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missmaywemeetagain · 4 months ago

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Broken Glass Chapter 11.1 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Thank you so much for your patience as I got this up on different platforms due to unforeseen life crap! 💗 Okay, so Chapter 11 got a bit away from me length wise, so for sanity's sake (and so I can make some more revisions to some much-anticipated sexy times 🤭), I am posting part one of the chapter instead of making y'all wait any longer.

Some major, life-altering things went down in Chapter 10 and this chapter from Lori's perspective deals with a bit of the reality and consequences of that. (You can refresh your memory here if you need to!) We jump back in the next morning. She's got A LOT of feels going on in this chapter leading into some more twists and turns in 11.2, so the ending of this might feel a bit abrupt since it will all be part of the same chapter. Sorry!

Also, please excuse my alterations of some of the recording dates a bit to serve the story!

Anyway, as always. I can't wait to hear what you think! 💋

Loves and kisses, Madi xoxoxoxo 💗

TW: So many angsty feels, the Colonel, pregnancy and related symptoms, fear of miscarriage, Elvis and his endless PDA...smut to come in part 2 🤭

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1

“You’re what?!”

You wince at the way Tom Parker spits the words out, his shock and ire so palpable it feels like a slap to the face. The anxiousness skyrocketing through you, paired with the rapid beat of your heart knocking against your ribs, leaves you unable to look at the man, but you know he’s furious.

“We’re getting married. As soon as possible,” Elvis repeats firmly, grabbing your hand and squeezing. It seems unconscious the way he steps slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from the older man’s anger. You appreciate the gesture. No one, save for your mother, has ever protected you.

Elvis sounds so steadfast and sure about all of it. He’s a better actor than people give him credit for, but this performance is going above and beyond anything you’d assumed he was capable of.

Or maybe he means it.

Your heart flips, just the way it did last night when he asked you to marry him.

The last 24 hours have gone and changed everything so quickly that your head is still spinning. The moment when Elvis kneeled on the bathroom floor with you, wiped away your sick, and offered to fix everything, it felt so very real. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his eyes.

And despite it being an arrangement born out of necessity and not love, it was nothing like Gianni’s horrific proposal.

Your stomach turns at the memory of that nightmare before Parker’s voice cuts through, bringing you back to the task at hand.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you, boy?” The beady-eyed man glares around Elvis’ broad shoulders at you. You resist the urge to shiver under his accusatory gaze. “Did you threaten to go to the press, young lady? Is this about money?”

“Hey, now, Colonel,” Elvis says, deceptively calm, but his voice is low with warning. “It’s not like that at all. And you best mind your tone.”

Parker’s eyes flicker to Elvis with an edge of surprise, taking in Elvis’ protective stance and words in silence. You get the impression Elvis hasn’t stood up to the man before, not like this, anyhow. The crackle of tension in the air has you all on edge.

The older man’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and you worry you won’t be able to pull this off. You’ve observed enough in the last month to understand the influence he has over Elvis, the slight manipulations he wields, pushing Elvis right where he wants him.

Parker looks at you with scrutiny. He takes you in from head to toe. Your breath catches in your throat and you want nothing more than to disappear and pretend the last day was a dream. But you cannot. Forcing yourself to hold his stare, you remind yourself of everything at stake here.

There is no doubt in your mind he will throw you to the wolves the moment he senses anything amiss, the moment you threaten the image of his star client. So it has to be crystal clear you are here to stay, even though it makes you sick to lie.

But there are much worse things than white lies waiting for you out in the world. And as heartbroken and shocked as you are about this baby, you already know you’ll do anything to protect it.

You aren’t even conscious of the way your hand splays over your stomach, not until Parker’s eyes freeze there. His eyes snap up to yours and then to Elvis.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Parker groans. “Christ, I picked this one specifically because I thought she was smart enough not to fall into bed with you the minute you two were alone. Turns out she’s smarter than I gave her credit for—she managed to ensnare you and ensure she’d always be tied to Elvis Presley,” he spits.

Your cheeks flame hot with the accusation, and you can’t hold back your gasp at his insinuation, even though it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Elvis squeezes your hand tight and points at Parker, his eyes stormy and livid. “Don’t you dare blame her for this! On the train, you made it clear how she needed to improve her ‘attitude’ towards me and I told ya not to worry. Well, I took care of it,” he shrugs flippantly.

You try not to gape at his blasé attitude, wanting to trust Elvis to do what he needs to make this convincing.

“You damn well know I didn’t mean ‘get her pregnant’!” Parker hisses. “And we had this talk when you were just starting out! I know you know better than to—”

“I’m in love with her,” Elvis interrupts with such conviction your stomach swoops and you need to school your face to look like you aren’t amazed by how truthful his statement sounds. The earnestness on his handsome face takes your breath away.

Tom looks sorry for him. “Oh, son, we both know how easily you fall in love. But I don’t think you understand the gravity or responsibility of starting a family. What it’ll do to your image. Girls want you unattached and available, and they’re the ones buying the records."

From anyone else, it might be imbued with caring and concern, but coming from Parker, it is backhanded and insulting with the way he talks down to Elvis, as though he were still a 19-year-old kid instead of a 25-year-old man. But he does it with the finesse of a snake charmer.

You watch Elvis carefully as he recoils a bit, an innocence flashing over his features you’ve only seen in his most vulnerable moments making a quick appearance. For a second, you are terrified he’ll cave and you’ll have to pack your bags and head West after all. Thankfully, he blinks it away, steeling himself with the stubbornness which usually drives you crazy but just might work in your favor today.

“We’re in love. We’re gettin’ married, and that’s all there is to it.” It comes out as a growl and the sound reaches down to your toes.

Parker shakes his head, grasping at anything to control his client. There’s a carefully veiled desperation in his voice which barely conceals the threat he now lobs at Elvis: “This’ll ruin you, boy! What will your father do when the money is gone, hmm? Your cousins? Your friends? That big house you bought your mother? It’ll all be gone.”

Elvis looks as though he’s been slapped. But not you. Life has made you good at reading people, at seeing through men like this. Perhaps it is the fact you are running on adrenaline or because you have so much to lose, but you find yourself furious at Parker for speaking this way to Elvis.

“And after everything I’ve done to ensure your success, you’d throw it all away for—”

“How?” You barely register you’ve spoken until Parker’s glare lands on you.

Elvis looks down at you with surprise. It wasn’t part of the plan for you to interject; Elvis thought he could handle Parker on his own.

“How exactly will getting married and having a family ‘ruin’ him? Last I checked, you weren’t a young woman. How do you know it won’t help him? His audience is growing up and getting married, so why can’t he?” you say, a fierceness you usually rely on at work slicing through your nervousness.

“Young lady, you best shut your mouth before you get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in,” Parker seethes.

“You don’t talk to her that way!” Elvis yells, stepping in front of her, pointing in the older man’s face.

Parker looks taken aback, and you wonder if Elvis has ever stood up for himself the way he’s standing up for you now.

Your heart beats in double time, but you gently put your hand on Elvis’ arm to bring it down. His eyes are blazing but they catch yours and you breathe in slowly, hoping he follows your lead. Once he doesn’t look like he’s going to launch himself at Parker, you speak.

“I was going to be around for the foreseeable future anyhow, isn’t that right? Perhaps much longer based on what the doctor said,” you say, miraculously keeping the tremble out of your voice. “It is easier—and more proper—to explain a wife being by his side than a long-term girlfriend living in his house, yes?”

Parker scoffs but doesn’t speak.

“And there’s nothing more young ladies like me want more than weddings and babies, even more so when the groom is the most handsome and charismatic man on the planet, one they want the best for. They will look at pictures of us and imagine themselves as me, I’d bet. And the men will be much less threatened by the family man who served his country and might come around, too,” you continue with fervor, surprised at how easy it is to be assertive when it’s Elvis you are fighting for.

“It doesn’t matter if he is married or has a thousand babies, Mr. Parker. As long as Elvis is alive and keeps doing what he was born to do, they will flock to him because he is an incredibly talented, gorgeous, and kind man. My being by his side won’t change that one little bit. In fact, a wedding will be free publicity for his comeback album, I’d imagine.”

A breath wooshes out of you now your speech is finished. Your fists squeeze to hide the tremor in your hands. Silence hangs heavy and you shift uncomfortably on your feet, but you force yourself to hold Parker’s eyes.

At first, he looks at you with something akin to shock, which quickly morphs into a smirk as he throws a cigar in his mouth, considering your words, perhaps. He holds the silence and your gaze much longer than he should, and you know it’s a show of dominance. You’ve seen a similar look on the men in la famiglia when they seek to intimidate.

It equally makes you want to stand your ground and shirk back into the woodwork. You don’t want him to win, but you also know you must play a role here, and a man like him will want any good idea to seem like his own. You lower your eyes in faux deference.

“Well, Elvis, we may be able to salvage this yet,” Parker purrs, gumming the end of the cigar.

Elvis’ eyes haven’t left you since your speech—you know because you feel them boring into you—but it’s not until you look back up at those depthless blues that you see the unabashed way he’s staring.

He looks at you like he’s smitten. Like you are everything he could ever need. And he’s blushing as if bashful about what you said. His movie star gaze pins you to the spot, with his bedroom eyes at half-mast and his full lips falling open like he’s going to say something.

You would love to be able to say it didn’t make your heart flip over and your knees a little weak to be looked at like this by him; in fact, you are going to chalk it up to your hormones because this is all part of the act, you are sure.

It’s almost painful, the way you tear your eyes away from him to look at your shoes. Suddenly you are winded and exhausted.

He’s just a patient. Maybe even a friend after everything you’ve been through together this past month. A better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

Madone, I will not swoon over a man just because he’s good at pretending he loves me.

Elvis may have acted like a spoiled, sullen child the days prior to arriving back at Graceland, but you’d never in your life seen had a man so entirely consumed with your wellbeing once he knew something was wrong with you. No man had ever treated you with such care.

A swell of emotion sits like a lump in your throat when you think about his proposal. What he’s giving up to save you. To save your baby.

And he’s been so earnest it makes it hard to compartmentalize the fact this arrangement is a quid pro quo and not some romantic folly. Your mind knows this, but your heart is having trouble keeping up. It doesn’t help when he is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like you are precious and beautiful. Like you matter.

You clear your throat and look away, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. Then, a wave of overwhelm threatens to consume you. Everything in your world has been upended in the last 24 hours, and on top of that, you still have a job to do, yet your body is fighting you every step of the way.

Pregnant.

Your stomach lurches, but you swallow the toast you’d managed to eat earlier back down. Now is not a moment to appear weak by losing your breakfast all over the floor.

Parker is sizing up the both of you, chewing on the end of his cigar like a cow chewing on cud. It makes you want to squirm, yet you force yourself to remain still.

Elvis grips your hand reassuringly, sensing your discomfort. “It’s early, so that means we should do this as soon as possible, yeah?” He says it as if asking, as if the two of you hadn’t already decided it. You can’t quite tell if he’s asking for approval or if he’s smart enough to know it will go over better if the old man thinks it’s his decision. Either way, it seems to work.

“Mmm, yes. Though some are already going to assume the reason based on your impatience,” Parker counters, pointing at your belly.

“Let ‘em think what they want. But I want it public. I want everyone to know who I’m spendin’ the rest of my life with,” Elvis says definitively.

Parker looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Are you sure, my boy? It’s quite the gamble.”

“Didn’t get where we are by always playin’ safe, did we, Colonel?” Elvis counters.

“Hmm, I suppose not,” he replies after another long moment of scrutiny, “and I know you like to charge ahead without looking, but if we give them too much at once, they might be too ravenous. And we must control the narrative.”

Parker looks at your hand. “Get her a pretty ring, then go out and about and be seen. Tell your boys, your family, but no one else. Let them start talking.” His mind starts whirring, you can tell by the gleam in his eye. “We’ll sell an exclusive to the highest bidder, with terms to run the story along with the release of the album. We’ll push the release up, but that means you need to get up to Nashville in the next few days and finish cutting the record. With singles, RCA is going to need…” He pauses to do the math. “At least 11 or 12 more songs to have enough. You think you can do that, son? With everything going on?” The challenge is clear, but you are surprised to hear concern in his voice, too. Elvis is an ill man, after all, despite how gallant he is.

Elvis nods. “Yessir, I’ll get it done.” There isn’t a lick of doubt in his words.

You, however, are worried it’ll be too much for him. It’s a lot of pressure for anyone on a good day, but for Elvis, this could be dangerous. He’s already been pushing himself to the limit with his childish behavior in Florida. You want to say as much, but Elvis must know what you are thinking because he shoots you a stern look before you can get the words out of your mouth.

“Well, then, when you get back, we’ll have a small ceremony at Graceland. A church wedding is out of the question. Safety, timing, you understand,” Parker adds, shooting you a look like he’s sorry when you both know he is anything but.

You swallow and nod, but a snake of disappointment runs through you, nevertheless. You’d been raised to expect a Catholic ceremony but realize it wouldn’t be possible anyway. Elvis isn’t Catholic. In fact, you aren’t sure what religion Elvis is. The fact you don’t know sinks in your gut.

There is so much you don’t know about the man you’re about to marry.

But he’s not Gianni, you think. And he’s willing and able to give my baby the life it deserves.

And that is enough. It has got to be. Arranged marriages still happen every day—this is no different. A love match was never in the cards for you anyway. Not with your father and Gianni in the picture.

He may drive you crazy at times, but at least with Elvis, you and the baby will be safe and cared for.

You’ll just have to quell any expectations he will see you as more than his nurse. Or more than one of the many girls just passing through.

I shouldn’t have kissed him last night.

You blush at the memory. It was a moment of weakness, but you’d been so overcome with gratitude, shock and relief, you’d let your emotions get the best of you. It was too revealing, too vulnerable, considering your roller coaster of emotions recently regarding him.

It hadn’t helped he’d kissed you back with such commitment. Like he truly wanted you.

It scared you. But you’d backed away instantly after accepting his proposal, convincing yourself the look in his eyes was nothing more than friendly and then busied yourself with putting your clothes back into his—your—closet. Then you’d used your very real exhaustion as an excuse to go right to bed after that, ignoring the gnawing feeling of want in your heart.

Elvis would never love a woman like you. A woman who’s been chewed up and spit out by horrible men, a far cry from the actress and model beauties he is used to. He is a good man, helping a woman in need out of the kindness of his heart, out of a need of his own self-preservation, but you best keep reminding yourself that pity and helpfulness is not love.

