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utterlyazriel · 1 year ago

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whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: eek not a request but an idea that wouldn't leave me alone! thus... we embark on a mulan-esque story that i hope u will enjoy <3 big thank you's to @strangerstilinski who listened and helped immensely as i whittled a hunky idea down to a plot

word count: 2.9k

synopsis: Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lords. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter. fem!reader

— CHAPTER ONE :: STRANGERS

Frost was everywhere.

Despite all the eerie memories that tainted them, the Illyrian Mountains were hauntingly beautiful, even Azriel could admit that.

Pine trees stretched up tall, their timber trunks hidden beneath the snow-leaden branches. It was a sea of swirling frost. Snowflakes eddied down from the frozen sky, a soft blanket of white draped across the landscape.

He was sure that some, maybe the likes of Feyre and her artist's eye, could see that beauty easier than he could.

Beautiful, Azriel thought bitterly, but fucking freezing.

Normally, dealing with the likes of the war camps that riddled these mountains was left to Cassian. He had that raucous, fiery way about him that was far better suited to it. Enough pride to challenge the warriors and more than enough eager attitude to back his taunts if need be.

But Cassian was currently very much occupied— and highly unsuited to crack the whip against some rowdy Illyrians in his current state.

Azriel couldn't help the smile at the thought of when he'd last seen his brother.

Freshly mated Cassian looked as though he had tiny hearts circling around his head at all times. He resembled a puppy following his nose, always that wicked grin on his face as he trailed after Nesta. His adoration was impossible to miss.

Cassian had more than earned the time off. He deserved to celebrate properly, to have a couple weeks with no badgering worries, with no bickering Illyrian warriors to deal with (beyond his usual two).

So, as a mating gift to his brother —and partially to escape a house filled with intolerably mated couples— Azriel had taken over his duty temporarily. To oversee the war camps he detested so much.

Today, he was to investigate the rumoured stirrings amongst the camps and assess the level of threat it posed. More often than not, these sorts of stirrings were simply whispers of rebellion but nothing more.

There was an easy fix; a visit from one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history, or even from Rhys himself. It always made the Illyrians a little nervous and those whispers of a coup would sweep away with the wind in a matter of time.

This time, however, the network of spies that operated under Azriel had not come back spinning such rumours.

Instead, there was talk of Lords with ruffled feathers. Lords with bruised egos due to a single bastard warrior, rising in the ranks and not playing by the rules.

The familiarity of the situation was almost too ironic, Azriel thought. He had half a mind to tell Rhys what he had learned and leave them to it. Cauldron knew these brutal camps needed a bastard to challenge their ways from time to time.

But still, there was always the potential for such a warrior to pose a threat in the future. Azriel could not leave a possible danger to brew. No stone left unturned.

The snow beneath his boots was beginning to melt.

He had been standing in the cold and peering up at the war camp ahead, barely seen through the heavy snow falling, for too long now. Snow was gathering on his wings, tendrils of ice shooting through their sensitive membrane. Find the bastard.

Shaking off the snow, he began to walk.

—

Gods forsaken males and their egos.

The bone in your forearm ached, having taken the brunt of your initial fall in the mud. It's covered in it too, the muck of the ground that always seemed to linger. Always a layer of dirt beneath your fingernails. Truly, one of the many incredible appeals of the Illyrian mountains was never actually being clean.

You'd probably hate it more— if it didn't do such a good job of masking unwanted scents.

But right now with a jagged cut that tears up your left arm, all the way to the elbow, you're cursing the mud. It's likely festering with uncountable grim diseases. You'll have to flush the wound to properly clean it before it begins to heal.

That means water. That means energy that you don't particularly feel like summoning to fetch it. You cast your glance to the window.

Outside, the Mother's Kiss howls loudly.

The southerly chilled wind current that Illyrians don such a precious name is quite fitting for their backward ways — to expect a kiss from your mother to have such a sting on the face.

Tonight, the current seems particularly fierce. The windows of your shelter rattle in warning. A storm had blown through camp rather unexpectedly and you'd caught the worst of it, tangled up in a snarling fest against Brudam.

Brudam, who is responsible for the current state of your arm. Your lip curls at the mere thought of the arrogant male. Your wings bunch up tightly and you huff quietly to nobody.

He'd caught wind of the broth you had made that had filled the stomach of three ravenous bastards in the camp. It had been just enough to keep them on their feet. Tonight, you know that one hot meal might very well be the difference that helps them survive the night.

But Illyrians are a tough breed— and they don't take kindly to people giving handouts, as Brudam had put it.

You preferred the term leveling the playing field.

As if Brudam and his Lord father had ever experienced to ache of starvation. Ever had to sleep in the snow with nothing but their own wings for warmth against a blizzard.

Another deep pain twinges in your arm and you hiss, drawn out of your thoughts. If you have to pick your wins, you can at least admit you're glad he had only found out about the broth— and had seemed none the wiser to the healing tonics you were slipping the freshly-clipped girls.

It ached to see them and their quivering wings. The way the muscles in their backs buckled when they tried to spread their wings, a cut too deep into the wrong nerve. It ached to see it, yes, but beneath that pain was an ocean of bitter and furious fire.

But your righteous anger would not help these girls.

You were not the most proficient healer and the tonics you were attempting... it was hard to say if they would make any difference in saving any females' wings.

You were gathering knowledge as best you could though, scraping together herbs that scarcely grew in the frozen climate. It was a poor imitation of something that might work.

Whether it would be enough... that was up to the Mother. But you had to try.

You assess the wound on your arm once more, wondering about the reserve of water you had in your small hut— whether you could both clean your wound and have enough to hydrate.

Another glance out at the wintry snowscape outside. You grimaced. If you didn't, you would have to bear the blistering chill of the Mother's Kiss to get more.

Weariness weighs on your bones. You hadn't been prepared for the fight, hence your almost embarrassing injury, and it drained you more than you expected.

You stand with a sigh and drag your feet toward the tiny cauldron filled with melted snow collected earlier in the day. It hangs over the fireplace, the embers within long since snuffed out. Your motion stirs them up.

For a moment, you stare into the fireplace. The water in the cauldron shimmers. The shelter creaks around you, bending in the wind.

It's covered in soot, marred by the flames that usually lick it from beneath it. The lip of it, however, is still clean enough to see your own reflection. You peer into it.

And in that reflection, you find a tall figure with massive wings looming above their shoulders standing behind you.

Your heart spasms in shock and you have to swallow your gasp of surprise. Your eyes dart up, frantically hunting for a weapon. You grab the closest object you can, your hand closing around a kitchen fork. And before they get the chance, you twist and lunge, arm raised.

The floorboards groan as your boots slam into them, darting forward to attack. But the male dodges you easily, your strike passing through empty air.

You don't stop, turning and striking for him once again. The male sways back again easily to avoid your swing and you scowl.

Quickly feigning one way, you watch as his hands, weaponless, move to defend his gut — and you change direction, fast. Neck exposed, you snarl as you sink the fork deep into his shoulder.

The male hisses in pain.

