accessories for the traditional red and white accoutrement now fastened at his hips.

the most important things in his life, Ben thinks as he inhales the light spice of a Malboro, start with “l”. learning, lady, library, liberty, lake, logos, love. he doesn’t know from where last word originates; he must learn ((connaître ou savoir?)). in his experience, there’s no such thing as luck. He feels like a character in one of those war movies filmed right before he was born, smoking lucky strikes in a foxhole and just trying to stay alive, goddamnit, just trying to get through the war.

The two of you are always watching each each other. The obtuse phenomenology plays out like a courtly masquerade. veritas, quid est veritas, for here both object and deception are degrees of truth. He smirks around the cigarette and you blush but your eyes hold his and you catch his approval and stuff it inside your heart.

Ben takes your hand and places it on his thigh as you speak. the two of you are straddling a lacquered yellow beach chair, offensive in its self-confidence. he leans forward and touches his forehead to yours. he likes to take initiative — he is making use of his knowledge, he told you once, mumbled and sleepy, when you had whispered the question against his shoulder late one night.

Ben brings himself nearer to you. sweat — splashes — dangling exertions — smoke — sunscreen. it all plays about your lips and in your blood and in his hands that keep yours pressed against his flesh. someone yells at him to get his ass back to work and Ben rolls his eyes.

“duty calls.” his actions, the chair: they embolden you to dip your voice, your thoughts, mayhap you actions to a lower register.

He ducks his head to peer at your face, like that first time when you were falling over ((but nothing is like the first time)). as he passes the remainder of the cigarette to you, the words he speak sound like him, carry his weight, refracted starlight from coal. “we all have a duty. even you.” Ben doesn’t need to say his duties; they are his life, his schedule, the notebooks in haphazard stacks under the bed, his tin cups of pens. you wonder if you are part of his list ((if the cables have let you traverse the journey from his heart to his head)).

when you tell him that he is diamond but you a like one of those new gems they make in labs — what are they called — moissanite, he shakes his head. “you are not so scientific, darling.” fingers squeeze yours. “you are burning skies and delimitations and biting stars — the most natural things that exist.”

((you are not sure if you believe him, because nothing is like the first time)).

[shpards]

i  laugh  at  the  thought  of  charon  like  .  saying  titties  and  zag  is  just  *nods  sagely  bc  nobody  else  knows  wtf  charon  JUST  said  .  *

[zebrabaker]

The Goddess of Life, The King of Death: Chapter Two

Dinner was delightful. Marinette was able to have foods she had sorely missed in the six years she had been away from Olympus. Hades even had some cookies with bits of ambrosia from her family’s stall at the local market. He had walked her back to the gates of his realm. Soon, they reached the surface and she turned to him.

“I can’t thank you enough, your majesty. Not only for having me for dinner, but also for allowing me to stay in your realm at all. You would have been well within your rights to punish me for trespassing.” Felix could see Charon in the background, smirking at his boss. May as well give him something to smirk about.

“I would never turn away a lady, especially not one so fair as you.” He took her hand in his and gently kissed her knuckles. “If you would like, you can join me for dinner again. Say, a week from now?” He smiled at her, and watched as she blushed again.

“I would like that, your majesty.” She managed to squeak.

“Please, my lady, call me Felix.” The girl then gave him a smile that made his brain stall for a moment.

“So long as you call me Marinette. Until next week, Felix.” She bobbed a short curtsey, and made her way through the gates to the land above. Felix stood there for a moment before his friend made his way over.

“Well Felix, I never thought I’d see the day! You, romancing a lovely young goddess. If I did, I expected it to be some power play, but that girl left you, the ice-hearted king of the dead, speechless. I’m impressed.” His friend laughed, and Felix huffed.

“Really Claude, you needn’t be so rude. Lady Kore is a lovely young goddess.”

“Wait, Kore? You mean the goddess who has Olympus in knots?” Claude’s jaw was slack.

“Maybe. You know I don’t keep up with gossip from Olympus. I’m rather busy down here, you know. Speaking of, you have a line forming Charon. You best get back to work.” With that, Felix spun on his heel to head back to his palace and the paperwork that awaited him.