Lest you get too caught up in the fairytale you are spinning for the world, you remind yourself that once things settle down, arrangements will need to be made for him to get his other needs met.

It wouldn’t be the first or last time a powerful, famous man had dalliances, after all. They would just need to be discreet.

The thought makes your heart ache and tears prick at the back of your eyes, though you instantly try to push away the uncomfortable feeling. You don’t have time or energy to waste on such nonsense.

It takes a moment to realize the men have stopped talking and are looking at you as though waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry, what?” you say, shaking off your thoughts.

“I asked if you had any family or girlfriends that could assist you in preparations? You’ll need to get a dress and have any family travel in to be here after you get back from Nashville,” Parker says with a raised brow.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, no. There’s no one,” you say, trying not to sound as full of regret as you feel. The few friends from nursing school you had weren’t close enough to stand with you, and while you’d love to have your brothers come, there is no way to do so without alerting your father. And you feel absolutely sick at the idea of him being anywhere near you or Elvis.

Elvis looks at you with surprise. You hadn’t told him directly about the issues with Pop, but you assume he at least expected you to have friends. It’s pathetic, to be sure, but this was the reason you’d agreed to work for him in the first place. You are alone in the world.

Swallowing thickly, you hold your head high, even so.

Elvis, thankfully, takes your cue. “I’m sure Patsy would love to help,” he says with a gentle smile, pulling you into his side, his hand resting high on your waist. His double first cousin had been kind to you in the interactions you’ve had, so you suppose she will do.

You nod in response, hyperaware of the warmth of his hand radiating through your dress. It steadies you, tingling the skin beneath, and his closeness is a welcome anchor in this uncharted territory.

“Well, then, by this time next week, you’ll be newlyweds. I trust you’ll be able to continue to take care of Elvis despite your condition, Miss Cannava?” Parker asks under a veil of concern, but the accusation is palpable.

“I have no intention of shirking my duties, Mr. Parker. I want Elvis to be as healthy as possible.”

“Please, call me Colonel,” he says, an edge in his tone that lets you know your refusal to call him Colonel annoys him. But as much as you want to rub it in, you know you need him on your side.

“Of course, Colonel,” you respond, forcing a smile on your face. “And know I’ll continue to do whatever it takes to help Elvis keep doing what he wants to do.”

“I hope that’s true, young lady,” Parker says, “for everyone’s sake.”

You swallow down the threat, adding to your already churning stomach.

April 3rd, 1960

Nashville, TN

“Ready, Elvis?” the engineer up in the booth buzzes in over the com.

“Yeah,” he replies, shooting you a cheeky smile and a waggle of his eyebrows as he steps up to the mic.

You roll your eyes back at him, trying not to show just how much you are appreciating his presence. The secrets you two now share have matured him. You can’t help but worry about the dark circles rimming his eyes, though it is a bit unfair how it somehow only enhances his handsomeness.

Even so, he has been remarkably steadied and attentive these past few days, considering everything going on.

It is a godsend for you. Your nerves are fraying at the edges and more than ever, you want a cigarette, but you know Elvis won’t have it. Considering what he’s doing for you and this baby, you are happy to oblige him on this, despite your cravings.

With everything you’ve gone through in your life, you pride yourself on moving through adversity—for surviving as best you can—without falling apart. But since you returned from Florida, all bets have been off.

Along with putting on the performance of a lifetime in hiding your pregnancy, you’ve also needed to play the gleeful fiancée—a role that hardly feels natural for you, even if your relationship wasn’t a farce. A thousand other girls would be beside themselves to take your place, but for you it’s different. It’s like the ground is constantly moving underneath your feet and you are holding on for dear life, trying to stay upright.

It doesn’t help that your feelings for Elvis are rapidly slipping out of your control. While his poor behavior in Florida tempered them by the time you arrived back in Tennessee, his gallant actions since then, coupled with your exhaustion, have blurred the lines completely. Every touch, every knowing glance, every concerned look sends a cascade of tingles through your body.

You want to blame the pregnancy, you really do, but you aren’t sure you can at this point. Each sliver of attention and affection from him is peeling away the armor you’ve got around your heart, and you don’t have the mental or physical energy to keep rebuilding it.

It’s a recipe for getting your heart broken.

Your fingers twist nervously, still unused to the engagement ring now on your left hand. After telling him about Gianni’s gaudy monstrosity, you’d begged Elvis to keep it simple; he’d reminded you he has a standard to uphold. The compromise was a stunning ring with three large, round stones—a diamond in the middle, with blue sapphires on either side, surrounded by smaller baguette and single cut diamonds in a white gold setting.

You wanted to hate it, solely for its extravagance, but when he had shown you the piece ahead of the “surprise” proposal you both had planned for after dinner last night, you couldn’t drudge up an ounce of dislike. He’d looked so concerned about pleasing you, telling you over and over he could take it back if you didn’t like it, but frankly, it was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry you’d ever laid eyes on. It was elegant and sparkling, and the uniqueness of the sapphires set it apart. It didn’t take much acting to “ooh” and “ahh” when he’d gently placed it on your finger in front of his friends and family, cementing the reality of this strange situation. A flock of butterflies had erupted in your stomach as though he really had proposed, like the proud but blushing smile on his face was really because of his love for you and not an act.

Your ring catches your eye for the millionth time today and the sapphires suddenly remind you of Elvis’ eyes. How deep and endless they seem. There is no stopping the flipping of your heart.

Oh, Madone, it’s just a ring, you chide yourself. But it doesn’t stop you from twisting it around your finger again and again like a touchstone.

After a bit of back and forth, a heavy bass line and rhythmic snapping starts, jerking your attention to Elvis. The stripped-down jazzy sound is immediately recognizable—a Peggy Lee hit from a few years ago. Your brow quirks in surprise.

The slow grin spreading across Elvis’ face is sinful as he sinks into the music.

He wanted you in the studio from the start this time around, citing you as his “good luck charm.” Part of you balked at that. The other part was flattered. After the last two times you’d watched him come alive while performing, something deep inside you awakens right alongside the beat, scaring you in its intensity.

Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care…

He starts singing. It’s quiet and deceptively relaxed, but you know him well enough now to understand he’s a live wire under it all. And that makes it even more enticing when he locks his eyes on yours, singing the words directly to you.

You give me fever…

His voice skitters across your skin, lighting fires as it goes. After the beat drops, his limbs shiver with the drums and the movement feels directly connected to the shiver running down your spine.

And he’s just warming up.

Every line, coupled with the sultry timbre of his voice, drowns you further into the depths of his eyes. They don’t let you go for the entirety of the first take. Your face is flaming, your hands gripping the edge of your seat because it feels like he’s about to eat you alive.

Madre di Dio…you’d let him. Willingly.

He wakes out of the spell he’s seemingly cast partway through the second take. You watch him whistle and blink a few times, coming back to himself. He’s slightly more unsure through the third, but regains his original focus by the fourth, sliding into the take like he’s been singing the song his whole life.

You can’t help but feel this is an intimate moment you shouldn’t be privy to, when he homes in on you once again. You are barely breathing the entire last take, a throbbing pulse consuming your heart along with your belly, something liquid and warm heating the core of you.

When he grits out: When her daddy tried to kill him, she said ‘Daddy, oh don’t you dare’, you hold back a gasp, wanting desperately to squirm in your seat to relieve some of the pressure in your body you don’t have any idea what to do with.

Perhaps it is because the line hits so close to your own experience, but it is as if he’s channeling you. Or channeling into you. You aren’t sure anymore, other that you are combusting from the inside out by the end of the song.

What a lovely way to burn… he repeats again and again, and trails off, finally.

Indeed.

He comes out of his near-trancelike state, bringing you with him and you are suddenly not at all sure you’ll make it through the next few days of recording.

How did you forget what happened last time you were in this room with him? With everything that had happened since, you suppose it’s not that outlandish, but those feelings of want, of need, seep back into your bloodstream just like the last time he sang to you in Miami, and here in this very room just a few weeks ago.

Seems like a lifetime ago…

Forcing yourself to breathe, you think maybe you’ll have a reprieve with the next song, but the bluesy Like a Baby is so sultry it does absolutely nothing to quell the fire in your veins. It doesn’t help he looks positively proud of himself every time he drinks you in, gauging your reaction, with every word he sings to you.

The seductive quality of it all is so overwhelming you need to excuse yourself to the restroom the moment the final take is cut. You clutch your trembling hands, splashing cool water across your rosy cheeks.

Get it together, Lori. He’s just doing his job.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you feel an unusual slickness between your thighs that sends your heartrate skyrocketing.

Oh, God—the baby.

Frantically, you hoist your skirt, pull down your stockings, and examine your underwear for any sign of blood. Panic slices through you until you discover you aren’t bleeding or miscarrying—it’s only a clear, slick discharge you’ve not had before. Something hormonal, no doubt, due to the changes in your body.

Then you realize you are relieved.

Your heart stutters.

You’re not sure you should be relieved. If this pregnancy ended naturally, it would save all of you a heap of trouble. It would mean you might be able to put the memory of Gianni’s cruelty behind you. It would mean Elvis wouldn’t have to settle for you. You could break off the engagement easily enough at this point.

But the thought of losing the baby, of losing Elvis, makes your heart ache so much tears spring to your eyes.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

You can’t want to actually marry Elvis. You barely know him. God knows you don’t feel ready to start a family, especially out of such horrid circumstances.

Then why does the idea of losing it all break your heart?

Sniffling, you look in the mirror and hold back the tears starting to well in your eyes.

It’s just hormones. Your body is just protecting itself and the baby, nothing more, you say in your calm and collected nurse voice. Nothing more.

Because anything more means perhaps your feelings for Elvis have truly gone beyond what you can handle right now.

Scrunching your eyes shut, you pray to understand the purpose of any of this. Why Elvis feels more like home than anywhere else, despite his sometimes infuriating nature. Why he has to be so alluring and charismatic.

Why the thought of being without him is untenable at this point, and not just because of Gianni or the baby.

It’s just a crush—a silly little crush.

No.

He’s all I have, you realize.

Of course, you feel connected to him. Right now, he is consuming your life and drawing out a safe future for the both of you. He is the only one truly in your corner. You may not know him completely, but he has not deserted you or thrown you back to your father. He is deep in this with you.

He could’ve easily fired and discarded you and been right to do so.

But for some reason, he did not.

A shuttering breath makes your chest heave. You can’t bring yourself to examine why that might be and you push away the thing you are most loathe to admit. The thing that makes pretending with him so very difficult, yet so sweet at the same time.

Shaking your head, you wipe your eyes, and straighten your spine. You powder your nose and reapply your lipstick. You put yourself back together, locking up the feelings you are trying so hard to fight.

Looking in the mirror, you see a young woman ready to do what she needs to do to survive.

Ignoring the headache brewing behind your eyes, you paste on a cordial smile and venture back to the studio. The light is on because they are recording, so you sit outside until it flashes off. You stand, brush off your skirt, and reach for the doorknob but it whips open before you can grasp it.

Gasping, your heart leaps in surprise as Elvis fills the doorway, looking a tad frantic.

“Little Bird, are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowed. He grasps your shoulders gently, taking you in as though you might be hurt. He thumbs your chin and looks into your eyes. “You disappeared on me.”

You bite your lip, concealing the smile wanting to appear at the fact he noticed you were gone.

“I was feeling a bit queasy,” you murmur. It’s not a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

The pad of his thumb brushes over your cheek. Your heart thumps and you look down to avoid the intensity of his gaze, lest he see more than you want him to.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel then, darlin’.”

“I’m fine,” you brush him off, “And I won’t leave you. You look tired. How are you feeling?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re tryin’ to change the subject, little one,” he muses. His hands find your waist, burning through your dress. “I am tired. Let’s call it quits for the night.”

Your mouth pops open and your eyes narrow with suspicion. “Has hell frozen over? Elvis, you’ve hardly cut three songs, and the Colonel said—”

“I heard the Colonel, but I’m tellin’ ya it’s time to go.” There’s an edge to his voice, warning you his mood is shifting. “And I’m doin’ what I promised by knowin’ my limits.”

“Okay, I’m just surprised is all. I’m used to you fighting me like a stubborn goat,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. You can’t discern if he’s doing this for your sake or his, however. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it gets the job done.

His cheeks are flushed, so you feel his forehead with the back of your hand. “I suppose you do feel a bit warm,” you concede. “Alright, let’s go get some rest, then.”

He nips at your hand playfully as you bring it down, pulling you closer. The flirtation has you blushing and you resist the urge to giggle, rolling your eyes instead. You can’t help but notice there is no one to perform for but remind yourself he’s just an overly affectionate guy. It means nothing.

“Hey, EP, you comin’?” Charlie yells from inside the room.

“Naw, we’re heading out. I’m tired,” Elvis says, giving you a wink.

Charlie sputters but recovers quickly, gathering the group as Elvis entwines his fingers with yours and heads out to the car.

He doesn’t let you go until you arrive back at the hotel, safe in the room you share.

Something is building between you two. You can feel it in the care of his touch, in the warmth filling your chest and your belly with each beat of your heart. It’s in his eyes as he sits on the edge of the bed, releasing the mask he wears for the rest of the world as you check his vitals.

He is tired and a little feverish. You are proud of him for following through on taking better care of himself, even if you think it is because he is looking out for you and not himself. You give him a quick little smile before turning to put away the blood pressure cuff.

“I wish you’d do that more.”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Smile. I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are when you do it,” he says, low and quiet.

It rumbles through you like thunder, your heart skipping a beat. You pay special attention to clasping your bag closed, unable to look at him but feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Elvis—” you whisper.

“I want you to be happy,” he interrupts.

You sigh with the weight of your circumstances pressing on your shoulders, still unable to meet his eyes.

“But I understand why that’s hard right now. I jus’…I-I w-want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier on ya. Because you deserve to have more of those pretty smiles.”

The clasp of your bag becomes blurry and your throat tight. You clench the leather and force a deep breath. Tilting your head up to blink back the tears, you clear your throat before you can attempt to look at him.

Why does he have to say things like that? It makes it harder to resist the pull you feel towards him. You are teetering on the very edge of being professional and he seems keen to push you over, whether he knows it or not.

“Thank you,” you finally manage out, though so many words linger unsaid on the tip of your tongue. You meet his eyes and fireworks erupt over your skin at the way he looks up at you so openly. The air is sucked out of the room, deathly still, like before a summer thunderstorm. It leaves you buzzing and dizzy.