You falter for a moment at the noise but it's a mistake. His hands move so fast you barely see them, gripping your wrist that holds the fork and twisting it down to the ground, immobilising you from using it.

You snarl again and tug against him fruitlessly. A swell of panic begins to rise within you as you tug again, again, again. His hold doesn't falter.

"Stop," The male commands you quietly.

This time when you tug, he opens his fingers and you fly back onto your ass, wings flaring out a moment too late to catch yourself.

You expect him to trudge forward, to beat an attack down on you now that you're less defended, but he doesn't move from his spot.

In fact, you realise as you stare at him, cheat heaving, he hasn't attacked you at all.

His weapons, which there are many of them, stay strapped to his side, glittering against the snow's reflected light. You spot the siphon on his hand, a churning sapphire colour — and clock the matching one on his other hand.

This was not just any Illyrian warrior in your home.

Faintly, your panic subsides as you realise that if this male meant to hurt you —to kill you— he very well could have done so by now.

You let your eyes trail up, taking in the face so hidden in shadow, and recognize that the darkness swirling around him is not ordinary shadow.

The revelation has you sitting up a bit straighter, the bindings around your chest pulling tight. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

What do you say to one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history —one who served on Rhysand's inner circle, friend of the High Lord of the Night Court— when you've just stabbed him with a fork?

As if your thought had reminded him, the male —Azriel, you know his name to be— shifts and reaches for the utensil still sticking out of his shoulder. He yanks it out without a noise of complaint.

Then he says, "Considering your choice of weapon, it's no surprise Brudam cut up your arm."

You scowl at him but at a closer look, you can see that his expression isn't condescending. No, with his raised brows, he almost looks... impressed.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." You bite back defensively.

Azriel's eyes dance with amusement. He throws the fork onto your table with a clatter. "That's how you greet visitors?"

"Uninvited ones, yes."

His amusement fades, the planes of his face shadowed and yet still handsome. Like most Illyrians, there's this incomprehensible sense of elegance to him, an alluring pull tied to his very demeanor.

But looking at him now, even in the dimness of your shelter, you could see Azriel went beyond to type of beauty that usual Illyrians had. An unparalleled grace, an unmatched Adonis.

He is the most beautiful male you had ever seen—and you had just stabbed him with a fork.

"Sorry," You mutter eventually when he doesn't say anything.

You shift onto your knees to stand, your hand coming to cup beneath your elbow— the ache of the injury had begun to bleed back in now that you weren't focused on fighting off an intruder.

"You're forgiven." He says. You can see lightly, through the dimming light, the faint blood on his neck you've caused.

"You fight well," He comments, with the air of a compliment. Something like amusement is in his eyes when he says, "Even with your unusual choice of weapon."

You glare at him as you climb to your feet and all but collapse into a chair. You don't even have another to offer to him. Buried beneath your leathers, your chest aches in pain — a reminder that it's been bound for far too long. You ignore it and tilt your chin towards him.

"Why are you here?"

You're actually sure that even if you offered Azriel a chair he wouldn't take it, given how stiffly he stands before you. He takes a moment to answer, his gaze flitting around the small room you both stand in. Calculating, categorizing.

"There were rumours of a warrior turning up trouble here."

He fixes his hazel-eyed gaze on you. You steel yourself beneath it. "A couple days in your camp and it became clear who the outlier was."

A couple days? For some reason, you can't believe that he's been surveying this place without detection from anyone. Another glance at his shadows, the dark masses that hang around his shoulders, and you can believe it a little more.

Besides, it's hardly as though the Lords would deign to tell a bastard like you anything important.

You clench your jaw but don't say anything.

"Brudam mentioned you feeding some warriors." Azriel continues, his tone unreadable. Though something, you couldn't tell what, glittered in his eyes. "Not very in the spirit of Illyrians."

You scowl at him again. Even if he had once faced these conditions before, you wondered if his time away, spent Cauldron knows where, had softened his memory.

"It's not against any law."

"No, it isn't," Azriel says. His eyes narrow. "But making healing tonics without a Healer's jurisdiction and selling them to young females is."

Your heart stops for just a moment. How could he know that? The last batch you had dropped off had been over a month ago.

Without thinking you snarl back, "I'm not selling them, you prick."

Something blooms on Azriel's face, surprise and a hint of smugness.

Your mouth snaps shut as you realise what you've done. You curse yourself. Slumping back in your chair, your wings sag with you and you let them droop onto the floor, uncaring. He could very well be here to kill you, given the knowledge of what you had just admitted.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

You stare at the floor and wonder which version of the High Lord is true; the Court of Nightmares whose power ripples through these camps and keeps them in line. Or the rumours of a softer side, a dreamer.

You wonder, more importantly, which of those this male before you is friends with.

Something in the floor creaks when Azriel finally moves. He crosses the room swiftly to the fireplace and gathers two logs from the stack of firewood beside it, tossing them onto the pile of ash.

You watch, perturbed, as he hunches over the fireplace for a quiet minute— and when he pulls back, a small flame is burning on the wood. It dances on the log, entrancing and amber-coloured.

Heat begins to fill the room. You pick your wings up and stretch them towards it, grateful for how they begin to warm. You hadn't quite realised the extent of your chill until right now.

It's such a kindness that hasn't been shown to you in many years. Surprise and silent gratitude bloom in your chest.

Azriel turns back to face you. You school your surprise away.

"What's your name?" He asks, his voice gruff.

It's been a while since anyone asked that either. Bastard. Mongrel. Imposter. There are a thousand other words that have become your name whilst growing up here.

You can't tell him your name. In the same way you can't tell anyone here your real name without revealing too much about yourself.

So you shorten it and tell him that instead.

Azriel nods. Doesn't repeat it, doesn't blink at your hesitance. Instead, he just says, "Like I said, you fight well. You could be better though."

You frown at the backhanded compliment, something in you sneering at the jab at your fighting skills. Worse, you know he's right.

If you had weapons suited to your size, exercises that focused on your agility more than your brute strength... There's a good reason you have to work twice as hard as every other warrior in camp.

Azriel looks at your arm, no longer bleeding and beginning to stitch itself up. Shit, you really need to clean that first.

"Clean that and get a good night's rest." He orders, not meanly. Then he crosses the space of your shelter in a few paces of his long legs, heading for the door.

"You—" The question dares to come out of you. "You're not going to turn me in?"

Azriel pauses, one hand, one scarred hand you can now see with the fire going, on the door. So, the rumours of that were true.

"No," He says lowly. He sees you staring, and as if on command, the shadows swirling around his shoulders dart down to cover his hands. They and the doorknob in his hand disappear from sight completely.

You evade your eyes back up to his hauntingly beautiful face. His expression is stony, unreadable. He stares at you for a long moment, the dancing fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

"I'm going to train you."