“Well boss, things are certainly about to get interesting…” Claude thought to himself as he readied the ferry.

XoxoX

And so, it went on. Every week Marinette would venture down below the earth and spend an evening with Felix. From there, it grew to visiting a few times a week for dinner, to him taking her on tours of the realm. She met all three of his friends, and grew a rapport with each. Her and Allegra gossiped about Olympus and had spa days. Her and Claude acted like siblings separated at birth. Her and Alain snarked and sassed each other, but would come together to prank Claude from time to time. It went this way form many years, until Marinette was soon spending more time in the Underworld than on earth. It had been twenty years since she had set foot on Olympus, and she was fine with that. She went up to the surface once in a while so that she could see her parents, as no-one but her Nona knew she was friends with the entire Underworld crew. Gina was rather chill about it. She had dropped in a few times, and jetted out a few days later. On one trip, Sabine had said something that nearly made Marinette choke on her nectar.

“That nasty little Lila girl is marrying Adrien next year. Somehow, she still has everyone convinced that she’s the goddess of life.” Marinette may not have choked, but she had spat crumbs all over the picnic blanket. After a heavy gulp of nectar, she had rasped out

“What? How?” Sabine had smiled at her daughter and handed her a napkin.

“She says that you’re the goddess of deceit and lies, and that you ran away for attention. What will happen to the cosmic balance is beyond me. The girl is obviously the real goddess of deceit, with how many deities are buying into her lies. I am happy that you’re okay dear. Your happiness has always been my number one priority. Your father really is sorry he couldn’t make it this time. He’s got an appointment with the happy couple today to decide on their cake. They’re having Audrey make the dress and everything. It’s being called ‘the event of the century’.” Both women laughed at that. “SO, how have you been dear? Tell me about your travels!” That was another thing. She and Allegra often dragged Felix away from his work to some odd place on earth, just to get him to take a break.

“The French have invented these delightful cookies, called macarons. I got Papa the recipe, they’re amazing. You’ll love them, I’m sure.” Mother and daughter chattered the day away, until the sun began to set. Marinette sighed and stood.

“Oh, how I wish you could come home without everyone saying such cruel things about you.” Sabine bemoaned. “Or at least stay out to see the moon. You and Luka got on so well when you were younger.” Marinette sighed and hugged her mother tight.

“I know, Mama, but if he sees me, he’ll tell everyone on Olympus where I am. I’m enjoying my life, and I can’t risk it.” Sabine squeezed her daughter tight.

“You can’t hold out forever, Marinette. Attendance at the wedding is mandatory, you know that. You have a year. I wish I could give you more.”

“But that’s a year away. For now, you need to head home. If you arrive back too late, there will be questions.” Both mother and daughter, no matter the risks, couldn’t help but stay in each other’s arms for a few minutes more. Marinette watched as her mother began to glow, before fading out of existence. She flipped up the hood of her cloak, and made her way into the woods. She was hurrying along to the gate way hidden in a pile of boulders when she heard a rustling noise behind her to the left. She hurried her pace. She may be goddess of life, but monsters could still hurt her, and some were hard to kill. She had almost made it to the rock pile when she saw someone trying to come at her from the side. In a panic, she changed her appearance. Her eyes became brown like Claude’s, her hair blonde like Allegra’s, and her facial structure warped to be similar to Alain’s. The figure stepped out of the trees, revealing a girl with dark hair and brown eyes. She wore a tunic and leggings, and carried a long thin sword. Marinette recognized her as Kagami, goddess of the hunt. This was bad. She had expected a mugger or a killer, not another deity!

“Maiden, what are you doing out so late at night all alone?” She seemed worried, like she feared for Marinette’s safety. Then, it clicked. Kagami had a group of girls that traveled with her on earth, maidens who had needed away from their lives for some reason or another.

“I am on my way to gather herbs for my mother. She is ill and needs them soon. I must hurry, ma’am.” Marinette poured her anxiety into her voice, trying to sound desperate.

“What herbs does she need, maiden?” Kagami placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to soothe her.