He stands, slowly, as if not to startle you, and steps forward. With each inch closer he gets, the air shifts, beginning to crackle with electricity. Your heart gallops faster. If he touches you, you are done for, you just know it. The lightning burning bright inside of him has the power to wreak irrevocable havoc on you. And you cannot afford to let your feelings get in the way of your survival because when he breaks your heart, which you know he will, you will have nowhere to go.

You have the baby to think of now. It is easier to sit in the discomfort of your complicated feelings than in the pain of the inevitable heartbreak that will come when he realizes you’re just like any of his other women—you’re replaceable, at least romantically. And God knows you’ve had too much pain in your life related to the whims of men to add more.

The air sizzles as he reaches for you, tempting you to burn with his touch. Part of you wants to burn—the deep heat swirling unbidden low in your belly dares you to let him—but you jump back out of instinct.

“I-I should get ready for bed,” you stutter, racing to your suitcase to grab your nightgown before hightailing it to the bathroom and slamming the door harder than you intended. You think you hear him chuckle as you lean back on the door to catch your breath.

Your body shakes but not out of fear of him. No, it’s like you’ve refused it something vital and it quakes with the need of release. Like the crack of lightning in him would bring the relief of rain, cutting the heat between you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never felt this before, but you know it is dangerous. Lightning is beautiful but deadly, after all.

As you stumble your way through your bedtime routine, you realize in a few short days, the storm of a man out there will be your husband. And one more boundary between you you’ve relied on to keep you on solid ground will be gone.

And one look in the mirror at the exhaustion lining your features, you wonder if it is too late; perhaps the coming storm is inevitable and will tear you to pieces no matter what you do.

There are worse ways to perish than in the arms of Elvis Presley.

The swell of electricity doesn’t go away. It abates some, at times, but your body is hellbent and hyperaware of Elvis’ every move, of every breath he takes.

You desperately want to blame your job—you’re supposed to be observant of him, after all—or the changes in your body because of the baby, but the waves of rolling thunder build under your skin despite the physical space he is trying to give you.

The marathon of a session on Monday does not make things better. You’d hoped it would be a distraction. He needs to be completely focused to bang out at least nine more songs to finish the album. There will be no time for anything but music.

Except you somehow forget music fuels him and makes him glow from the inside out. Instead of dissipating, the storm just builds and builds, like wild thunderheads in the sky. He lives each song so completely, expertly maneuvering through mournful ballads and bouncing pop and raunchy blues like he was born to do. It’s mind-bending and alluring, and every time he draws you in, it feels like he’s singing directly to you, about you.

He's enjoying himself, despite the long hours. Completely in his element. And electricity zings though your body during the playful moans at the end of Such a Night. By the Thrill of Your Love, you think you might combust.

And he knows it, by the sparkle in his eyes and the pull of his defiant but tempting upper lip. He wasn’t offended by the boundary you set last night in the slightest, giving you the physical space you desperately needed unless needed to keep up the ruse of your engagement. But everything he does, every lyric he sings, every twitch of his body, makes you feel as though you are swirling out of control. The more he respects your need for physical space, the more you want him to box you in.

He's doing just that, just not with his body.

You are completely on edge when not absorbed in his performance and technique. God, what an idiot you were to think he wasn’t talented. His stint in Germany only served to strengthen his craft. The world isn’t ready for this new and improved Elvis. Girls will be beside themselves.

You just never thought you’d be one of them.

By the time he gets to the last song, he can’t stave off how tired he’s getting. The marathon session has taken all night and into the dawn. He lets everyone know he’s not entirely convinced he should even sing this Are You Lonesome Tonight? but the Colonel, along with Steve, the RCA rep, press him.

Worry for Elvis’ wellbeing has you voicing your concern, but the men look at you as if you are a silly little girl and not a professional. It takes a moment to remember the only one who really knows your role here is Parker, and despite nearly being asleep on your feet, you are ready to go toe to toe with him. Elvis concedes to his manager, however, before shooting you a look and running his hands down your arms to placate you. The long touch of him distracts you enough to lessen your annoyance for the moment.

This last song is the only time he kicks you out of the room, along with everyone except the musicians, but you manage to sneak into the booth to listen. You can’t see anything through the window because he’s ordered all the lights be turned off, but the result has goosebumps rising all over your body with the emotionally eerie but gentle lilt of his performance.

By the end, tears are streaming unbidden down your cheeks, though you aren’t entirely sure why. You race to wipe your cheeks before the lights pop back on, but he catches your eye through the window and swell of emotion rises again.

You know you are careening quickly towards something beyond your control. The pregnancy is one thing pushing you towards the edge, but this new arrangement with Elvis, the intimacy involved, has your heart racing with both curiosity and fear. It is all so far out of your experience but there is no real choice. It is whatever this new normal is or running for your life.

Being off kilter and filled with feelings you don’t understand is uncomfortable, but you’ll take it versus the alternative, though you can’t help the fear you’ve put Elvis in terrible danger crawling at the edges of your mind.

It’s this that keeps you alert as you all board the bus to head back to Memphis after a quick diner breakfast. Elvis is dying on the vine, the energy of performing all night taking its toll. The darkness around his eyes and the pallor of his skin tells you everything you need to know, but his limbs twitch restlessly all the way home, even when he doses, curled up into you with his head on your shoulder. It’s as if he can’t shut it off even when he is completely drained.

It’s too much for him. Your anxiety builds and builds in the hours it takes to return to Graceland. You are worrying your lips raw between your concern for him and the position you’ve put him in. Guilt swirls in your stomach, making your carsickness worse.

On top of it, your body is desperate to be close to him, as though his presence is a balm to your burdens, but those feelings just bring more confusion. You relish the tickle of his long, soft hair against your jaw and the way his fingers interweave with yours, even in sleep. Despite how ready you were to leave mere days ago, you aren’t quite sure you could do so now without damaging a part of yourself you didn’t know existed.

It frightens you, but the tingle that zings down your arms and into your palm lets you know it is exhilarating, too.

The bus is quiet of its usual boisterousness when it pulls through the gates of Graceland in the early afternoon. It is hard to believe how much everything has changed in a few short days, since the last time you arrived like this.

“Elvis,” you whisper, but he barely stirs. His eyes are closed, and his full lips are open slightly, giving him an air of innocence that tugs at your heart. “Elvis, sweetheart, we’re home.”

Sweetheart? Madone, where did that come from? You blush at your use of the endearment, not having used it since your brothers were little boys and certainly never with a man.

Elvis sputters and his long eyelashes flutter open as he stretches his long arms. “Mmm, ‘sweetheart,’ huh?” he murmurs, his lips turning up in a small, sleepy smile.

“I—you must have dreamed that,” you reply, flustered, but you know your pink cheeks and the way you twist your ring give you away.

He just grins. “You can call me sweetheart all day, Little Bird.” Then, he pulls you down for a sweet, chaste kiss, which surprises you. He tastes of sleep and coffee and chewing gum. The kiss is quick but sends a tremble through you all the same, especially since the bus is nearly empty.

When he pulls back and takes a look at you, his eyes fill with concern. He runs his thumb under your eye, as though he could wipe away the darkness you know is there. “Did you sleep at all, baby?”

You shake your head no, trying to brush him off by getting up to walk away, but he stands and grabs your arm. Pulling you back gently, he wraps his arms around your middle. You give up trying to wiggle away—he’s stronger than you. You’re surprised to find you don’t mind it. If it were any other man, you’d be panicking at the closeness, but it seems you’ve grown used to Elvis’ near constant displays of physical affection.

“I’m fine, Elvis. Let’s go inside.”

“Little one, the doc said you need sleep…”

His vacillation through pet names and endearments should annoy you, but they don’t. Not anymore. You sigh.

“…and you’re gettin’ married tomorrow. You need ta look your best for your husband,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Rolling your eyes at his silliness, you try and mask the surprising buzz of excitement running through your limbs at the reality that in a day you will be married to this exasperatingly handsome and talented mess of a man. It’s overwhelming and a little exhilarating, but you can feel exhaustion pulling at you, knowing you’ll be knee deep in preparations in a few short hours.

You resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder, but he senses your resignation in the way your body deflates. It’s hard, you realize, to let anyone else take care of you.

“How ‘bout I rest with you? Will you at least try to take a nap then?” If he’s conceding to more rest, you know you must look worse for the wear. But it does the trick.

“Alright, fine. I will rest if you do, too,” you concede.

Being back at Graceland—back home—helps you relax more. No one can get to you or Elvis here. You fear you won’t be able to sleep, but once your head hits the pillow, Elvis safe and resting inches away, you slide into the dreamless dark.

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

@littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog @xenaspace3-blog

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

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qwannon · 1 year ago

Text

i am in full bloom / * a private & selective personal interpretation of kwannon from the marvel universe. canon divergent. told by paige, she/her, black, 28. information can be found below the cut.

rules.

mutuals only. no racism, godmodding, sexism, glorification of horrendous things, or any dehumanizing -phobias will be tolerated here. i reserve the right to softblock at any time.

basic rp etiquette applies. i don't claim to know everything about kwannon or her canon timeline ( as i'm still sifting through comics here and there ) so feel free to message me any insights or questions.

if i follow you, that means i want to write with you. always feel free to send me memes as i generally rely on them to get interactions going. triggers, usfw content and the like will be tagged accordingly.

otherwise, i'm low maintenance and pretty chill. i'm just here to write and have fun. sporadic activity = #hobbynotjobby!

details.

birth name. ( unknown ). given name. kwannon ( after the japanese goddess of mercy ). aliases. psylocke. previously revanche & nothing. age. late 30s. place of birth. tokyo, japan. descent. east asian ( japanese ). occupation. assassin. adventurer. species. mutant. hair color. black, deep violet highlights. eye color. cocoa, deep violet undertones. height. 5'11". alignment. neutral. affiliates. the hand. x-men. hellions. relatives. sora ( estranged daughter ). sexuality. bisexual. powers. telepathy, empathy, telekinesis, astral projection, flight. ( psychic knives & psychic katanas: she is able to produce psionic energy over her fists as weapons. if she penetrates her opponent while using them, she is able to render a psychic attack that instantaneously stuns or confuses or leads to a fatality ). abilities. master martial artist & combatant, expert swordswoman ( can be seen wielding a pair of traditional japanese katanas from time to time ).

origin.

this is not elisabeth 'betsy' braddock. this is kwannon. the once orphaned little girl who was taken in by an elderly agent of the hand to become an assassin ninja, a weapon against all lies, an enemy of peace. love found & love lost : concepts of reality that were used as weapons against her, and ultimately a twisted lesson from her clan. her boyfriend was murdered, her daughter was taken away from her. undergoing so much psychological torment flicks a switch and after a couple years pass, she turns against her mentors and kills them one by one, becoming what they always knew she was going to be. after, she freelances on a for-hire basis before becoming a bodyguard and elite assassin for the japanese crimelord, nyoirin. she falls in love with matsu’o tsurayaba who works for the hand ( & adversary to nyoirin ) - in which their work lives eventually collide and kwannon is mortally injured. this is the part where an amnesiac betsy braddock is found washed up ashore and matsu'o takes her body in hopes that a sorceress, spiral, can put kwannon's consciousness in betsy's body. it was successful, essentially fusing the two together physically, mentally, and spiritually, and it was also the day where kwannon's strenuous battle of recollecting her self-identity began.

enter revanche : a confused woman who believes she's someone else, but knows she is the true kwannon. months later, she gets infected with the legacy virus ( a plague to mutantkind ) and travels back to japan, requesting matsu'o to mercy kill her. in death, her psychic energy was released, reanimated, and restored right around the time betsy was also simultaneously attacked, thus returning kwannon's sole consciousness back into her refreshed body after three years. the rest plays out as anyone else could expect from a woman who lost years worth of time beyond her own reflection. kwannon is observant, calculated, brutal and often distant / but also loyal, compassionate and steadfast. some would say these seesaw qualities are what makes her lethal, and she very well knows it. currently, she's taken on the mantle of psylocke, working alongside whoever requests her skills when they find themselves in need.

verses.

tbd.

#pinned.#dni.

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probssomethingorother · 1 year ago

Text

Whumptober No.3

Ellie, FEDRA, The Hole, Hurt No Comfort

This wasn’t a place created with any sort of comfort in mind. It was made to drive people mad, to torment them in solitude. A shiver ran through her body, not entirely from the cold. The eerie quietness of the place pressed against her ears, suffocating in its own right. ----- Ellie's first time in the Hole.

Read it down below or on Ao3! but don't forget to drop a comment wherever you read :)

Once you hit twelve, you were eligible for Hole time.

FEDRA was brutal, but even for them, imprisoning anyone younger in a damp dark concrete box was cruel and unusual punishment.

Ellie was placed into the Hole just three days after her twelfth birthday for insubordination - a blanket offense FEDRA wielded whenever they deemed a child too bothersome.

And “placed” was putting it lightly.

Physically there wasn’t much of her to control, but still, two hulking FEDRA officers held each one of her arms roughly. Their hands easily wrapped around the entirety of her upper arms, fingers even overlapping and gouging with heavy pressure. Their tight grip was sure to leave ringed bruises in their wake. Dragging her with them, their long and fast stride made her small feet skid across the ground, barely touching. She wasn’t even fighting against them, but their pace was relentless -steadfast to get rid of her. They jerked her small body around ruffly as they turned down the corridors, hallways getting darker and more dingy the closer they got to Solitary.

The Hole was located in Building D. It was an old factory that housed the laundry center, cleaning expo, and some stray military vehicles. It was a shared space used both by the normal FEDRA units and the training division. The children of the training division spent much more time in there on the whole - manning the stations by washing clothes, cleaning equipment, stripping down cars, and of course, enduring time in the Hole.

It was located on the second basement level, just above the access tunnels to the factory steam pipes. Relegated to its bowels, its isolation was intentional, ensuring the world above was as far away as possible.

Ellie gulped down her worries as they led her down the last flight of stairs, onto the final basement level. It was noticeably quieter down here than the floor above, the echo of their rushed footsteps and the consistent rustling of the officer’s keys were the only things piercing the silence. A few fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, but most were off, creating an eerie dim atmosphere.

It wasn't Ellie's first time in Building D, but it certainly was the first time on this level. The pit in her stomach grew heavier with every step she was dragged forward. It wasn’t anything kept a secret amongst the kids, she knew what to expect, but it was all still quite nerve-racking nonetheless. She always thought that she would be able to handle it, but then she saw some other kids her age spend their first nights there, people she thought would also be able to handle it - and well, they had come out... different.

Ellie didn’t want to come back different.