[NEXT PART: ALLIES]

#ahhhh!!! i'm very excited for this one!!#pray i can do it justice !!#azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel fic

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shady-tavern · 5 months ago

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Paint the Town

(warnings ahead for semi-graphic violence, mentioned and implied death, as well as implied suicidal ideation from a side character, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Part One: Woe to the People of Order

*.*.*

Cameras flashed to a blinding degree, journalists cramped together in numerous seats, leaning forward like a hungry sea, wanting to drag all the heroes within sight under the surface. To peel back every layer until they could unearth secrets and unspoken thoughts, all the things they could use for their next headline, their next big hit to sell millions of papers to impressionable people.

To people who wanted to see heroes fall as much as they wanted to see them rise.

'The press is not your friend', Olivia's mentor had told her on her first day as a sidekick, the two of them getting ready for their first patrol. She remembered that she had been so nervous her mentor had to help her into her gear. 'Never make the mistake of thinking otherwise. Failure is more delicious to them than success.'

It was one of three lessons that had saved Olivia's hide more times than she could count. Journalists and paparazzi could be quite charming, quite friendly, they had different tactics for different heroes, trying to weasel statements or just a wayward word out of them. Even a hero's silence was something to be used.

They wanted anything and everything they could use in an article, even if they took things fully out of context. Even if they hounded tired and exhausted and often hurt heroes into having outbursts that later made them look unstable and aggressive to the public eye.

Inevitably, there would always be an official apology issued by the hero and their PR manager. Promises to be better and apologies that were not always necessary, gifted to a public that was as mercurial as a bored god looking for entertainment. Or like a hungry, petty little beast that delighted in seeing people struggle in order to make their own, messy lives look prettier.

'I would never make that mistake', they'd say, like they were better, like they didn't have bad days. Mean days. Terrible days. 'You'd really think someone in the public eye had thicker skin.'

Olivia was a little slumped back in her chair, knowing she was only here to show her face since PR was going to do their level best to ensure she would not have to open her mouth. She had made them regret signing her up for interviews until they had stopped, but they couldn't keep her out of the public either.

Not when she was the Number One of the heroes.

One of the younger, rising heroes beside her was downright shining with the attention of the press and his eagerness to do well, to inspire others and promise that he was going to do his best to keep everyone safe.

The press was eating it up. They loved a shiny new star they could polish up, only to later decide just what to do with that shine. Tarnish it? Put pressure on it until it dimmed and vanished? Or were they going to watch it crack under the pressure, shattering into so many pieces not even a champion puzzler could put it back together?

Another journalist was called on for a question and considering the way the guy turned to Olivia, she could tell immediately that he was going to direct his question at her.

Journalists did that sometimes, going against previous agreements about sticking to certain questions and scripts, to certain heroes, just to speak to her and while asking her anything got them kicked out, they usually left with a new headline in their pocket.

She lived to serve the people, after all, didn't she?

"Rescue," the man said and Olivia saw the PR agent downright lunge for one of the microphones in front of the group of heroes to interrupt, but she was a tad too slow. "Do you have any advice for young and aspiring heroes?"

A rather innocent question and Olivia saw the agent pause, thinking it harmless enough. Olivia was more than aware of the other heroes glancing at her, the older ones with quelling glances and the young and energetic ones eager and hopeful.

The young heroes wanted tips on how to rise, on how to be better. They wanted to soak up the shine they thought she had, as if it hadn't dimmed and cracked and grown ugly and tarnished along the edges over the years. They wanted to be like her.

She had been like that once and while a part of her hesitated, years old but child-young at its heart, she had long since stopped being soft. Had stopped being...kind.

"Get ready to bury your friends," she answered, calm and hard and true and the PR agent reached for her microphone again with a subtle motion for her to stop, but Olivia continued, "Don't let the glam fool you, villains will do their best to break you."

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have today," the agent spoke up, gripping the microphone tighter. "Please turn to Sunshine for a parting bit of wisdom!"

Sunshine was one of the oldest heroes in the business and Olivia knew of the pills he had to swallow on a daily basis to combat his chronic pain from countless injuries sustained in his career and the anxiety attacks he had.

The agency refused to let him retire, he was still one of their best ones and a great motivator for all the older folk to pursue their dreams – and spend money on the agency. He brought in a generous amount of cash with his hero merch and meet-n-greets.

"To add to what my colleague Rescue mentioned, you never know how long life truly lasts, so live it to your fullest. Pursue your dreams, hug your loved ones and don't forget, no matter the storm and darkness, no matter the strive and pain and fear, the sun will always shine again!"

'Nice save', Olivia couldn't help but think, not bitter or mean, because she liked Sunshine. He was genuinely good, from the tips of his curly hair down to the point of his crooked toes. His very soul was good. He was bright and a little cracked, yes, but shining still. Determined and strong.

He was made of stronger stuff than she, she thought as she watched him light up the room, the way even the most displeased looking journalists couldn't help but smile at him.

When it came to personality, Sunshine would have long since ousted her from her spot as Number One – he and two others would be great contenders for the position.

Cheers and claps erupted and Olivia didn't bother with the bowing and waving the other heroes did as they rose from their seats. She was a walking PR nightmare and she was determined to remain that way.

For just as much as Sunshine wasn't allowed to retire, neither was she allowed to quit. If the agency didn't let her go and she had to continue to make money for them, fighting battles for them, she was going to make sure they'd regret keeping her on board as much as possible.

The PR agent threw her a viciously displeased look once everyone had gone backstage and Olivia rolled her eyes with as much disdain as she could fit into the motion.

If the agency didn't want her to say things they didn't agree with, they shouldn't let her attend any public events. Easy as pie.

They had to occasionally sign her up for interviews though, of course, or there was going to be talk and online spaces in particular had really ramped up the conspiracy theories in recent years.

People who ran fan pages for heroes had already noticed that she barely said anything anymore, especially compared to when she had first started making a name for herself.

Rescue used to be a name many people connected with an upbeat, bright hero who had an encouraging word for everyone. Who made people believe in their dreams and a brighter tomorrow.

Olivia had believed the same, before staring down at her best friend's broken body, the spilled blood, the cracked open chest with ribs poking out of skin like a grotesque scene from an over-the-top halloween movie full of gore.

She had believed it, still, right up until her other best friend had died clutching to her hand, panicked and desperate, getting crushed by the building on top of him, begging her in breathless wheezes to help him. To save him.

She dreamed of them and of Owl, her one and only sidekick, who had brought so much light back into her life, only to dangle from a villain's grasp, neck at an odd angle. He hadn't even graduated high school, he had come to work with her for the summer, hoping to become a hero once he was done with school the next year.

They had all been good and kind. Had all wanted to make the world better. But villains were relentless monsters who hunted anything bright and glowing until they could destroy it.

Olivia was about to leave with the other heroes when an alarm blared from her special watch, the little screen at her wrist lighting up with a location, the color behind the black text a bright red.

Only Sunshine's wristwatch lit up too, which let her know that a rather dangerous villain was causing trouble and they were the only two nearby who were qualified enough to deal with that person swiftly. They exchanged a quick glance and Olivia motioned that she'd take over.

Sunshine hesitated, then inclined his head. He was more than capable of going on his own, but Olivia knew that his granddaughter was visiting today. He had promised to look after the little girl for the weekend so his son and daughter-in-law could go on a little holiday.