“Um, garlic, thyme, sage and mint, ma’am.” Kagami nodded, before reaching into her satchel. She dug around for a few seconds, before handing Marinette three jars.

“Take these and run home, maiden. May your mother be well soon.” Kagami turned on her heel, and made her way back into the woods. Marinette tucked the jars close to her chest, and hurried through the woods. She waited outside the boulders for a few minutes, making sure that there was no-one watching, before tapping the center boulder seven times. It rolled aside, and Marinette scuttled down the stairs, nearly running into Claude at the bottom.

“Woah! You good, ‘Nette?” He grasped her shoulders, and checked her over for any injuries.

“’m fine, Claude. Just almost got caught.” She let her features melt back to normal, and vanished the jars she still held. “Let’s head back. I’m so tired. I also have gossip for tomorrow.”

“Oooh! Is it juicy?” He crooned as he rowed across the river.

“It’s certain to cause a stir, that’s for sure.”

XoxoX

Felix glanced up from the report he was reading when Marinette entered his office. She paused long enough to remove her cloak before slumping into an armchair he kept by his desk for when she helped with paperwork. She let her head sag against the back of the chair and let out an almighty groan.

“That bad?” He asked.

“Worse. Adrien and Lila are getting married next year, and it’s mandatory. Unlike the yearly galas and bells, I can’t skip out.” She began massaging her temples.

“Really? Well, this gives us time to prepare at least. We can commission a dress, have some jewelry, made, and figure out what to tell anyone who asks where you’ve been. I don’t imagine you’ll want to tell them that you’ve spent almost the last eight years in the Underworld.” He grabbed a quill and a blank piece of parchment and began jotting down plans. “We could say you’ve just been traveling the mortal realm. Or that you’ve been with Lady Ondine, under the sea. She likes you well enough, she should be willing to play along.”

“Felix.”

“We’ll need to make it look like we don’t know each other.”

“Felix.”

“That would be rather hard to explain.”

“Felix!” She yelled, interrupting his tirade. “We could just tell the truth. You and I are friends and I spend a lot of time down here. They think I’m the goddess of lies and deceit. To them, it would make perfect sense for me to spend my time here.” Felix dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

“How did I not think of that?” She giggled a little. He may act cold and stone-hearted when around his subjects, but Felix was actually a bit of a drama queen.

“That’s what I’m here for. To fill in the gaps. For example, did you order those crates of ambrosia for the isles of the blessed yet?” Felix winced.

“Creation above and below, what would I do without you?” He dug through the piles of scrolls on his desk, and began to panic when he couldn’t find the order form. Marinette cleared her throat, and held out the appropriate parchment to him.

“It was on the floor beneath your chair.” He took the parchment from her and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Truly, I am the luckiest man in the world. Remind me again how I got you to agree to let me court you?” She blushed in the way that he loved. It dusted a petal pink across her peaches-and-cream skin, along her nose and cheeks and the tips of her ears.

“Allegra asked if we were courting and we both said yes.” He shook his head.

“Remind me later to send her a basket of those fruits she loves.” Marinette merely giggled, before nodding.

“I’m going to go tell Allegra and Alain, if they don’t already know. Love you.” She kissed his forehead and headed for the door. He waited till the door and shut before sighing. He pulled open a small drawer in his desk, an withdrew a small box, maybe a foot square. Nestled within on a bed of black velvet was a crown of platinum, embedded with rubies and garnets, all round cut, and layed in a stunning design. The earrings were in a seperate box.

“And I you. Let’s just hope you say yes. I guess this will have to wait. Creation knows father would be furious if I got married before Adrien.” He shut the box, ignoring the ring that sat in the center of the box, encompassed by the crown. After all, he had looked at it every night for the last two years.

@kuroko26 @crazycookie13o @princesskitomi

@miraculous-of-salt @luluthorn @phantasmagoricalzenith

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@our-cool-jenny

[lightdancer1]

Part II:

The first sign of something strange for Azula was when the shadows in the palace became very long and seemed to glow with a constellation of what were both stars and eyes.