Whisking her deeper down the hall, they finally arrived at the end, a small desk stationed in the middle of the corridor dimly lit by a fading desktop lamp. Ellie was jolted to a stop as the FEDRA officers halted in front of it. The old officer manning it didn’t even look up from whatever he was reading, just passed one of the officers a clipboard with an attached pen.

The officer on her right took it, releasing their grip on Ellie’s arm to fill out the needed log. The absence had blood rushing to the spot, and it was only then did Ellie realized how hard she was being secured. Instinctively, her other arm reached out to touch and soothe it but still stuck in the grip of the other officer, her arm was yanked back and away with a glare.

“Don’t fucking move,” the restraining officer grumbled.

Ellie rolled her eyes.

“Williams. E. 53013117. 24 hours,” the other officer plainly voiced, pen audibly scratching across the crusty paper. He returned the clipboard with a clatter, the thick board dropping against the vinyl desk top. Still fixated on something else, the desk attendant didn’t raise to look at them, just monotonely replied, “Six is open. Back right,” while carelessly holding out a set of keys.

The moment the keys were grabbed, Ellie was being dragged again, shuffled behind the desk by the same two officers, and led back even further down the hall. Soon, ten doors came into view, four on either side, two on the back wall. Still holding tight, they directed her to the heavy steel door on the right, the number 6 worked into the door with bolt heads. A small window, high up, was the only way to peek inside, but at her height, Ellie could see nothing.

She gulped down, bracing herself.

Wasting no time, one of the officers turned the key into the lock with a loud echoing clang and the door creaked open, revealing the small, dark space inside.The grip on her arms was abandoned as they stood in the doorway, and when Ellie made no immediate moves to head further in, one of the officers pushed at her back, causing her to stumble forward.

“Twenty-four,” he grumbled, “tap is in the corner, toilet too, food once a day, talking or making sounds, you stay longer.” His words were cold and rehearsed, his face stoic.

“Just sit and don’t be a little shit.” The other officer added, clearly annoyed, like somehow this was an inconvenience.

Ellie bit her lip to keep from lashing out. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her react. She wouldn't cry or beg not to go in. Not in front of them. She stepped further in, turning around just in time to see the door slam shut. The small upper slat screeched close not a second later, leaving her completely alone in oppressive inky black darkness.

Her eyes slowly started to adjust.

The Hole was exactly as she had imagined - small, maybe six by six, and so damp that she could feel the moisture on the walls and floor. It was cold for now, but she had heard that when the steam pipes got used below, sometimes the heat leaked through and made the rooms unbearably hot. There were rumors about an older kid dying once - suffocated under the oppressive moist heat. Currently, the air was thick and stale, but not suffocating like that.

Sucking in a deep breath, she slid down the left wall to sit on the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest. She squinted as she took in the room, eyes still struggling to get used to seeing without light.

As her eyes tried to adjust to the abysmal darkness, she realized there was no need. There was really nothing to see. There was no bed or blankets or anywhere to rest other than the floor. The tap wasn’t much more than a rusty spigot coming from the wall, no sink attached, or even a drain on the floor. The toilet was basically an open silver basin, and by the smell of things, it didn’t flush, just emptied straight down through a hole and pipe below.

This wasn’t a place created with any sort of comfort in mind. It was made to drive people mad, to torment them in solitude.

A shiver ran through her body, not entirely from the cold. The eerie quietness of the place pressed against her ears, suffocating in its own right. The lack of sounds irritated her so much that it made her physically restless, and after just twenty minutes of sitting, Ellie was up and pacing around - at least then the soft squelch of her shoes on the damp floor provided a noise other than the sound of her own breathing.

She made the circle over and over and over again, walking around and around until that too became just as irritating.

With a huff, she stopped and slid down the door this time, head listlessly banging back against it in annoyance. Her ponytail made the position uncomfortable, pushing into her scalp, but she couldn’t find herself to care all that much since the whole place was so uncomfortable anyway.

As she sat against the cool steal, she realized that from here she could now hear someone crying in another cell, voice just barely wafting through the tiny space between the ground and the bottom of the door.

It sounded like a young boy and the only person she knew her age who had received Hole time recently was “Mikey P.” But he got in trouble three days ago - watched him get dragged away herself. He had tried to sneak into a better mess group so all the good food wouldn’t be taken but was caught. Ellie didn’t think that was a three-day infraction so FEDRA must have upped his time while down here. She wondered if it was for the crying, or if the crying was because of the increased time.

She desperately wanted to call out, see if it was him, but she wasn’t about to test how strict the no-sound rule was. Ellie slowly leaned and lowered herself to the floor, laying on her side so her ear was closer to the ground and the door gap. She let Mikey’s crying fill her ears because even his sobs were better than silence. She dug at the ground with her nail as she stayed there, waiting and waiting for the time to pass, listening to him go on and on.

No FEDRA kids were ever given lullabies as children, but somehow twisted as it was, the cries were one for Ellie. Eventually, she fell asleep.

What she awoke to was not cries though, it was small squeaking, short and high pitched right in front of her face. Her eyes opened quickly, only to be met with a dark silhouette of a rat just a few inches from her face. It somehow sensed her awakening, and before Ellie even had a chance to react, it was scurrying away, brushing past her hand and onto somewhere else in the room.

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as her body stayed still for a moment, petrified. Ellie hated rats. One summer there was a small infestation, and everyone in her dorm block was being nibbled on in their sleep. They did an extermination treatment after that, and barely any remained. There was one left that she affectionally called Fat Carl, which despite its name was actually quite small, but was plump, almost like a ball, and never moved beyond the downstairs kitchen - certainly never nibbled on human flesh, just human food.

This rat was not Carl.

It was a large dirty gross thing even if she couldn’t see it that well. She knew it, just did.

And the thought of it crawling over her or nibbling on her while she slept made Ellie’s skin crawl. Without a clock or even a glimmer of natural light, she had no way of discerning how long she had been asleep and maybe had let it happen. Her only judge of time was that Mikey's cries had ceased, or maybe he too had fallen asleep. Either way, she concluded that she had drifted off too long because it was certainly long enough for the dreaded rodent to get close to her.

It wouldn’t be happening again.

Steadying herself and casting aside the knowledge there was something in here with her, Ellie slowly rose from the ground, cautious. The ache of sleeping on a cold, hard floor permeated her muscles and joints, and her hand instinctively went to her neck to massage out the stiffness. Her mouth was dry and begrudgingly she made her way to the tap to get some water.

She crossed the small room with tiny steps, apprehensive to where the rat had scurried off to. The non-existent light made it impossible to spot, but she knew it was there, somewhere, prowling in the shadows, waiting to get a taste of her.

With a dejected sigh, she kneeled down underneath the spigot and opened her mouth. A weak stream of water poured out, almost a trickle despite Ellie twisting the nob all the way to the end. The water tasted quite metallic, and Ellie was sure it was probably the same grimy yellow stuff that poured from the hoses they used to wash down the vehicles on the upper level of the building.

She was glad she couldn’t see what color it was in the dark and verify her suspicion.

Again, she went over to the wall, left this time - might as well test them all - and slid down it. Her knees came up to her chest and she rested her forearms on them, letting her hands dangle in the air. She didn’t know what had set her off, but suddenly there was tears prickling at her waterline, nose getting runny. She sniffled it all back.

She didn’t want to cry. She wasn’t a crybaby, she wasn’t like Mikey. She could handle this. But maybe Mikey was crying because he was being eaten by rats. What if she was going to be eaten by rats? What if they kept her down here longer, like him?

She brought her nose to her arm, wiping away the snot that was eagerly trying to run out her nose and used one hand to wipe away her tears, blinking the budding ones away.

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t.

As Ellie sat, the space slowly started to get colder and colder, and her arms moved from her legs to hug herself, brushing up and down to create some warmth. She was wearing a long sleeve and jeans, but the worn-out clothing was not doing much to stave off the chill, especially now that it was just slightly damp from lying down.

If it wasn’t so dark, she probably would be able to see her breath. Her jaw began to quiver with shivers. She desperately tried to ignore it, but the coldness started to seep into her bones, the kind of cold that was unforgiving, and cruel. Briefly, she wondered if having the steam pipes on would be better, but dying of heat seemed worse than dying of cold.

She didn’t actually think she would die, but her mind produced the idea nonetheless, just a brief intrusive thought of her own demise- a FEDRA officer coming back to find her frozen to death in the dark of this concrete box.

It was a fleeting image, her brain quickly jumping to another scene- her body frozen in the darkness of space, floating around lost in the void.

She always liked space and didn’t know why her brain was bringing it forward with this depressing scenario.

Space. Cold and Dark. Just like the Hole.

Ellie screwed her eyes shut, trying to get rid of the image in her head, but that only made small speckles appear on her inner eyelids, little dots that easily could be mistaken for stars. When she opened them, the little floaters remained in her vision painting the darkness of the room for a minute until they slowly dissipated away.

Space. Stars. Cold and Dark. Just like the Hole.

Just like the Hole.

Tightly squeezing her eyes shut again and opening them to produce a new set of stars, Ellie took a deep breath in before relaxing against the wall more.

She softly whispered to herself, "Ground control, this is astronaut Williams. Do you copy?”

She paused, waiting for a response from the non-existent command center. “Ground Control do you copy?” She whispered again.

She brought her hand up to her mouth as if she were holding a microphone, and dropped her tone as she softly replied, “Copy, loud and clear Williams.”

Moving her hand to her ear, she pretended she had a communicator there, and clicked it on, continuing, “Astronaut Williams is ready to commence mission training.” She quickly flipped back to her lower register, again bringing the imaginary mic up to her mouth. “Copy. Mission training is a go.”

Ellie took a moment, breathing in and out deeply, imagining herself inside a spacesuit. Every inhale was a gust of oxygen from her tank, every exhale was her body expelling the bad air, adjusting to the vacuum. The cold air stung as she inhaled, but she reminded herself that Astronauts faced conditions far harsher than this in space.

The cold. The dark. The solitude. If they could do it, so could she. If she wanted to be one of them, then she had to do this.

"Mission Objective: Survive 24 hours," she whispered into the communicator.

Faintly, she heard a quiet rustle and small squeak, her rat roommate still somewhere close. She took a shaky breathy in and pushed her eyes shut, producing another galaxy of stars in her vision. She opened them slowly and shakily breathed out.

"Accept," she responded to herself, though her voice wavered slightly as she plopped her head down on her knees. With a sigh, she sent a final message to command, “Heading out of range of coms,” she said even more quietly, words drifting off, losing her vibrato as her mind began filling with imagery of the world beyond this one.

Drawing her knees closer to her chest, she allowed herself to get lost in it. Mind pretending she was floating in the dark, walking on the moon, landing on a comet, anywhere but the bleak reality of the Hole.

Her shivering became less frequent as her mind transported her away. Hours seemed to pass, and soon, her vision blurred, sleep threatening to take over again. She tried to fight it, still so fricken scared of that rat, still lurking, but it was little use. Her eyes fluttered closed, but her mind was to kind to her - letting her retreat into space in her sleep too - Astronaut Ellie traveling the universe.

This time, she was pulled from her sleep by the sounds of metal hitting metal on the other side of the door. It was followed by the upper slot opening with a grating screech, dim light powering through.

Ellie didn’t think it had been twenty-four hours yet, but perhaps she was wrong. She scrambled off the ground quickly, and reaching the door went on her tippy toes, hands resting against the cool metal door in support. She was so small that it did nothing to help her see through the slot. Even raised up, the top of her head barely hit the bottom of the small opening.

Within a quick second of coming under the slot, food was being pushed through it without any warning. Unable to reach, or even ready to grab it, the small tray tumbled onto Ellie’s head, contents spilling all over her. The tray then hit the floor with a clatter and a plastic cup that accompanied it made hollow sounds as it bounced and then rolled away.

“Fuckers,” she whispered as she stood in disbelief, milk dripping from her head and some sort of globby mush slowly sliding down and doing the same.

She could pretend all she wanted, but this certainly wasn’t space. This was FEDRA. This was the Hole.

#whumptober 2023 #no.3 #solitary confinement #the last of us #tlou #hurt no comfort #ellie williams #astronaut ellie #FEDRA #the Hole #ao3 fanfic #tlou fic #tipsy bison #the tipsy bison #Ellie hates rats I making it canon #i actually don't like this #but its getting posted!#my fic #dark as space

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roegadynroost · 1 year ago

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FFXIVwrite 2023 - 23 Suit

Marjorie Viskle.

When Thyn'a thought of her most steadfast companion, a lot of things came to mind.

The Highlander woman has been a Bard when their journeys brought them together, and to say that she were most talented at it would still be an understatement. In recent times however she'd set aside her harp and bow and joined Thyn'a on the frontlines, sword in hand has the Roegadyn wielded her spear.

They're traveled Gyr Abania together and sailed the seas to the far reaches of Othard. They'd been plucked from the source to the sister shard, the First, and even walked the ends of the universe together.

When Scion duty called, they would be the first two on the frontlines risking it all for kith and kin, and of course for the thrill of the adventure. To say that their partnership transcended time and space would not really be much of an understatement.

She to Thyn'a was one of the most amazing warriors on the star.

But there was another thing that she also thought of that might surprise those that were less acquainted with her fellow Warrior of Light.

Marjorie was of the most stylish people that lived.

Their work didn't allow for much free time, when one problem was solved, another soon called. And somehow through all of that, the Hyuran woman managed to keep her gear in both fashionable and functional accord.

Thyn'a was no slouch, but the attention to detail in Marjorie's outfits was never subpar, and she's proudly show off her gear and point out how different colors matched different parts of the sit. Thyn'a could listen for hours, and today was one such moment.

"I think it suits you." Thyn'a said warmly to Marjorie, admiring the detailing on her new sword and shield.