He had been looking forward to that for weeks now, a soft smile on his face that she hadn't seen in years.

She knew he'd have to force his family to wait if he went to battle now. He'd have to delay their plans while he wanted nothing more than to be there for his loved ones. To not disappoint them.

Olivia on the other hand had no such obligations. No pets or partners or children and her parents lived on the other side of the country, so she only saw them once or twice a year when she got her mandated time off.

She rushed to the address displayed on the wristwatch, to the location of the hero who had requested help. When she arrived she saw injured civilians dragged off to the side and trying to crawl further away, blood splattered across cracked pavement.

Alarms blared overhead, an automated and crisply pronounced voice, telling everyone to evacuate in a calm and orderly manner.

The entire street looked as though it had gotten hit by a very localized earthquake. Parts of the ground jutted up in sharp shards and broken chunks, all the windows in the surrounding houses were shattered and one smaller building stood visibly crooked, like it might collapse at any moment.

Her surroundings looked like an unrealistic movie scene from an action flick.

There were only a handful of villains with ground-based powers and even fewer dangerous enough that she got an alert. People around her sagged with relief as she showed up, slumping as though they knew that they were safe now.

Back before she had buried her friends and sidekick, before she had clawed her way through battle after battle, crying and desperate and hurting because the villains just wouldn't stop, she would have arrived with a big smile. She would have told everyone that she was here now and that they were safe. To leave it up to her.

"Call an ambulance and try to get out of here if you can move," she instructed sharply, raising her voice to be heard over the blaring sirens. "Help others if you can."

That was the moment her colleague flew across the street, slamming into a car with enough force it dented metal and shattered glass and she knew immediately they weren't getting back up. Insignia did not have an enhanced metabolism and if their spine wasn't broken from this, Olivia would eat an entire broom.

Her powers prickled under her skin as she stepped forward, reaching over to briefly press the other button on Insignia's wristwatch, requesting immediate extraction and medical help.

"Don't move," she instructed and looked up just in time to see Colossus appear, the hulking, rather new and powerful villain stopping in his tracks upon spotting her. She gave Insignia's wrist a tiny, hopefully comforting pat. "Be right back."

Colossus moved to drag up a chunk of the earth and asphalt to shield himself, but he wasn't fast enough.

Olivia's abilities were deemed one of the best among the heroes – and one of the hardest to train. Whatever powers her opponent had, hers changed to be their perfect opposition.

It also meant, however, that she had to improvise on the spot when she met a villain for the first time. Figuring out how to use what abilities she had been saddled with to win often ended in extremely sloppy fights that made people question regularly why she was even considered Number One.

If her enemy had no powers to speak of, if they used technology or sheer combat skills and smarts, she could only hope that she had enough hand-to-hand training to make it.

Olivia was a trained hero, heroes were meant to protect life first and foremost, even those of villains. Heroes were meant to be the good guys after all. They were supposed to represent kindness and integrity and second chances and hope.

But Olivia had buried her friends one time too many, had once stood surrounded by dead civilians, the villain responsible taunting her while the air had been thick with the stench of blood and feces and death.

She had been told she could not leave the industry if she didn't want to be saddled with a massive amount of debt when she decided that she was done with it all. That she wanted to go home for good.

Funny how the agency never told heroes and sidekicks that any and all property damage they caused in fights, fights they could not avoid, would only be taken care of by said agency as long as they kept working for them. If she left, they'd hand her the bills.

Olivia had gotten hurt over and over by villains, had watched others get hurt over and over and she was just done with everything. If people wanted a hero like they existed in storybooks and bright, sparkly ads, she was not the person to look to for that. Not anymore.

She had a street of injured civilians to defend and a colleague unable to move, badly injured and most likely in need of immediate emergency surgery. This villain was not getting back up once she was done with him, no matter how much she'd look like a villain herself later on the news.

Colossus clearly had had a grand old time tossing an under-qualified hero around, as well as injuring helpless civilians. Nothing new here and Olivia didn't bother to hold back.

She had, once upon a time, done her best to avoid injuring villains beyond knocking them out, but when ground-pulverizing powers rose to her fingertips now, she focused on packing as much as she could into every hit.

Colossus and she had clashed once before and he had gotten away only because she hadn't quite figured out the full scope of the powers she had gotten saddled with when facing him and because he had swiftly collapsed a house on a group of terrified civilians.

Villains were nothing but a scourge of the earth.

This time, Olivia knew what she was working with and most importantly, who she was dealing with and the lengths he was willing to go to in order to win or escape.

It was clear he had expected the same slap-dash, somewhat sloppy fight from last time.

It took two hits before he was on the ground, visibly reeling, struggling and failing to sit up again. Other heroes would stop here. They were, in fact, instructed and trained to. To stop when the enemy was down and apprehend them instead. To be better than villains.

But Olivia knew how much the prison facilities struggled to contain people with superpowers, how often they escaped, especially when other villains attacked the place.

There had once been a time when Olivia had thought it didn't matter, that second chances were all the rage. She was done with that, just like she was done with fighting people over and over again because they kept escaping.

She was done with arriving at ongoing fights to find weeping and bleeding and at times dead civilians and even heroes.

Olivia raised her leg just as Colossus turned over on his hands and knees to try and get up, bringing her foot down on his back with a flare of her powers. There was no noise from his throat, not when she heard the sound his spine and ribs made and he fell still, only his chest moving in little gasping breaths.

He would never again get back up, not after that hit and that was all that mattered at the end of the day. No more hurt civilians, no more broken colleagues. One less evil, permanently removed.

A sudden tingle raced across her skin and she flared her powers slightly, the ground-crushing sensation from before shifting to make her feel like gravity changed its course. Her gaze snapped up, just as the sky grew a deep, dark red, lightning flashing across it.

Floating above her, having managed to sneak up on her, was The End. A villain only three heroes were capable of fighting, herself included. Fuck.

Olivia didn't waste a second, letting the new power coursing under her skin flare out. She could never waste so much as a split second when faced with The End. The grip of gravity shifted within a heartbeat, like the snap of massive fingers, the noise of it cracking through the air. Just in time to slow the descend of The End's meteors and forcing them to a glowing stop right above the skyscrapers of the city.

It felt like her bones were made of metal and at the same time, as though she weighed nothing at all. She felt as though she was as liable to find herself crushed to the ground by the entire universe as she was to float away like a speck of dust on the wind.

"Little Rescue, ruiner of lives," The End shouted, fury making his voice sound like a guttural snarl as he pushed back against her powers, the sky growing darker still.

Olivia was faintly aware of people screaming in panic behind her, ahead of her, as civilians ran for their lives. Others crawled for their lives, legs broken or bleeding from wounds inflicted by Colossus that needed immediate treatment.

Treatment they wouldn't get, for ambulances were not allowed near active fight zones and the specialized removal teams were only sent out for severely injured heroes, not civilians. Too many paramedics had lost their lives or use of their limbs when they had gotten caught in battles.

Not that The End cared, of course. Villains never did.