She’d seen Zuko scarred and then allowed to flee with Uncle. Father had corrected her for not being dutifully glad to see and smell Zuzu being burned.

The shadows darkened further and Ozai paused in paperwork when a Fire Sage burst into his room.

“Sire” he gasped, “something is in the Palace.”

Ozai looked up.

“A spirit?”

The Sage nodded.

“We have never sensed anything like this before.”

Then the shadows flowed like a river into the throne room and took the shape of an armored human of skin darker than waterbenders, hair like snow, eyes like twin small stars.

This is a notice from the Animation Department of Child Protective services. A little dragon called and said you could not be trusted with a child in this place.

“How dare you?” Ozai’s voice boomed. “That weapon you speak of is mine to shape as I will.”

No, Ozai, your daughter is not.

Ozai began to call the lightning as the being that looked at him looked bored, almost. With a single loop he fired the blast straight at the entity that caught it in her right gauntlet. She gave him an ugly smile and then dispelled the lightning in an unword that made the candles around them flare.

Then the shadows grew again and the being seemed to swell in size and Ozai would awaken the next morning on his throne thinking it was a dream until news hit that his daughter was indeed missing.

————-

Azula saw the shadows take the shape of a golden armored being.

My name is Karlee. She said in a voice sounding with a thousand echoes. Your Uncle called the Child Protection Service Animation Department. It seems he cannot in good faith leave you here, alone, with the man who burned your brother’s face.

Azula blinked. “Huh?”

The being snapped her fingers and stepped over in Fire Nation robes.

I am here to take you to safety. In the future you will see your family again. The ones of it deemed safe enough. Believe it or not, people do care.

Azula blinked again. “I can leave?”

You can. You are being placed with a family in a place called Crystal Tokyo. They know how to help people like you. The lost and those who feel abandoned.

“You were sent to get me?” The being nodded.

“And father?”

Oh he didn’t like that plan at all. Her teeth were sharp swords. Tough shit for him. He can’t hurt you like he did Zuko. And if he should be so foolish as to assault Crystal Tokyo he will last five minutes, less than one to take him down, the other four for laughing.

Azula blinked and then took her bag for that contingency out. “Ok.”

And with that the darkness flowed around her and there was weightlessness.

—————-

The first thing she noticed was the smell. No smoke residue. The light was much brighter and cleaner. The second were the four Senshi, though she didn’t have the words for them yet. Odd hair and eye colors aside she saw people who looked like her. Eye shape and skin color save with the tallest a near perfect match.

They were bright and she could feel Power humming from them. Not the shadows of Ozai’s or the strangeness that flowed like water, but a humming harmony.

They looked at her and in a surprise to her, the tallest spoke her language with a strange accent but still.

“I am Meiou Setsuna. The blonde is Tenoh Haruka, the aqua is Kaiou Michiru. The purple is Tomoe Hotaru. We would like to offer you a new home if you should like it.”

“Nobody will hurt me there?” She hated how small her voice sounded.

The crimson eyed woman nodded.

“Ok.”

The one with the glaive gave her a smirk when the one with the staff began to call upon a Power that left her awed.

Charon Chariot Teleport!

Weightlessness again and then she found herself in a new world entirely.

—————

Infirmary, the Wani:

Iroh was the only one unsurprised at the flowing darkness that formed a person.

Your motives were the wrong ones but the deed itself was noble. When you can see her as a child and your niece and not a threat or rival she shall return. And be cautious with this one. The Service has its eye on you, General Prince Iroh. You are weighed on the balance scales. Do not be found wanting.

Fic prompt: "Thank you for calling Child Protective Services, Animation Division. Please listen carefully because our menu items have changed."

Optional: "In what way is a child being endangered? Press 1 for monsters. Press 2 for war. Press 3 for organized crime. Press 4 for magic. Press 5 for neglect or abandonment by a parent or guardian. Press 6 for physical, mental, or other forms of abuse. Press 7 for all of the above. Press 0 to speak with an operator."

Optional: "Is there a capable adult present who could resolve this problem? Press 1 for yes, and 2 for no."