"Thanks!" Marjorie excitedly said in return before continuing to point out little quirks of the look.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy #roegadyn #femroe #roegadame #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #female roegadyn #highlander #FFXIVwrite #ffxivwrite2023

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foxymoxynoona · 2 years ago

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the one shot made me cry. thank you so much for writing it. i was the one requesting it.

it was so beautiful. you captured perfectly how *i think* yoongi would behave as a parent. his steadfastness and bottomless pit of patience was so on point, but even more realistic was when he could feel himself get overwhelmed when his two babies started crying. joo was so adorable, the way you could totally see how she adored her big brother and thought the world of him.

but most of all, i felt for kija. it was so heartbreaking to see him feel like he was behind in school, that he wasn’t good enough. (those stupid smiley faces… i’ve always thought shit like “rewarding the best by adding special shit and flaunting it in class for all to see” was so unnecessary for younger kids, but that’s just me. im not a parent).

and im really happy how yoongi patiently set it straight that you didnt always have to be good academically because school was not the only way to achieve success, and that kija was still six and so still had a lot of time to learn, and that YOU DIDNT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE THE BEST AT THINGS!!! this is so important!!!! i WISH my parents had told me these things when i was little instead of expecting me to excel at everything and getting severely mad when i didnt!!!

and how yoongi assured kija that he had so much to offer than counting and reading. that he was good at memorizing, that he was good at storytelling… like kija couldn’t see how his own baby sister looked at him with awe. it broke my heart but also warmed it at the same time.

and the last lines here:

“He didn’t make it through the emails. Instead he sent you an email with nothing but a heart emoji in it. It was simple, but it would make you smile. You never seemed to mind when his affection was simple.”

and

“You had now been gone for thirty-two of the fifty-four hours.

Yoongi had never missed you more.

But at least he had two little pieces of you to sleep sprawled across him, just like you would have if you were here.”

i completely bawled.

you’re such a phenomenal writer. the way you string words into these beautiful sentences and phrases that always hit right in the solar plexus. you wield these words like a paintbrush. every stroke is beautiful. im so honored and privileged to be able to experience your writing. im so so so glad i found you.

Waaaaah your comment made ME cry! I'm so relieved you liked it even though I complicated such a simple little sweet scene you had asked for haha. Your description of my writing really made me tear up, you have such a way with words and it made me feel so nice! I'm glad we found each other too and I hope I write many more things you enjoy <3

#asks #anonymous #dad yoongi

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vipier · 4 months ago

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" AND DISTRACT MYSELF FROM MY RESPONSIBILITIES BY SEEKING TO SATE MY EGO WITH THE PRINCESS'S PERSONAL APPROVAL? " tristan gives a single huff, as though his response should be obvious. were he another, perhaps he would take offense. and if he were another even still, perhaps he would provide another answer entirely : that he did, in fact, endeavor to impress zelda instead. but he is tristan and the opinion of the princess is of little value to him – not as a mark against her, not remotely, but rather because his own assignment has little – if anything, really – to do with her. it does not move him that some of kenneth's humor has clearly been extinguished by his words ; if anything, it motivates him to elaborate, even though he is not typically one for much elaboration. " whether or not she deserves it is hardly the relevant question. your sister is not my charge, highness, and it would do naught but distract me to concern myself with her specific opinion of me. " his shoulders twitch in the very shadow of a shrug and his brow quirks, only momentarily. " or would you wish for me to direct my attention away from you for such self indulgent endeavors? somehow, I doubt that very much. "

his true meaning goes unspoken : don't you wish for somebody to think of you first, my prince? half the time, tris cannot guess exactly what the prince thinks of him. he catches his curious glances, those unblinking eyes ever bright and active, as if perpetually attempting to solve some riddle that only kenneth knows. yet often, there remains a dismissiveness in his manner like this, a bite of sarcasm, a spit of flame beneath the prince's typically quiet overlay. everyone possesses layers, tristan knows that well enough, but the prince's make him somehow both curious and suspicious, teasing at his natural curiosity while also presenting further reason to keep his distance.

the knight's gaze narrows as the prince approaches, wielding his ornate dagger. he supposes it stands to reason that, at some point, it was expected he would participate in a tourney or two as the prince's guard, whether anonymously or not. it has never been his preference, raised as he was in the shadows and so naturally adverse to the concept of glory. eagerness might prove a better disguise, but there are limits to his motivation to act. it seems, however, that it will make little difference in light of the prince's preferences. tris lifts his eyes as he's offered the dagger's handle, gazing at kenneth, unreadable, if only because one thought presses brutally against the forefront of his mind. are you handing me the blade with which I will one day slit your throat? hastily, violently, he shoves the taunting question to the back of his mind, unwilling to consider why it so unsettles him with the prince's bright eyes so fixed upon him. no sense considering the future until the command has come to pass.

" a new champion? " he echoes the prince doubtfully, as if still considering whether to compete even as he reaches to take the dagger's handle, an act which unquestionably confirms his acceptance. " and who but me would you choose? " try as he may to avoid it, the slightest hint of an offended edge creeps into his tone, although the pretense disappears just as quickly as he turns his attention to examining the gift in his hand. the weight of it confirms its impressive utility, deadly as it is beautiful, and the guard hesitates for a few moments, which feel in his own mind much longer than they actually are. to thank the prince seems like the wrong thing, and yet, how else to respond to such favor?

finally, his gaze once again lifts to kenneth's, his dark eyes unyielding, steadfast, as he inclines his head in a single nod, pulling the dagger to his chest over his very beating heart. he does not mean for the gesture to be duplicitous, and yet it feels that way regardless. a creature like he is not meant to feel something as pedestrian as guilt. " if it be his highness's wish to see me compete, " he says, fingers still tight against the weapon's fine hilt, eyes still locked to the prince's, " then it is to the will of my prince that I submit. " a spark passes his expression as he tilts his head just so to the side, suddenly curious. ( whether or not it is to push aside his internal conflict isn't relevant, he decides. ) " is it that you wish to show me off? "

he stood quietly, fingers steepled behind his back, as the guard took to lecturing him with the speed and efficiency normally employed by impa, who, unlike tristan, had both the boldness and the authority to pull his ear while she was at it too. the reminder brought a wistful sigh to his lips, though he tried egregiously and nobly to not tune the guard out, or remind him he was speaking to the prince. that ceremonial title would not suit a walking corpse at any rate, and though his father the king was not prone to dispensing important life lessons on his only son, he had once told him the story of a king, who barked too far and too wide about his status, and therefore, was no king at all. the dagger in his hand was a comfort; while few saw the worth in him in the castle, he had made his mark elsewhere, by the hylians who had taught him war and battle, lent him his scars.

he doubted the sheikah standing proudly before him knew of that, but perhaps it was for the better that he did not as of yet: a prince too quick and clever on fighting and winning wars would not befit the image of his spare-ness.

❛❛ and you know more than me about royal etiquettes too, ❜❜ he said, and any sarcasm that might have been, was difficult to suspend with the wide eyed brightness he bore. he clasped his hands together and tucked them beneath his chin, as if utterly focused. ❛❛ that is good, i rarely listened in twenty one years. now, i shouldn't dare disappoint the court. ❜❜

he said this bit more seriously, his mouth twitching. of course, the prince would never cross the court! not even for the sheikah, apparently. it would have been within his jurisdiction and right then to retort more viciously for insolence, but he held his tongue, not for the matter of mercy but for fact: the guard, for all his ramblings, seemed to have not forgotten his task at all. that was good enough for a start. the mention of the prince's sisters slowed his thoughts and movements; though he does not let go of the knife, he presses its tip to his index, his face contorting into a soft sort of thoughtfulness as he set his back to the guard. must it always be about her? but that was a weak and faded complaint. of a child perhaps. and even young, he might have hated her for all of it, if he did not love her as earnestly as she loved him. it was why when he rounded on the guard, some of his humour had faded with calculation.

❛❛ yes. do you not? ❜❜ and with the way that he had said it, it was apparent there was only one right answer to this lest heresy be proclaimed: yes. ❛❛ she would deserve it, and a moment of reprieve. ❜❜ the knight retorts back, and he cannot help but be reminded, that the perceptions of the castle must have slithered into the minds of the sheikah too. for this one spoke to him as one would speak to an unknowing simpleton, and he restrained his irritation and hurt, there was no point to it at all. ❛❛ the second, ❜❜ he answered simply, as if he sought merely entertainment and whim. ❛❛ i should like to see how you fare. besides, you would be adorned in a helmet, and you need now say your name. here. ❜❜ he flipped the dagger over, handle to the knight while the blade sat between his skin, refusing to slice it open.

his smile was careful and light, but those who knew him better would find the mischief just beneath. ❛❛ a gift, and my token. you will fight for me if you choose, or i should select a new champion. ❜❜

#daylighter #ic : daylighter.#loz au tbt.#absolutely INSUFFERABLE. he was doing fine until the end and then ... AND THEN.#gonna turn myself inside out thank u

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haledamage · 3 years ago

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92 for Kai?

This ended up being my first Kai/Adaryc fic! They ended up being a lot of fun to write! Something about their dynamic feels very Regency Romance.

This takes place immediately after the Eyeless fight when you first meet Adaryc in WM2

---

92. “Don’t move.”

"Wait." Kai reached out and grabbed Adaryc's elbow as he and his soldiers turned to leave. "Your men need medical attention. Let us help."

It was the truth. They'd all gotten pretty banged up by those… creatures, constructs, whatever the Eyless were. They may have won, but they'd paid a heavy price for it, and no one had left that fight unharmed. The Commander himself had a large cut over one eye that was still bleeding sluggishly, and he held one arm close to his body in a way that told her it was likely dislocated, if not broken.

He froze at her touch as if she'd warned him of a bear trap underfoot - or like he was expecting her to sink a knife in his back and finish the job the Eyeless had started. He somehow went even more still when she tugged on his good arm and started leading him back toward the cabin they'd first spoken in.

"Watcher, what are you--"

"Kai," she corrected tersely. "I don't like being called 'Watcher' any more than you do, I'd wager."

He nodded, conceding her point. "Kai. What are you doing?"

"Helping you." She closed the door behind them and brought over a chair. "Sit down."

She didn't wait for him to comply, stepping away to hunt for a water basin and dig through her pack for medical supplies.

"One battle together doesn’t mean I take orders from you," Adaryc grumbled, though in spite of his words he sat down on the stool she'd dragged over.

"Why not, my dear?" she muttered. "That’s how it worked with everyone else." She reached for him again, but this time he flinched away. "You’re injured."

"It’s not serious."

"Your arm is dislocated, and I doubt you can even see out of your left eye right now." Kai tried to gentle her voice, to make it a request instead of a demand. "Let me take care of it."

"Ordering me around again." He didn't sound annoyed this time, more amused.

"It seems to be the only way you’ll listen, Commander."

"Adaryc."

"Adaryc," she repeated with a slight smile.

They let silence fall as she worked on removing his armor, keeping her movements careful so as not to jostle his shoulder.

He broke it first, voice almost hesitant. "You're a skilled fighter."

She raised an eyebrow, trying to judge how sincere he was. "You sound surprised."

"I am," he admitted easily. "I expected you to be… softer. Your memories…"

Ah. That explained it. She must look very privileged to someone like him; in many ways, she supposed she was. "I was raised nobility. It… didn't suit me. I ran away."

"To Dyrwood?" Adaryc seemed genuinely curious rather than judgemental like she expected.

"Eventually." Kai bit her lip, considering how much to say, and eventually settled on, "It's a long story."

A small smile tilted the corners of his lips, the first she'd seen from him. He looked like he was trying to remember how smiles worked. "I'd like to hear it sometime."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she said dryly. She set down the last piece of armor and reached for the wash basin, wetting a cloth and bringing it toward his face. "Don't move."

This time, he obeyed without argument. He didn't flinch or make a sound as she cleaned the cut on his forehead and washed the blood from his face.

After a couple minutes, Adaryc once again broke the silence. "How long have you been…"

"Been what?"

"Inflicted." He said it like a curse, which she supposed to him it was.

"Six months, give or take. My grasp on the passage of time is… tentative, some days." She left it at that, confident that he'd understand.

He looked surprised. "You've adapted very quickly."

"Not really. I'm very good at pretending." That was a remarkable amount of honesty for someone Kai had just met, but he had already had a front row seat to some of her memories so she let it go just this once. "But I'm no stranger to power and this one, at least, is mine alone. It requires nothing except that I am me and I exist. Few other powers can boast the same."

"You are a strange woman."

That startled a laugh out of her. "You are not the first man to tell me that. Though you are the first to make it sound like a compliment."

"I'm as surprised as you are that I meant it as one." There was something akin to fondness in his voice, enough to bring color to her cheeks.

She turned away to mask her strange reaction, cleaning blood off the cloth as an excuse to hide her face. "So how long have you been 'inflicted'?"

Adaryc was quiet so long that she didn't think he was going to answer, but eventually he just said, "Years."

"That's a long time to be at war with yourself," Kai said quietly.

"I have no other choice." His conviction was clear in his face, but it just made her sad.

"There's always another choice, darling. Gifts and curses alike are nothing more and nothing less than what you make them." She didn't think he was really listening, but she knew enough of self-loathing to know how to be heard over it. She tried a different tactic. "Do you think me less because I'm a Watcher?"

"Yes," he said automatically. Then, "...No."

"I think you have enough war in your life. You don't need to battle yourself as well." She carefully pressed a poultice to the cut over his eye, giving him time to consider her words.

"I will… think on what you've said." He sounded like he meant it, and that was good enough for her.

"That's all I ask. Thank you. Now I'm afraid I'm going to have to hurt you." Without any more warning, she pushed hard at his elbow. With a sickening pop his arm slipped back into the socket.

He hissed, but made no other noise at the pain. His voice was only a little rough when he said, "That never gets more pleasant."

"I'm sorry," Kai said, and she meant it. "If I could have done it gently, I would have. I'm afraid without a healer available, I'm the best you've got." They did, technically, have a healer, but she tried not to subject strangers to Durance's ministrations unless absolutely necessary. Especially not such a devout Eothasian as Adaryc.

She took off one of her scarves and tied it behind his neck, making it into a makeshift sling. "That should keep until you can get somewhere safe enough to bandage it properly. Do try to go easy on it."

"I will. Thank you, Kai." There was that barely-there smile again.

She smiled back, fragile and unfamiliar in its sincerity. "You are quite welcome, Adaryc."

She stepped back to put away the supplies, but she only made it a step before he grabbed her arm.

"Wait."

She turned to face him again, unconsciously following his orders like he kept doing to hers. "What is it?"

He stood up from his chair and moved closer. He tilted her head up to meet his gaze. Even though things had calmed down, there was still something feverish in his eyes; it made it difficult to look away from him. "May I?"

"May you--" her question ended in a sharp hiss as he brushed a wet cloth over a cut on her cheek that she hadn't known was there. "You could have just asked, darling. Words are not your enemy."

He chuckled, a warm and raspy sound. "I will try to remember that for next time."

Kai rather liked the idea that there would be a 'next time,' but she didn't say it and let him clean and bandage her wounds without fuss.