Colossus at her feet was breathing in high-pitched, panting little wheezes, his body utterly unmoving.

The End had always kept his distance, but today he descended when he couldn't force his meteors further, slamming into the ground before her, his meteors crumbling to nothing and lightning started to flash like a thousand storms were getting unloading at once.

Olivia hurriedly dodged his fist, the air around her heavy and vibrating all at once as Gravity and Space started to clash.

"What a joke this world is," The End growled. "For a monster like you to be seen as good."

"And what a joke," Olivia growled right back, dark anger and fury beating in her veins in tandem with her heart. If she could take down The End, the city would be safer for it. "That you were born."

The End's next punch was heavy with the power of impacting meteors and the empty coldness of space, lightning crackling between like a hungry beast. He laughed, brief and hard and hateful and he snarled, "Well, if you want to act like a hero, then die like one."

He unleashed his powers, nearly forcing her to her knees and she felt the pain of something cracking within her left arm.

The End was ruthless, but so was Olivia, she was sure their faces looked the same under their masks, teeth bared and sweat sliding down brows as they traded blows, booms making the ground shake. The already crooked building toppled entirely and cars got crushed against walls, street lights bending and twisting like they were made of cheap plastic.

Only when Portalia showed up did Olivia realize what The End was doing. Getting her away from his colleague Colossus so someone could save him, while doing his level best to take her out for good.

She had no idea if he would actually murder her, the deaths he caused had always been indirect, a consequence of his powers laying waste, but that didn't mean much. Not when she knew how badly he could and would hurt her if she was just a split second too slow.

He had been training, however, moving just that tiny fraction of a moment faster than she did. For the first time, as his fingertips grazed the side of her mask, half of it shattered and she jerked back in startled alarm.

"Shit, End!" Portalia shouted in that second. "He's dead weight, get over here!"

Olivia lunged just as The End stepped back, but he had counted on that, ducking and shifting his weight and the next second his foot hit her chest with the power of a truck, sending her flying. She managed to use the powers his presence granted just in time to avoid an impact that would have left her in the ICU.

The next second, with a soundless snap, the powers were gone, as were the villains, leaving behind a thoroughly ruined street, weeping civilians and an unmoving hero. Olivia caught herself against a wall, pain crackling through her like fireworks, but she bit back a whimper and straightened to dig out a backup mask before she helped the civilians.

At least no one had died and Colossus might be out of the business for good.

*.*.*

Her arm in a sling and her body aching with bruises, Olivia wanted nothing more than to crawl home and curl up in her bed and forget today had ever happened.

The agency had taken forever to determine if enough of her face had been visible to compromise her identity, but they had eventually decided that it should be fine. If it turned out they were wrong, they had promised to deal with any of the resulting issues.

Olivia would hardly be the first hero whose identity had gotten revealed during a fight, they had reassured her. The agency had enough experience in dealing with it and, if necessary, spinning the narrative to a hero's advantage.

They either paid off the news to keep quiet or they stalled them enough to stage an identity reveal themselves, so any information coming out afterwards from newspapers and news shows wouldn't surprise the public anymore and instead supported the reveal.

It would be a massive problem for her personally, however, if that was the case. She wanted and needed her privacy. Once her real name was connected to her hero persona it would be possible to find out everything. Where she had gone to school, who her neighbors had been. Everything.

If people showed up at her apartment uninvited as a result of that, she was going to make the news and not for good reasons.

Still, as much as she wanted to lie down and unwind, she really needed to go grocery shopping. Her fridge was empty and she didn't even have toast that she could slap onto a plate for a lackluster meal.

Never mind that she was on a meal plan, just like the other heroes, to keep her in peak condition and she'd get glared into the ground by her nutritionist if she deviated from it.

The agency had taken her off the roster for a month so she could heal up, since one of the less powerful healers had fixed her enough that she'd by fine by then. The strong healers were busy trying to peace Insignia back together, who had nearly died on the way to the hospital.

They would move on to heal the civilians after that, if only for publicity's sake. Ever since the agency had noticed just how sales went up whenever they did that, it had become a common thing after battles.

The healers would be too drained after that to deal with her and Olivia was relieved to get some time off anyway.

While Olivia was glad the healers had gotten the go-ahead to help civilians during work hours, since many of them did volunteer work at hospitals after they clocked out, she still resented the agency.

For one, they deserved all the resentment she could give them and two, if they really cared about people, they would have made that offer far sooner.

Feeling tired and hurt, Olivia dragged herself back out of her apartment to shuffle to the nearest grocery store. Along the way she noticed her powers shifting under her skin once or twice, but she ignored it.

The last thing she wanted was to out some poor person who just wanted to enjoy their day in peace as someone with superpowers. The agency tended to hound people who had them, trying to snatch them up before other organizations could, always hungry for more names, more fame, more money.

There were far more people with powers than the public probably realized and many of them had no interest in becoming heroes. Many of them had powers that weren't useful for fighting at all as well.

And, well, if a fellow hero was somewhere out of costume, they deserved to be left alone. If it was a villain she'd sooner or later try to curb-stomp them anyway and she really didn't want to pick a fight around civilians if it could be avoided.

She didn't want to see more blood today, she didn't want to hear more screams and sobs that would follow her into her dreams, joining all the other nightmare-sounds that liked to greet her more often than not.

The agency had offered her pills for that, but Olivia had taken them only for a month before she quit. She didn't like how they made her feel and that they took away her edge, especially when she got called for an emergency in the middle of the night.

As she entered the store, she became distantly aware of her powers shifting under her skin once more and discarded it, squinting at the rows of bread to see if her favorite was still available.

Just as she reached out, someone bumped into her arm as the person beside her tried to do the same.

"Oh, my apologies," he said and she glanced up at a tall man. He looked pretty, she noticed distractedly, his smile charming and apologetic.

Then he stilled and stared, his expression going complicated and he looked like he had no idea how to react for the longest moment. Like he was shocked and startled and she resisted the urge to frown at him. She knew there were some abrasions on her face from where her mask had gotten half shattered, so she was willing to overlook his reaction. It probably didn't look too pretty.

"It's fine," she answered, turning back to grab the bread she wanted, determined to move on.

To her surprise, however, the pretty guy caught himself and said, "I – Sorry." He cleared his throat and seemed to catch himself, putting on a charming smile. He definitely knew that he was good looking, Olivia couldn't help but think. The smile and casual confidence said it all. "I didn't bump your hurt arm, did I?"

"You didn't see my invisible cast?" she asked while giving the side he stood on and had bumped against a dryly pointed look – her very healthy side.

He blinked and laughed briefly, a quickly smothered sound and he seemed surprised at his own reaction. "In that case, why don't you let me buy you dinner as an apology?"

Oh, he was flirting. Olivia hadn't been flirted with in forever and she knew that was her own fault. She was either working too much or, when she was off the clock, looked too sour, exhausted and angry and bitter at the world at large. He either didn't mind that or thought that she was still pretty enough to warrant a night out.

She weighed her exhaustion up against a meal and perhaps some nice company and decided she had some energy left for that. Besides, her apartment would just be glum and silent.

And if this guy wasn't pleasant to hang out with after all, at least she'd eat something before heading home. She could afford a meal outside of her meal plan. Especially if she didn't tell her nutritionist about it.

"Sure," she answered after a moment and put the bread back. Eating out would take care of her shopping for tonight and she could always come crawling back to the grocery store in the morning.

He blinked, looking like he hadn't expected her to agree so easily and then smiled like he was delighted. "Wonderful, do you want to finish up here?"

"No, we can go," she said, briefly glancing down to notice that his basket was empty as well.

"Lovely," he said with another charming smile and gestured for her to go ahead. "I'm Rhys, by the way."

"Olivia," she answered as she headed out of the grocery store with him, dodging around a couple arguing over grapes. "Do you always hit up people you've bumped into?"

"It's my main strategy," he answered easily in mock seriousness, bantering back like it was second nature and she found herself smiling a little.

Rhys made talking easy, easier than it had been in quite some time, as he led her to a small hole-in-the-wall, family run restaurant that she hadn't known was in her neighborhood. Then again, she wasn't out much.

If she was being brutally honest, she expected a nice enough conversation and a good meal and to go home with a pleasant memory. She did not expect the way Rhys and she just seemed to...click.

From the way he appeared surprised again and again for brief moments and sometimes looked at her like she wasn't what he had expected, he felt the same way.

Dinner was one of the best meals she had ever eaten at a restaurant and she resolved to show up more often in the future. It was only her exhaustion kicking in with a vengeance that made her realize that she had sat there for far longer than intended, chatting with Rhys.

"I'm sorry to cut things short," she said, though Rhys snorted as he glanced at his wristwatch, clearly clocking how long they had sat there together as well. "But it's getting late."

"Oh, no, I'm just as much to blame," Rhys joked and raised a hand to flag the waitress down.

The check was delivered moments later and Olivia snatched it up before he could, ignoring his indignant sputtering as she paid.

"I said it would be my treat," he said and it almost sounded like a pout. It certainly made her smile.

"I guess you'll just have to take me out again, if you want to make up for it," she said and he straightened.

"You would see me again?" he asked and when she nodded, he asked, "When are you free?"

"Whenever," Olivia answered, gesturing at her injured arm. "I'm on sick leave for a month."

There was, ever so briefly, a strange gleam in his eyes. "Oh, is that so? In that case, we can meet here Friday? For dinner again?"

"Sounds good to me," Olivia answered and pulled out her phone. "Want to exchange numbers?"

They walked out of the little restaurant with new contacts in each of their phones and Olivia found herself idling on the sidewalk for a couple more minutes, saying goodbye to Rhys.

His smile was charming when he waved at her and headed the other direction, the faint, easy to ignore shifting under her skin vanishing once he was far enough away from her for her powers to settle down.

She briefly wondered what he was capable of, before she brushed those thoughts aside. It didn't matter if he could fry waffles on his palms or read a book just by touching it, it was none of her business. Besides, she was the last person who'd toss someone with powers into the unforgiving jaws of the agency.

Her belly full with good food and her mood far lighter and better than it had been before, she trudged home, greeting her neighbors who were startled to see her hurt.

"Had a biking accident," she lied easily. Her neighbors were under the impression that she was some kind of huge sports enthusiast and she never disabused them of that notion. "It was fun, though."

She left after a minute or two of conversation, keeping topics light and away from herself. It was easy by now, she knew what to ask to get her neighbors to talk about the things they liked or the things that bothered them and she kept quiet in the meantime.

The less she told them about herself, the less she risked letting anything important or damning slip.

Her apartment was quiet and cool when she entered, smelling faintly of freshly washed laundry. Kicking off her shoes, she slumped down on the couch, only to grimace in pain as some bruises on her back flared up.

Groping for the remote, she put on a cheerful movie, one she was familiar with so she didn't really have to pay attention to what was happening on screen.

Her phone pinged and it was Rhys, wishing her a good night. She wished him a good night as well and fell asleep minutes later with a small smile.

*..*

Olivia stared at the newspaper blankly, the front page loudly and proudly declaring that The End had been part of an attack and that none of the heroes on scene had been able to stop him.

'No one to the Rescue' the underlining headline said and she bit back a scoff. She wasn't stupid, she knew exactly what kind of less than subtle callout this was.

There weren't many people who could confront The End and with her gone and the other two supers occupied with a huge rockslide tragedy, The End had dipped in and out undisturbed, causing chaos.

"And here I was hoping your day was going as good as mine." Rhys' voice made her look up. He joined her with a smile. "What's the frown for?" His smile dimmed a bit. "Did something happen?"

"No, it's fine," Olivia answered. There had been no casualties during The End's attack, even if three heroes were now hospitalized and a number of people had lost their livelihoods and homes and cars in the attack.

Villains just never cared about the pain and misery they caused, but what else was new.

Her mood remained a bit pensive however, even as Rhys accompanied her into the aquarium, the place he had chosen for their first date. While he purchased the tickets, Olivia sent a quick text to her mentor, asking if she was alright and how the other heroes were doing.

Her mentor had seemed more tired than usual lately, a grimness about her that didn't fade even when they met up for drinks at night. It worried her, if Olivia was being honest.

"Here," Rhys drew her out of her thoughts and she pocketed her phone, taking the ticket with a little smile and a thank you. "What has you so preoccupied today? Maybe I can help with it?"

"Distract me," Olivia requested after a moment. "It's just work."

Rhys made an understanding noise and then he did quite a thorough job of distracting her. He knew a lot about ocean life, his gaze coming alive in a way that made him look downright boyish in his joy. Like a child, being awed at the world.

It made Olivia smile and yet, at the same time, it made her realize, as they walked from exhibit to exhibit, that her own life sorely lacked in joys and fascination. It was as though her job as a hero had murdered all the innocence in her heart.

Her inner child was a silent, wounded thing, unable to cope with the reality that people, that villains, could be so very cruel. The stories and tales she had grown up with, about goodness prevailing, felt ever more distant.

Fairytales were only just that, after all. There were no wise men in funky hats with guiding words, no kind women with helping hands, no little fairies to whisk someone away into magical worlds. Not even trolls that could be tricked with a clever riddle and who ultimately didn't really harm anyone who wasn't very foolish.

But even those thoughts Rhys could distract her from and before she knew it, he held her hand as he showed her a fish with the funniest name in the world. It made her laugh more than anything had in weeks.

There was a curious thoughtfulness to him as he watched her laugh, but he smiled easily enough when she raised an eyebrow at him.

As they slowly headed towards the exit a good two hours later and Rhys ducked into the restroom, she swiftly entered the souvenir shop to buy him a little octopus plush. He loved the smart little ocean animals and even if she felt a little silly, the moment she presented him with it after they left the aquarium made it worth it.

"Thank you," he said, sounding genuinely touched, before he caught himself and cleared his throat. He looked quite thoughtful now and perhaps a little baffled. "That was very kind of you."