His touch was both gentler and more hesitant than she expected from a man who led a group like The Iron Flail. His fingers were rough and calloused, but she didn't mind. In fact, she found herself having to resist the urge to lean into it. It had been a long time since anyone had been so careful with her.

They both lingered after he was done, standing close but no longer touching. Kai was surprised by how much she wished they were.

"I hope…" he started, but he trailed off and made no attempt to finish the sentence.

"You hope?" she repeated, trying to jostle the rest of the thought loose.

Adaryc cleared his throat and ducked his head, an unexpectedly shy gesture. "That we... will see each other again. Perhaps sometime less dire."

"I'd like that." The last thing she'd expected when she snuck into an 'enemy' fort today was to leave with a friend, but here they were. "You're always welcome at Caed Nua."

"It would be my honor." In a quick, fluid motion, less like a formal bow and more like disarming an opponent, he lifted her hand and pressed a firm kiss to her knuckles. "Farewell, Watcher."

She grinned and bowed her head, somehow managing to make the casual gesture look formal. "Farewell, Watcher."

Adaryc gave her a wry, boyish smile, and then he was gone.

"Gods above, Kiki," she whispered to herself once she was alone, "what have you gotten yourself into now?"

Unsurprisingly, she didn't get an answer. Kai followed Adaryc out into the fort, but she knew by now he'd already be gone.

#kai cirdani #kaidaryc #these poor idiots have no idea what they're getting into #affection-starved and extremely self-controlled with different flavors of self-loathing #nothing could go wrong there #kiki finally has her complete set of romances!#adaryc was the only one I hadn't written her with yet #she has quite a collection of disillusioned and broken boys #I like to think he keeps the scarf and is still wearing it when they eventually reunite #(she is also still wielding Steadfast. it's a Thing)#written on my phone while I didn't have internet so any formatting issues will be fixed when I'm online again #and thank you for your patience darling this took me SO LONG to answer

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wearepaladin · 2 years ago

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I’m running a campaign with a Paladin - oath of the ancients. Though we are still relatively near the beginning I’m working on building a narrative around the Paladin that his goddess in fact *fears* him. She has feared what he will do once he has both the knowledge of her origin and the power she has slowly granted him over time. He is steadfast in his faith and devotions and believes that the challenges and quests and things she has placed before him are his chance to do good. While this isn’t necessarily untrue - she has also been setting him on the path of correcting imbalances of the natural world she intends for him to die to. He has survived and succeeded where she expected him to fail, to quit, to be killed.

Millennia ago this goddess along with six others, were born as reflections of seven incredibly powerful individuals who ruled over an arcane society known as the Veilborn. That society fell in a thousand year long apocalyptic event brought on by the foremost among the Veilborn choosing to bring an old one from the depths of the dark tapestry (EXU calamity has been giving me an ulcer as more details get revealed). And from that time of chaos the Paladins Goddess and Six others rose. She fears him learning the details of her ascension as he is the mortal reincarnation of the Septarch she is a reflection of. She fears him coming into his own power, what he will do with his knowledge and his connection to her, but he is steadfast and good and devoted and is trying his best- she views him as one of her champions, one of those most worthy of wielding her power.

I guess my question is, does this sound interesting? Do you have ideas or thoughts I should consider in making this narrative a satisfying arc for my pally player?

It does sound interesting, and no matter what direction the Paladin goes, they have a story worth exploring. One of cycles or of them breaking, Of the weight of our choices and how we might see our descendants or even other versions of ourselves rise where we fell. Do we help them, even if it exposes our failings to the point of their anger, or do we choose trust and forgiveness, for ourselves as much as them.

Stories like these tend to have those themes, even if on the surface it’s about paladins and their gods.

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wedreamedlove · 3 years ago

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Hello! What couple in light and night has the best chemistry in your opinion? And which couple is your favorite? Sorry for my English, and thanks in advance!

not sure if you also sent in this earlier ask, but since they're about the same thing i'll just put them together.

i mentioned in a past post that it feels like light and night has multiple genre universes under the umbrella of its main universe (the one we players play) and i still stand by this opinion. it means that every male lead feels like the “otp” when we’re in their “universe” and so all couples have strong chemistry and it just depends on what you personally like.

Sariel = xianxia

Evan = gothic romance

Osborn = wuxia

Jesse = greek tragedy

Charlie = modern drama

SARIEL. this pair can be summed up as the immortal nonhuman + mortal human couple. there are even xianxia tropes here like past lives (still waiting to be confirmed but there’s too many hints), sealed or wiped memories, punishments for defying fate and crossing the interspecies line. these two really give off the feeling of star-crossed soulmates.

EVAN. not only is he a vampire, but also a byronic hero. think of the atmosphere from charlotte bronte, emily bronte, and jane austen but then crank up the gothic romance vibes to something like crimson peak. there is not enough space here—and i’m not eloquent enough—to talk about what vampires represent in classic literature (sexual taboo, transgressions, etc) but just know that light and night writers are well aware of the savagery, inhumanity, and hedonism behind classic vampires and lean into that hard. this is peak monstrous vampire + human couple.

OSBORN. he was a punk, she did ballet. what more can i say? sorry, sorry, but he really attracts good girls who have a rebellious streak. the way this works in a wuxia universe is to think of him as a wandering swordsman who has his own moral code that protects the weak and innocent, not necessarily upholding justice because he kills people but overall doing good. the heroine is the sheltered princess or noble who longs for freedom and adventure and joins this wanderer. meanwhile, the swordsman learns to love and be loved by the innocent girl and has a home that tethers him to the world. they can be summed up as the rogue and noble or, as Osborn would say, it’s the big bad dragon who kidnaps the sword-wielding princess.

JESSE. they’re childhood friend to lovers so there’s no way they don’t have chemistry. what i really like about them (because i normally don’t like this trope) is that they roughhouse more than other childhood friend pairings i’ve seen. they do so much playful ribbing to each other; makes me feel like they’re a college couple. his genre universe comes into play here—and, admittedly the example sounds bad—by forcing a path onto Jesse because of his very nature and the heroine can do nothing but maintain her love for him and pray for his safety, like penelope in odysseus.

CHARLIE. pick any dog blood drama currently playing right now and this is their chemistry, haha, except they’re really steadfast and supportive of each other. but i mean we have evil relatives and conspiracies surrounding them and Charlie is under crushing parental expectations. these two have really sweet soulmate vibes and a fairy tale atmosphere like cinderella and rapunzel, with both of them being princes and princesses for each other.

as for myself, i thought my bias was obvious here but my favorite couple is Osborn and his heroine. i share a lot of her reactions to him so i’m just constantly being flustered and teased by this man. i also really, really admire his untamable and unbreakable spirit. my friends joke all the time about me having a thing for "freedom” men (it’s all in the yearning) but i also adore men who crave to love and be loved and Osborn covers both of these so well.

It turned out that the desire for freedom was just because there were no attachments. — [SSR The 400 Blows]

O: I think it’s precisely because there’s nostalgia and attachments that a long journey becomes a trip. O: Otherwise it can only be called “wandering”. — [SSR Within Reach]

#answered asks #光与夜之恋 #light and night #ln osborn #ln evan #ln charlie #ln sariel #ln jesse #ln xiao yi #ln lu chen #ln zha lisu #ln xia mingxing #ln qi sili

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professorthaddeus · 3 years ago

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Mother, Father. This will be my final letter.

You know, I used to find the two of you everywhere. I would see the love I betrayed in the faces of families who are whole. I would hear your terrified screams in laughter. I would see your bodies twisted in agony in the flickering of a campfire. I would feel your blood on my hands every time I cast a spell.

I would find you everywhere, and so I held fast to the possibility that I would bring you back.

Today, I relinquished the chance of it ever becoming a reality.

I could have gone back and saved you. It would have worked. There were puzzle pieces in that chamber that I would have clicked into place; there was magic buried in those relics that I would have unlocked and unleashed.

I would have joined the ranks of mages of myth. I could have unraveled everything.

The chamber is nothing but ashes now.

I still find the two of you everywhere. Your dreams for my potential are in the spells I learned from Essek. Your hope for the Empire is in Beauregard’s pen as she fights for our people, stroke by stroke. Your love is in the grin that Veth shines on her son when he fires a toy crossbow at the ass of a local shopkeeper.

I miss you. I love you. I am sorry.

I hope I can still make you proud.

Caleb closes that worn, leather-bound book for the last time. Tucks it back beneath his arm, stands, walks to the entryway of his tower. His hand shakes as he reaches for the handle.

Well, you and the Nein got me to the door. Now I have to walk through it.

He takes a deep breath, then takes his first step outside.

He arrives in Blumenthal alone, visits their graves, leaves his letters in the ground.

And he gets to work. But in this, he is not alone.

Beauregard is there, matching every armload of books he carries with two of her own. They spend their days compiling records and narratives, wielding the truth both in court and behind the scenes—children of the Empire leaving their home better than they found it for the children who will come after them, just as they always vowed.

What wasn’t planned is this: a couple times every week, Beauregard drags Caleb out of the library. They teleport to a remote cottage in a location that few are privy to, where Yasha will have started preparing the ingredients for a new recipe from Caduceus. The instructions are often passed through a jumbled chain of Jester’s messages, and there always seem to be a suspicious number of bugs included for supposedly vegetarian dishes, but they make it work all the same. On more than a few occasions, Caleb plays referee while Beauregard and Yasha spar, safe in the knowledge that their attacks are of their own free will and they will never truly harm each other again.

Jester and Fjord spend much of their time on the open sea, but Jester’s voice is never far from Caleb’s ear. She tells him of everything from her newest tattoo victim to an encounter with a dragon turtle with a grudge, from a shanty about dicks she came up with on the fly to an update on a young half-orc girl Fjord has taken under his wing. Every once in a while, Jester will demand a reunion, too. Some of them are out of necessity—such as when Uk’otoa finally comes knocking and Fjord can no longer sail the other away—but many are not. They meet in Nicodranas when the Nein Heroez docks for a pastry run, they meet in Hupperdook for a night packed with drinking contests and celebone sticks and hugs for Kiri, they meet on Rumblecusp when life becomes too much and the nine of them sorely need to fuck off to a vacation. Soon, even Darktow is open to them, once Kingsley has unseated the Plank King and lifted their ban from the island. His reign is long, and it is magnificent. Until he grows bored.

Caduceus joins them for every mandated reunion, but for the most part, he tends to his garden or explores the world on his own. But he is never out of reach, and when he does not come to the rest of them, they go to him. It is not uncommon for Caleb to arrive in the Blooming Grove to see Beauregard already meditating by the pond. Other times, Fjord will be there drinking tea with Caduceus, and the three of them will share a quiet conversation, each far more secure in their words than they’d been over fish and chips all those years ago. Often it is just Caduceus and his parents and siblings, and Caleb will be invited to a family dinner in a home that Ikithon could not burn down.

Veth remains a constant in Caleb’s life. Of course she does. Sometimes, when the two of them are teaching the neighborhood kids how to point a copper wire, or reminiscing over a glass of sherry, or simply talking while she weaves flowers into his hair on the beaches of Nicodranas, he’ll think back to his old fears of losing her to her family and laugh. After all, how could such a thing be possible when he is a part of her family himself?

There are others, too.

Countless students who pass under his tutelage and grow into young mages who know that power should be used to protect, not to manipulate. A cat—well, there are many cats, but there is one in particular that Caleb does not own, a snowy white fey cat who slinks in and out of his classroom as he pleases, whose eyes seem to flash when the Martinet arrives to have a word, who settles into place around Caleb’s shoulders with a purr when the rare nightmare returns.

An unexpected kinship with Yeza, forged at first through mutual respect and an understanding in their love for Veth, but eventually growing into a friendship in its own right. It is one that unfolds in quiet nights by stacks of books, in gleeful debates when comparing notes on magic and alchemy, in exhausted evenings watching over Luc together while Veth takes a girls’ night out to cause some chaos with Jester, Beauregard, and Yasha.

His old friends, who, try as they might, never seem able to sever the threads that have always tangled their fates together. It is Eadwulf who comes around first, with the silent offering of a bottle and a grim smile as he and Caleb crumble the bricks of Vergesson to dust. Astrid takes time. It makes sense—she has always been a fantastic dancer, and for a while, it appears they will be trapped in a precarious political tango forever, stepping around each other in their roles as the Archmage of Civil Influence and a simple teacher who may or may not be practicing treason in his classroom. But in the shadows, Astrid pulls a few strings to keep Caleb out of prison. Caleb hears a rumor and sends the might of the Cobalt Soul after a colleague who wants Astrid dead. And eventually, she begins joining him and Wulf on their evening walks through the streets of Rexxentrum. They return to the dance hall. They get lunch. They share memories, relearn each other’s old scars, and discover that solace can still be found in each other the way it was when they were children. It will always be complicated. It starts to become beautiful.

And of course, floating by Caleb’s side every step of the way is Essek, a drow who has learned to curb his ambition and care for others, who has decided to make his own amends. The former Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, who now spends his days picking up cupcakes for Jester in Uthodurn, planting seeds in the Blooming Grove. Sitting in on Caleb’s lessons with a different face each week, sketching runes into the floor of Caleb’s home amongst scattered papers and spell components, curling up on a couch beside Caleb and begrudgingly getting through Tusk Love because he promised. A traitor, a hero, a lifelong friend. A steadfast love.

So when Caleb Widogast arrives at the final page of his story, he is no longer shrouded in guilt, or grief, or regret. No, he is surrounded by the warmth of his chosen family when he takes his last breath, when time has run its course and he is finally ready to meet his parents again.

(And even before he sees their faces, he knows. He knows he made them proud.)

—————

also on ao3 | my other cr fics

#critical role #caleb widogast #mighty nein #empire siblings #shadowgast #blumendrei #cr spoilers #c2e141 #this is very delayed because i've been too busy to sit down and finish it until now and it's kind of a mess #buuut here tumblr have half my feelings about the finale and the nein crammed into one fic #my writing #my ramblings #c2 epilogue #cr fic

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tarnishedxknight · 4 months ago

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"Fear not..." Munoh repeated gently, seeing how shaken Gylfie was by their presence. Letting a bit of their magical energy wash over her, Munoh projected warmth and serenity to help Gylfie calm down. This one has taxed herself overmuch today, they thought. Yet still they thought she was up to the task of deciding whether or not help from an Occurian was something she wanted. In addition to calming energy, Munoh also let some amount of rejuvenation wash over Gylfie, to take the edge off her pain and ease the extent of her exhaustion.