Olivia could only offer a wry little smile to that. "With all due respect, you don't know me very well yet." She looked ahead, watching a giggling group of friends as they left the aquarium as well. "I try to be kind where I can be."

Rhys' expression was still thoughtful, though something else was now lurking in his gaze that made him appear more solemn than before. "In that case I look forward to getting to know you," he said, gently holding the plush between his hands. "Would you like to eat lunch with me?"

He showed her to another hole-in-the-wall restaurant and before Olivia knew it, she had spent nearly the entire day with him. They parted ways in the setting sun, promising to meet up again, Octi, the freshly named octopus securely held in Rhys' arms.

He really was quite cute. And Rhys wasn't too bad either.

*..*

Before Olivia knew it, she met Rhys every other day. He showed her around most of the city to places she hadn't even known existed.

He also sent her plenty of pictures of Octi in his new home, in one he was perched on the sofa as though he was intently watching a historical drama, in another he was half turned away from the fried fish Rhys had cooked as though disgusted.

It made her smile, it made her laugh. It made Olivia feel brighter, like her very heart and soul got to breathe again. It also made her less than eager to return to her job. She really wished she could quit being a hero and maybe go on a road trip. Find a house in the outskirts of the city with a nice little garden. Maybe she'd even adopt a pet.

The End, on the other hand, was absolutely making himself out to be a nuisance. It was as though he knew that she was out of commission and that the other two high-ranking heroes had to deal with a new emergency across the country. He obviously took advantage of the fact that so few other heroes could stand up to him.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Rhys said as he looked around her apartment. It was the first time she had him over and he almost seemed hesitant to be here.

There was something slightly troubled in his gaze today and she had no idea why. He hadn't mentioned any problems, aside from some arguments with coworkers.

She made a noise to let him know she was listening as she pulled out pots and pans to prepare a nice brunch. It was raining buckets today so neither of them had been in the mood to walk around for hours on one of their usual dates.

"What do you think about villains?" Rhys asked, sounding far more serious than ever before. She glanced at him over her shoulder, a frown on her face. His expression was serious as well and he was watching her like he didn't want to miss a single reaction on her end.

"Why do you ask?" Olivia answered, reluctant to open that can of worms when they had had such a nice morning so far.

When the past almost four weeks were nothing short of...amazing, really. She did not look forward to returning to her job in five days.

"I've just been thinking recently," Rhys said and it sounded just a tad too casual. This clearly was a topic he had wanted to bring up more than once in the past. "We haven't really talked about it before."

Olivia stared down at the eggs she had wanted to fry and suddenly her appetite was gone. "I hate them," she answered honestly, not looking up from the food collected in front of her. The vegetables and fruit and bacon and cheese.

"Why?" there was a strange note in Rhys' voice, something challenging, something edged in hard wariness, but she didn't turn around to look at him.

Maybe he had a friend or family member who had turned to villainy in the past and was worried she would judge him or them.

Granted, there were some people who called themselves villains but who were merely nuisances at best. They were labeled disturbers by the public, even if the term made them pout.

Sidekicks were usually deployed to handle them. These people slipped in and out of prison easily enough, since most of them only got charged with public disturbance and some minor property destruction. They very rarely killed someone and usually stopped whatever they were doing the moment there were casualties.

"Do you know how many civilians a villain kills on average?" she asked, reaching for the eggs and cracking them into the pan with perhaps a little too much force, nearly crushing the eggshell into many small pieces.

Rhys was silent, as though startled and so she continued. She knew the statistics. She had seen the hospital rooms, she had checked up on victims, on people she hadn't been able to save. On civilians and colleagues who'd never be able to live normal lives again.

"Five point two per year," she answered. "And that doesn't take the injured into account. Currently, we have over a hundred people in the ICU who may never wake up. There are people who lose limbs or get paralyzed, who turn blind or deaf after an attack."

She cracked another two eggs as she spoke, her back tense and ramrod straight. "There are people who lose their livelihood, their homes and cars in attacks. Do you know how many are in life-long debt because of villains today? How many became homeless?"

"Dont," Rhys said suddenly, sounding unexpectedly choked up and startled and unsettled. "That can't be true."

Olivia's answering laugh was more a fanged bark, all aggression and pain and grim acceptance. "Call the hospitals if you don't believe me or check some of the official records that got released after attacks. Just because it's not on the news doesn't mean it doesn't happen. I know the statistics because I helped compile the data."

That revealed more than she had wanted to, so she bit back everything else she wanted to say. She bit back how she had sat with weeping and grieving people after attacks, hiding her own hurts while trying to help in what little ways she could.

She'd never forget the day a mother gripped her hands tightly, her gaze burning with a rage and grief so terrible it would have swallowed the world whole if it had a physical manifestation.

'Please stop them,' the woman had begged in a voice so rough it had sounded like a growl. 'Just stop them, once and for all.'

She remembered burying her two best friends, her sidekick. She remembered the pain and agony of their loss, of staring at villains who did not feel sorry, not even for one second, about what they had done.

Olivia had chosen the name Rescue for herself when she had graduated from sidekick to hero, because she had wanted to help people. To give them hope.

There was no hope she could offer in the wake of death. Only justice.

She still didn't turn around to look at him, the eggs sizzling in the pan and she reached for the bacon pack next, tearing it open with her teeth.

"Do you know the statistics for The End?" Rhys asked in a voice like he half didn't want to know. Oh, did she know his statistics. Only too well.

Olivia rattled them off easily enough and Rhys was so silent that she found herself looking back at him. He looked...horrified. To the point where she felt herself softening, tucking away her claws and teeth and helpless rage. He wasn't at fault after all. He was just a guy who had suddenly gotten whacked over the head with an ugly reality.

"It's not your fault," she said and he jolted like he wanted to protest but bit down on the words, looking even more fraught than before.

"I have to go," he said and Olivia paused in surprise. "I'm sorry. I just – I gotta. I'll call you, just..." He fumbled with his words like he didn't know how to start or finish his sentences and then he rushed out of her apartment, grabbing his shoes on his way out.

Olivia stared after him, befuddled and startled, the eggs sizzling merrily.

What had that been about?

*..*

Something weird was going on, Olivia thought as she headed into work, her arm long healed now. She didn't look forward to another day in the costume, but it wasn't like she had much of a choice. Besides, the villains weren't quite as bad anymore recently, for some strange reason.

The End had nearly vanished after being astonishingly active during her sick leave and a number of other villains had become very quiet as well. At least Rhys had called back after running out, apologizing profusely.

Something had shifted between them after that as well and while it felt like it had been for the better, like some kind of careful wall Rhys had kept up had crumbled, he also seemed troubled more often than not.

But no amount of prodding had gotten him to say anything, so Olivia had left him to it. She made sure he knew that she was there for him, but every offer just seemed to make him feel even more conflicted.

Outside of that, he was affectionate and sweet and kind and he didn't mind her strange hours or that she didn't talk about her job much. He didn't either, only complaining whenever one of his colleagues had pissed him off.