Patience was something Munoh had in excess, and so Gylfie's question neither frustrated nor angered them. "Do not be intimidated," they said with a warm tone. "Too long have my kind lorded over your own. With power and arrogance we play as gods to lure the hearts of the easily-manipulated and the desperate. Shameful. Deceptive. We are but beings, diff'rent from mankind, 'tis true, but no more or less divine. Powerful enough to reign o'er Balance and Righteousness but arrogant enough to forget their true meaning... and consequence."

They floated a little, looking over the training floor before turning to face Gylfie once more. "I spoke out against this. Corporeal bodies do we lack, yet not all lack conscience as well. Champions chosen by Occurian word, granted power no hume ought wield, are made as saviors, revered as god-touched saints. Instead, baited to the will of my kin, to keep Balance. Life, our game, and lives, our pieces moved. No longer, for me. 'Tis wrong, to drive mankind to war and destruction to suit our whims. I proposed we stop. Proposed... we let mankind carve their own fates, to whatever end they choose. For that, I was cast out, branded both Heretic and dead to my kin."

The soft glow of their body seemed to flare for a moment as they recalled that painful moment. "And so you ask what I want in return for aid and advice offered? Two things, of much importance to us both." The glow of their form returned to its previously soft state. "Firstly, I ask for your happiness. I take pleasure in the happiness of mortals. When finally they see their dreams realized, goals met, suff'rings alleviated, it is as music to me, a beauteous sight. I wish to see you made happy, Judge Ynarra. Then shall I know my deeds have brought about goodness and contentment... and that shall please me."

"Secondly, I ask for your integrity. Remain true to your desires for an end to this wretched war that threatens to split Ivalice asunder. Remain steadfast in your vision for a new Empire, a new Archadia. Much looms on the horizon for you, for your Empire, for all of Ivalice. My kin have chosen their champion, and will soon position her to obliterate your homeland. All is not lost. The heart of this champion is uncertain, malleable. But all threats to Archadia come not solely from outside its borders. I... am not the only Heretic. There is another, Venat. We agree solely on mankind's freedom to choose their fate. Howe'er, where I would encourage peace and happiness, Venat encourages tyrannical ambition, and power enough to intoxicate men to madness. A certain scientist is their mark, but not only he. The third son of Solidor also falls prey to their charms, his own ambitions fed by promises of power. Venat must not succeed if Archadia is to survive. If, indeed, all of Ivalice is."

"You... desire better for your homeland than petty pursuit of revenge, absolute power, and unending war. Yours is an ambition unselfish in its vision, if not in origin. What began as a path to prove yourself to nay-sayers shall culminate in something far greater. I ask of you... that you fulfill yourself, with my help. See Archadia through its Time of Troubles. Help thwart forces which would tear Ivalice apart. And, in so doing, be made happy with the results. This is all I ask of you."

And Again | closed reply

@tarnishedxknight - continued from here

Was she going mad?

Gylfie nearly dropped her sword in shock as this being - this Munoh, this Occuria - revealed themself to her. As she recoiled in surprise, and staggered back. Was she-- No, she had to be hallucinating. She had pushed herself too far, and either this was a dream or she... she...

There was something in the way their voice seemed to resonate through her mind. A gentleness that was almost soothing. An inquisitiveness that was rather endearing. A part of her was still resistant to them - resistant to the idea that an Occuria took interest in her - yet... it was the way she felt that made it clear she wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. Her body ached something horrid. Her fresh scar radiating pain that kept her jaw clenched tight, despite it all. Her head still spun with exhaustion and her body fought for every ounce of energy to keep her standing. Yet, she remained still - remained silent - as she listened and struggled to process the reality of it. To understand what it was this Munoh was telling her. That... they wanted to aid her.

Her. An Occuria wanted to aid her.

Her hands began to tremble, yet... she found the strength to sheath her sword. Was she processing what was happening? No, not even close. Her mind still struggled to wrap around this was real. That she had managed to draw the attention of a being so ancient and powerful, and that they wanted to help her. Would it be better if she ran with what little strength she had left? Could she even run? She fumbled for her helm, barely even realizing what she was doing, and pulled it off - holding it tight within her shaking hands as she stared, wide-eyed. Her heart racing in her chest.

"I..." Gylfie stumbled over her words, and drew in a shaky breath. Should she bow? Offer her respects? Plead for them to leave her be? Her head spun, but she was in no condition to make sense of her own thoughts. But... they wanted to help her.

It seemed too good to be true.

She tried again. "What... what is it you ask in return?" Her voice was quiet - unsteady and cautious. Heavy with exhaustion that was more than evident in her eyes and face. In the way her shoulders seemed to sag beneath her armor. "You offer much, and I... I am honored, Munoh-" gods above, this was an Occuria and she needed to mind her tongue, "-but what is it you want from me in turn? I... I have no much to offer."

Was it wise to accept aid and companionship from an Occuria? Especially from one who broke away from the rest? Were they dangerous?

Her heart continued to pound, but Gylfie didn't move. Curious, fearful, and hesitant all at once.

#disillusionedjudge #oc muse: munoh

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lavellenchanted · 3 years ago

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I’ll Crawl Home (1/?)

A post Infinity War reimagining where Sif survives the Snap and tries to find her way back to Thor.

Read on AO3

Sif is a galaxy away from her home and everyone she loves when half the universe disintegrates into dust.

Keeping track of the time that has passed since she left Asgard has been difficult – not every realm and planet measures time the same way that Asgardians do, and in the endless, star-speckled darkness of space between them all time quickly loses all meaning whatsoever – but it has been at least two years, if not more. And there is still no sign of Thor.

It had not taken long to realise that his search for Infinity Stones had taken him outside of the Nine Realms, and though a small part of her was relieved, the galaxy beyond the realms being outside Loki’s reach and therefore safer for her as she searches for a way to bring him down, it made her quest that much harder to achieve. Thor might be anywhere on a myriad number of planets, and with Heimdall also labelled a traitor and forced to remain in hiding, Sif had only her wits to guide her.

She started with the obvious – the Collector, to whom they had entrusted the Reality Stone. He confirmed that Thor had been there, briefly, to check that the stone remained safe with him, but had left long since – further out into the galaxy, he thought.

After that, it was a matter of trying to follow his trail. Not easy, when she is following months later and he had been travelling by himself without much pause. But an Asgardian prince who wields the star-forged Mjolnir and the power of thunder and lightening does not go unremarked, and Sif hears more than once of the golden-haired warrior god passing through. Several times she thinks she comes close to catching him, but he is always gone just before she gets there.

The hardest part is the loneliness. She misses Hogunn’s quiet but steadfast companionship. She misses Volstagg’s raucous laughter and bold smiles. She misses even Fandral’s mockery and constant jesting.

Most of all she misses Thor himself. His strength and fierceness, the way he makes the worlds around them seem bigger and brighter just by his presence. She misses fighting by his side and talking and drinking with him late into the night. She misses his smile, and his goodness, his unwavering belief in her. She just misses him, with an endless, relentless ache, like a chasm inside her.

Some nights she thinks about giving up, returning to Asgard and her friends and doing what she can there instead of pursuing what seems more and more like a fool’s errand.

But then she thinks about Loki masquerading as Odin on the throne, of his declaring her and Heimdall traitors because they could see through his illusions – and in doing so tacitly declaring war on her, Sif, the very Goddess of War. As much as she would like nothing more than to beat the truth from his deceitful tongue, she knows they need Thor if they really wish to set things to rights. He is the only one that has ever been able to deal to his brother, and he is the only one that Asgard will accept on the throne if they unveil Loki.

So she presses on.

As she follows talk of another sighting, she realises that the path she is on seems suddenly to have diverted, to be heading back towards the Nine Realms. Is Thor going home, after all this time? But why so abruptly? Why change his course so rapidly?

A feeling of unease makes her spine prickle – and it is just as she is worrying about what she might find when she finally manages to get back to Thor that half the universe disappears.

Screams and cries of terror and anguish echo all around her. She turns, drawing her blade, ready to face an enemy, but all she sees is confusion and dust. Black dust swirling in the air, drifting high on the wind and dissipating into nothing.

People are sobbing, crying, reaching out in front of them as though to hold on to something and slowly as she watches and looks around, Sif begins to understand with a dawning sense of sheer horror what is happening. It is people that are dissipating, crumbling away into those terrible flakes of ash and dissolving on the wind.

She feels sick, her heart pounding in her chest, and her fingers tighten on her sword. But she cannot fight this. She doesn’t even know what’s causing it.

Skin crawling now with dread she runs forward, and for a moment she thinks it is everyone – it seems like everyone, so many people, everywhere, just unravelling at the seams like a loose thread has been pulled and they are all coming undone.

Some instinct, honed over a millennium of battling throughout the Realms, tells her that this has something to do with Thor’s search – with the Stones. Something like this, a travesty of such magnitude that Sif has never seen in all her long years, that she is struggling to comprehend, cannot be a random happenstance on a small, quiet planet at the end of the galaxy.

Did Thor know was about to happen? Is that why he left and headed for Asgard?

Asgard.

A jolt of panic stops Sif in her tracks. Is this happening there, too? Are her friends – Heimdall, Hogun, Fandral, Volstagg, are they -? Is Thor -?

“Heimdall!” The scream rips from her throat, raw and frightened. “Heimdall, open the Bifrost! Heimdall!”

She cannot be here. She needs to be with them, to die beside them if she cannot fight against this with them.

“Heimdall, please! Open the Bifrost!”

There is no response – only the continuing cries of those around her.

“Heimdall?”

Slowly, the sobs give way to silence. Deep, terrible silence, the sound of an untold number of voices simply vanishing from existence. Silence that rivals the void of space.

If Heimdall can hear her, he gives no sign. The Bifrost remains closed.

And Sif is alone.

It takes almost as long to return home as she has been away, despite the fact that she is now travelling with purpose, knowing where she is headed rather than waiting for the next sign. With half the universe gone, the rest has fallen into chaos and once peaceful planets that she passed through are now war torn, the survivors of whatever it is that has happened lashing out in fear and anger and burning what remains down around them.

Other places are dead, filled only with the ghosts and echoes of what was. Where before Sif was able to scavenge and work her way across the galaxy, now she must take whatever passage is available – however out of the way it takes her – because there is no guarantee of getting anything else.

There are those that work to take control of the chaos, to put out the fires and rebuild from the ashes. Sif hears rumours of a captain with golden fists and strength unmatched, and once she might have sought her out and volunteered to help, but now she can only think of home, of Thor and their friends. She has to find them, to know what has happened to them.

It has become clear the further she has travelled that the unravelling of people has happened everywhere, and when she thinks of Asgard sick fear makes her stomach clench.

She imagines the gold citadel of her youth devastated, half its people ash on the wind. She imagines her friends turned to crumbling flakes of dust, gone as if they had never been.

But what she finds is so much worse than she imagined.

Because what she finds is nothing.

The black void of space stretches out before her, littered only with dust, debris and rocky remains. A creeping cold claws its way up her spine as she checks the navigation system of the small ship she was able to commandeer – its owner was one of those that have disappeared – but it does not appear to be faulty.

This is where Asgard should be, but Asgard is not there.

Asgard is gone.

Shock rolls over her like a wave, relentless and forceful and leaving her breathless. There is an echo of pain, but distant; that cold unease has turned to numbness as she stares at the vast emptiness where her home should be, and she is vaguely aware that the pain will hit her later but, for now, her mind is keeping the full impact at bay so she can think.

Nowhere she has visited has disappeared entirely and instinct tells her that there is more at work here than what else is happening throughout the galaxy. There is no sign of survivors, or of anyone at all – there is nowhere for anyone to be. But Thor had been on his way back. And Heimdall had still been here, and the Warriors Three. Surely they managed to save some of their people.

If Thor had returned to Asgard in time, he would have taken any survivors somewhere safe.

And there is one place, Sif knows, that Thor is fonder of than anywhere else in the realms. One place where he would first seek refuge.

Her hands shake only a little as she keys in the coordinates for Midgard.

With nothing else to occupy her mind as she flies, her imagination offers up various possibilities to try and explain the complete disappearance of Asgard – but nothing seems to be enough, she cannot imagine anything so disastrous as to erase an entire world so completely. Not even half the people of the galaxy crumbling to dust managed that.

So how? What happened?

The question beats loudly, ceaselessly, in her mind like a drum, along with another that hurt even to think about, a sharp edge that she flinches away from but cannot avoid being cut by: could she have done anything?

She’s not sure she could. If Thor, the Warriors Three and Heimdall between them could not prevent Asgard’s destruction, Sif does not know what she could have done to tip the scale – but she could have helped. She could have been there, to fight with them.

At the very least she could have died alongside them.

It is as she is thinking this that the asteroid belt appears on the horizon and she frowns; she did not think she was that close to Midgard. A glance at the navigation system confirms that she has only covered about half the distance. So what is that ahead of her? Unease makes her stomach knot and she wonders if she is about to discover another world destroyed and its remnants scattered in the cold void of space.

As she gets closer, and the shapes coalesce, her blood turns to ice in her veins.

They are the remnants of a world, but not lifeless hunks of rock. They’re bodies, floating frozen and crystalline in the lonely, infinite darkness.

“By Ymir,” she murmurs, and even though she speaks softly her voice sounds much too loud, echoing harshly off the metal walls of the ship.

Amongst the bodies, she realises, is the twisted wreckage of a ship that has been practically split down the middle. Jagged shards of metal float here and there, some bearing burn marks, and Sif can only imagine the intensity of the battle that took place here. They must have been attacked rather than being the aggressors, she thinks, since they do not appear to be warriors. Most look like civilians, in normal, everyday clothes –

– Asgardian clothes, she suddenly realises.

Cold spreads through her as though an icy hand has gripped her heart, and she can hear the grief roaring at her again, threatening to overtake her. She stands, but although she can hear the clang of solid metal beneath her boots she has the notion that she is balancing on the very edge of a great abyss and it would take only the smallest push to cause her to fall in and be lost.

Her ship has reached the edge of the field of bodies and as one floats past, she finds she knows the face. One of the women that worked in Odin’s palace.

Sif wants to be sick.

It feels like a dream – no, a nightmare – as she forces herself to fly through the site of the massacre, looking for people she knows. There are so many, and yet at the same time so few. Does this mean there were survivors here, who went on to Midgard? Or were these people all that survived whatever destroyed Asgard, only to meet death here?

Is she all that is left of her people?

She looks at every face she passes, but there is no Volstagg, no Fandral, no Hogun. Nor is there any sign of Thor, the face she dreads seeing above all others.

A gleam of gold catches her eye and she turns the ship, manoeuvring it through a cluster of men and women whose faces are vaguely familiar but Sif cannot name, towards the wreckage of the ship. There, caught among the twisted, broken sheets of metal, is the body of a tall, slim man, pale-faced and dark-haired, and Sif feels the air leave her lungs.

Loki.

She bore him little love as children and even less in the last few years, but to see him here, dead, floating like debris in space is like a physical blow. He is still a prince of Asgard, and he was, at one point at least, a friend. She remembers him as a child and an adolescent, remembers talking and laughing with him as well as fighting with him and at times despising him. For this to be his end . . .

It’s wrong.

Dread making her tremble, she moves the ship as close as she can, looking past Loki’s body into what was the belly of the ship. But rather than the golden hair she fears, the only other body inside is dark haired and dark skinned, and still clutching his sword even in death.

“Heimdall.” Sif’s voice cracks on his name, and she sinks down on her knees. As he slips out of sight, her vision blurs, and the numbness can no longer hold the grief at bay. The tears spill down her cheeks as sobs rip from her throat in staccato bursts. She huddles on the floor of the ship, shaking and gasping for breath while it feels like her very soul is being torn asunder.

How long she cries for, she isn’t sure, but when the tears are finally dried she feels empty and hollow, as though the grief has carved everything else from her and left her just a shell. Asgard is gone. Her people are dead. While she was halfway across the galaxy searching for a way to save them, they were fleeing and dying and she didn’t know. Asgard was being destroyed and she didn’t know. Her friends fought and died without her, and she didn’t know.

How could she not know? How could her entire world be destroyed without her feeling anything – no twinge of warning, no snapping of an invisible cord that bound her to her home, nothing to tell her that everything and everyone she loved were fighting for their survival?

She should have been there.

Her head is pounding, so she pushes herself to her feet, her limbs tired and heavy, and reaches for the flask she carries with her. The cool freshness of the water inside helps to revive her a little, and eases the pain in her head enough to focus. She has seen Loki, Heimdall and many other faces she knew, but not Thor, or the Warriors Three. Bringing her ship back out, she drives once more through the debris and the bodies, looking for them, but she is certain they are not there.

Not a one of them would have abandoned their people, so if they did not die here then they must still be out there – maybe with other survivors.

The hope that thought kindles feels thin, fragile, and Sif is afraid to hold it too tightly lest she crush it, but it is there.

She set out on a mission – to find Thor – and she will not rest until it is complete. Midgard is still her best lead, since it seems what remained of Asgard’s people were indeed heading there, and the route the navigation system had plotted out is still there.

Quietly promising herself that she will come back and retrieve the people here to give them a proper send off into the next life, Sif turns the ship and once again flies forward into the endless, stretching blackness of space.

#lady sif #thor #thor odinson #thorsif #thor x sif #thorsif fic #finally starting to post this despite the fact that progress is very slow #because I have been working on it so long and I want someone else to see it #I also want to get it up before thor 4 comes out and sif is done dirty yet again #anyway please enjoy this thoroughly indulgent fic that has been languishing on my computer for way too long #my fic #otp: I courted war #i'll crawl home fic

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casualreader1234 · 4 years ago

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Reunion

Pairing: Natasha x Reader

An: Part two of the random story idea I had. I think I'm just going to keep the same summary each time because I'm too bad at writing them. I tried to make this gender-neutral, and I don't think I wrote anything that would imply a particular sex, but let me know.

Summary: What if you weren't the hero of the story? What if you were the villain meant to burn the world down?

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warning: Morally gray protagonist, violence

Word Count: 2k

[Part 1], [Part 2]

This gif is so funny to me.

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When you had first arrived in the U.S, you had been intrigued by tales of the infamous Black Widow, a former Russian assassin turned good, that was enough to catch anyone's attention. To satisfy your curiosity, you had tracked her down, wanting to see her for yourself. Watching her from afar, you understood why she was considered one of the best in her field: her movements always flowed into the next like she was performing a dance.

She easily disposed of her targets, strapping her weapons back onto herself. Seeing the completion of her job, you left the ledge of the building you had been standing of before she could see you. Slipping into the shadow, you had to admit that your interests had been piqued by the assassin.

///

You had always known that your girlfriend had been hiding secrets, but this one was far more exciting than you had thought. Never had it crossed your mind that Natasha might also be involve in the assassin industry. For such a planet, what were the chances of two assassins meeting and starting a relationship without either being the wiser. You weren't sure if that made her exceptionally good at her job, or you exceptionally bad at yours.

Asking around to some of your other contacts, you learned more about the KGB and the Red Room program that had trained Natasha, wanting a glimpse into her childhood. Disgust and rage filled you when you learned about the operation. They had hurt her, so you had made sure they all suffered for their crimes. Then, you returned back to America.

It was the reason you had stayed all these years. She was the reason. Though you've known where she's been all this time, you never revealed yourself. Maybe it was out of fear. Maybe it was out of shame.

It hadn't surprised you that Natasha decided to work for SHIELD. You've also known that she had a good heart, but it did make things more complicated.

She was one of the good guys now. If she ever crossed paths with you, she would be forced to face you as an enemy. So, for both of your sakes, you avoided doing things that would get SHIELD attention, carefully selecting jobs that would run under the radar. You had been careful, erasing most of your tracks, yet here you were, chained down to a table in a SHIELD facility.

Natalia-no-Natasha stared down at you. You unconsciously cringed under her intense gaze.

" How are you darling?" You asked, breaking the thick silence and giving her a small smile. "I must say, you look as stunning as always. Did you do something to your hair? It seems to be shorter."

Natasha didn't reply, instead shaking her head angrily. " What the hell, (Y/n). What are you doing in the U.S?"

Her harsh tone almost made you flinch. “ Here to visit my beautiful girlfriend? I've really missed you.” You tried, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your neck. Natasha may not have any powers but damn was this woman scary when she was mad. Flattery wasn't going to work on Nat though, her face stone cold as she looked down at you.

"That doesn't answer the question, milyy (darling)." She replied with a strained smile.

Tony watched the exchange with a slack jaw, eyes looking like they were going to pop out of his sockets from shock. “ I’m sorry? You know this criminal Nat?”

Your head snapped to the man, jaw clenching. “ Nat?" You sputtered at the intimate nickname. "Who gave you permission to call her Nat?” You swiveled back to look at Natasha. “What is your relationship with him?” You asked accusingly.

Natasha rolled her eyes, turning to Tony. “ Don’t call me Nat, Stark. And this idiot here is (Y/N).”

"Yeah, her [girlfriend/boyfriend] ! " You added helpfully.

The look Natasha gave you was deadly enough to silence you again. She turned her attention back to Tony, " Do you want to fill me on what's happening Stark? I return from a mission and hear from Steve that we had caught a mutant, but I wasn't even aware that we were after one." You frowned at the fact that had she referred to you as a mutant, but chose to ignore it.

Tony shrugged, acting like a bratty overgrown child," No, I don't want to." Natasha's jaw clenched and you decided to lend a helping hand.

Tendrils of black suddenly snaked around Tony, pining him hard against the wall behind him. His eyes widened, shooting to the origin of the magic, seeing you now unbounded and smiling widely at him, the handcuff hanging loosely off the table. Standing up, you rubbed at the red marks on your wrist left by the binds.

"Better answer her, Mr. Stark, I wouldn't want to get on her bad side." You threatened, eyes turning pure black for a split second.

Tony desperately looked at Natasha for help, but she stayed steadfast, unmoved and patiently waiting for him to answer. Realizing that no help was coming, he relented. "Fury got tipped off about some assassin that had been piling up bodies all across the U.S and North America. At first we dismissed them as the work of sporadic killers, not linking the deaths together until we got another tip about them being a mutant. We had Wanda examine a few of the bodies and she confirmed that magic was the cause of death. Since then, we've had our eye set on a contracted killer who went by the alias Reaper. A few weeks ago, we got a hit on their last location, and from there, we planned our trap."

Realization dawned onto you, " You put a bounty over yourself!" You exclaimed with a chuckle, thoroughly impressed by their commitment. It was a good plan, one that you hadn't even considered. Of course, if it had been any other week, the plan would've failed.

Every time you used magic, there was a backlash. The magic was deep inside you, a part of your very being, but it didn't stay that way willingly. The black flames were a dark and ancient form of magic, one that could only be wielded by a select few. Long ago, many groups had tried to master the arts, but most failed. The magic was powerful, more than anyone really knew, and only grew more so as it consumed more energy. Magicians didn't as much wield the magic, as they did subjugate it.

Candidates trained for years in preparation for the infusion, getting their body ready to handle massive amount of energy. When they were deemed ready, they would be exposed to a pure form of the magic. The flames would consume them and their screams could be heard for miles. Most people who entered the last trial end up dead, completely consumed by the magic. A few though, came out stronger. Instead of being consumed by the flames, they had somehow consumed the flames, magic now flowing through their veins.

Even then, the magic inside of wielders fought against their vessels, constantly trying to escape. The ring you wore helped you control the magic inside, absorbing some of the power and trapping the rest of the flames within you, where it couldn't escape and grow any stronger. But every time you took off the ring, you unintentionally let the magic grow, and when it finally returns back to you, the fight inside gets a little tougher.

Normally, it didn't affect you much. You had been trained since childhood to control the magic, so you could go hours with continuous magic use without any major repercussion. But the past month, you had really tested your bounds, toeing the limits of your control. This inevitably degraded your mental state, leaving your mind a little hazy. This meant you were a lot more impulsive and less observant, something that played in favor to SHIELD's trap. You knew you shouldn't have taken the hit on Tony, especially due to your exhaustion, but you had let your excitement of possibly seeing Natasha blind you. Nevertheless, the current situation didn't really worry you anyways, although you made a note to deal with a problem later.

"And why wasn't I informed of this?" Natasha pressed on.

"Don't take it personally. You're area of skills weren't required for the job, so you weren't informed. Simple as that." Tony plainly stated, clearly sensing the Russian's agitation.

You had to stifle your laughter at the irony. If Natasha had been assigned to the case earlier, you probably would've been captured much sooner.

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, obviously deep in thought as well. " Release him, (Y/N)." She finally said and you happily obliged, but not sliding you ring back on, letting the flames surround you in a hazy aura incase you needed to react to any threats. Tony let out of breathe of relief as your magic retreated, but you could see that he was still a bit shaken up, the effects not fully wearing off.

"Hey are you alright darling?" You asked concernedly, ignoring the wobbling man when you caught Natasha looking a little pale. Walking over to where she was, you reached out a hand to lightly caress her cheek, the flames retreating as it reached her. You hesitated for a split second, unsure of how she would react, but Natasha leaned into your touch. Her eyes met yours. It was the same bright green that you dreamt about, and they looked even more dazzling up close. She smiled up at you and it was like all the years you've spent apart hadn't happened.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She whispered reassuringly and you smiled too in relief. “ What does Fury want with the (Y/N)?” She asked Tony, but her eyes didn't leave you.

“ The same thing we do to all threats. We either eliminate or imprison them .” He answered, voice indifferent.

Natasha turned to him, much to your dismay, “Why can’t we accept them into SHIELD?” she offered instead.

Tony, who had thought your weird relationship with Natasha was the strangest thing that could happen, couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You want to let an assassin into our ranks? Are you crazy?! Did you already get your hands on the vodka shelf?” He stammered.

Natasha gave him a dark look, one that sent a chill of excitement down your spine, “I was an assassin too Tony.”

Tony didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but he didn’t need to. The door to the room swung opened again, this time a larger blonde man marching in. You recognized him from your intel: Steve Rogers-Captain America. Behind him, you saw several heavily armed agents behind him, their guns trained on you.

Natasha whipped around at the sudden intrusion, surprise flashing across her face. " Steve." She said warningly, noticing the same things you did, but Steve didn't let her finish, already throwing out his shield in attack. The metal was launched at you, cutting through the air faster than the eyes could follow.

You easily caught it, magic stopping it mid-flight.

You sighed at his pathetic attempt, " Mr. Rogers, don't you know it's rude to interrupt? You can't just come in here, guns blazing, and shield flying." You reprimanded, lazily throwing the shield back to the man. Steve tried to catch the shield, but was knocked back by the sheer force of your throw. The men immediately behind him stumbled back in shock as the 6'1 super solider crashed into them. Those who were left standing quickly recovered and upon realizing that their first line of attack had been beaten, prepared to shoot. They found themselves unable to. Fear had crept up on them during the ruckus and now they were unable to move as your magic seeped through them. With a simple wave of your hand, the black flames around you attacked and within seconds, all the agents, including Cap, dropped to the floor.

"What?" Tony gasped in horror, and for the first time, he seemed to truly understand the extent of your power.

"Relax, they're not dead. I just knocked them out for-" You pretended to check your wrist for a watch, " -a while. I don't know, I usually don't wait around for the people I knock out to wake back up."

Natasha was staring in shock at the pile of bodies by the door and you saw something indistinguishable in her eyes. A distinct chime echoed off the walls of the room, drawing your attention to your phone in the corner. You walked over to it, Tony looking like he wanted to stop you but was too terrified to. Picking it up, you read the message silently. Shouting could be heard getting louder, footsteps pounding towards you as alarms blared.

"Looks like that's my cue to leave." You announced to Natasha and Tony. " Sorry to cut our reunion short Talia."

Natasha stepped forward, blinking out of her shock. "(Y/N) wait-!" She began.

"Don't worry, I think I'll be staying a little bit longer in New York. We'll see each other soon my love." You promised, picking up one of the fallen agent's guns and shooting out the lights until you were enveloped in pitch darkness. Then, before the backup agents could arrive, you melted away into the shadows.

///

You emerged from a dark alleyway in some shifty part of the Bronx. Pulling out your phone, you replied to Matt, your associate, declining the new job he had sent over, informing him that you would be taking a vacation for a while.

Seeing Natasha had reminded you of how much you actually missed her, and you didn't want to just leave New York yet, not when you barely had the chance to catch up with your lover.

But first, you had a snitch to catch. Someone had tipped off SHIELD about you. Someone who knew you about your power at that. You couldn't let someone so dangerous live.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------Powers of Reader [Will be updated as more information is learned about Reader]

-Ability to set fear in opponents

-Ability to melt into shadows (teleportation like: goes into one shadow, pops up somewhere else)

-Magic flames that kill people(?) and knocks them out(?)

-Major simp for Natasha (special skill)

#natasha romanoff #natasha x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel fanfic series

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