She didn't mind, it allowed her to keep her secrets, even though she felt more and more bitter about that. The agency had a clause in their contracts that they had to be informed if a civilian found out a hero's identity and while Olivia could lie to them, it would only cause a massive headache later.

She didn't want to drag Rhys into her world, even if she knew that keeping secrets was an asshole move. She just...she wanted one part of her life that didn't get tainted by her greatest regret.

Work was grueling that day, a group of villains had banded together and while she had arrived just in time to keep them from killing anyone, she left the encounter with a massive bruise on her cheek and a sore wrist.

"You gotta take better care of yourself," her mentor murmured as she fussed over her.

It felt good, sometimes, Olivia had to admit, to just lean on her mentor a little, even if she was the stronger and higher ranking one between them. There was a sense of security whenever her mentor was around. Like things were going to be okay, somehow.

"I won't always be here," her mentor added and Olivia pressed her lips together, the gentle little feeling in her chest getting snuffed out like a candle in a strong wind.

She didn't want to think about her mentor dying, of losing someone who had become family to her. Of losing the person who had caught her again and again countless of times, helping her back to her feet no matter how often she fell. Who had held her as she had wept over broken, unmoving bodies.

As they parted ways, Olivia made sure to hug her mentor for a long minute and the older woman didn't protest. They both knew how fragile life was, they both had buried people they had cared about. They both had lost and hurt and despaired.

Still, her mentor was a tough and crafty one, one of the few heroes who had no powers, who relied on gadgets and sheer martial prowess. Her mentor was going to be fine and even if not, she'd last long enough for Olivia or another hero to come to the rescue.

Olivia parted ways after wrangling a promise out of her mentor to meet up for drinks on the weekend and she was glad that she was meeting Rhys for dinner. On days like today she really didn't like sitting around in her silent, empty apartment.

As she headed towards the restaurant, she passed by a couple of young college students, one of them picking up a newspaper someone had left on a bench.

"Do you ever wonder if heroes are okay?" one of them asked, showing the other a headline with a picture beneath. Olivia knew the depicted scene, recognizing her costume and the hero she was dragging out of a partially collapsed building. "Like who saves our saviors, you know?"

Their friend scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, dude. Heroes save themselves, that's why they're heroes. They do the rescuing."

"I guess," the first guy muttered, dropping the newspaper into the trash.

Olivia turned away, tuning out their conversation as they talked about meeting up for studying with a group of cute students.

Rhys' smile fell when he saw her, her swollen cheek and bandaged hand and she waved him off.

"I tried kickboxing," she answered with an easy shrug. "Please get used to seeing me injured, I like trying new things every couple of weeks."

Rhys nodded, but he looked troubled still so Olivia offered her good hand and he took it, his touch so gentle it was nearly hesitant. He remained softer than ever before during the entire evening, a small frown between his brows whenever he looked at her.

He let her take him home and when he kissed her after they sat down on the couch in the dark, it was with so much care it surprised her when she felt tears prick at her eyes.

"When I met you, I had no idea you would become this important to me," he whispered as he sat in her lap, his knees bracketing her hips and her entire view was filled by him.

They had left the lights off and so he was only illuminated by the lights of the city shining through the windows. There was something aching in his gaze.

"I..." He paused, his lips pressing together as he raised a hand to trace around her swollen cheek without touching the heated, bruised flesh. He sucked in a sharp breath when Olivia shifted her head to let her cheek rest in his palm. It hurt a little, but it was worth the way his eyes grew wide.

"You really shouldn't trust me like this," he whispered. "What if I'm terrible?"

Olivia couldn't help but laugh softly at that, letting her hands rest on his hips and giving them a little squeeze. She liked his weight on her, warm and solid and steady.

"You make my days brighter," she answered, just as softly, like this moment was a spell that raised voices could shatter. "You make me want to hope for a better tomorrow. How could you be terrible?"

She caught a glimpse of his expression crumbling ever so briefly before he leaned in to kiss her. He kissed her like she was more precious than life itself, then he kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, then he kissed her like they had all the time in the world.

She sank into it, into him, letting him sweep her along, the troubles of the day melting away to be replaced by this wondrous, beautiful moment, cradled in safe hands of the dark. Like they were two secrets that could keep each other safe from discovery.

It made it easy, almost, to bare her heart to this man, to whisper a confession against his lips that had him inhaling sharply and pressing closer. He whispered his own words of love like they were something achingly precious to be presented to her.

Rhys touched her like she was everything he wanted and everything he feared to lose and when they curled up in bed together, Olivia fell asleep with another person beside her for the first time in years.

The last thing she was aware of, was Rhys holding her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead and whispering something that sounded like a shaky, tearful apology.

*.*.*

Olivia was just about to take a bite from her lunch, her stomach rumbling, when her alarm blared, the screen of her wristwatch immediately turning an ominous red as it displayed a location.

Hissing out a curse, she hurriedly grabbed her mask and left the break room, abandoning her lunch to an uncertain fate. If she was lucky, no one had eaten it by the time she came back.

When she arrived on scene, she was breathless, but genuinely surprised to notice that comparatively little had gotten destroyed. No one seemed seriously injured either. In fact, the area was empty of civilians.

It seemed that the newest invention of Gigantor had scared them away. The prowling mech-dogs certainly kept a neat perimeter.

And right there, among his colleagues, was The End, which explained why she had gotten called in. They were robbing a bank from the looks of it and she narrowed her gaze. The End was above such plebeian things as robbing a bank, so if he and the other villains needed money they were planning something big.

"Playtime's over," she called as she leapt down from her perch, landing behind the villains and going for Gigantor first. The more she could take out as quickly as possible the better. She would not win against The End if he had backup.

The villains looked startled to see her and Gigantor crumbled with a wet gurgle, clutching his throat and wheezing for air, some of the hounds leaping forward to protect him, but they didn't seem to be on the attack otherwise, so Olivia swiftly turned to the other villains.

Portalia and Midnight were flanking The End, but they fell back when he stepped forward, turning around. Portalia grabbed Midnight's wrist and they were gone. They probably had headed inside the bank.

Only...Olivia paused as The End fell into a fighting stance, power roiling under her skin. With Portalia working with this group they shouldn't have been spotted in the first place. There certainly wouldn't have been a reason for Gigantor and his inventions to show up.

Which meant this was a distraction.

Olivia hated it when she had no idea what villains were up to and with The End being all over the place in recent months she really had no idea what to expect. Furthermore, most villains didn't team up much, so seeing this quartet together was making her gut tighten in warning.

The End lifted his hands slowly enough that it seemed strangely like he wanted to show he meant to harm. "Rescue," he said and his voice sounded different from the last time she had heard it. There was no more anger there.

He still sounded grim, but strangely hesitant as well. "If you'd let me expl-"

He ducked under her first with a curse and Olivia didn't give him the chance to speak further. She had learned very quickly to not hesitate for a second when confronted with The End. If she did, if she messed up, he'd leave the entire street destroyed. His meteors could crush so much, so much more than just concrete and steel and glass.

She'd be damned before she let it happen again on her watch. She had made that mistake once and had spent days digging people out of the rubble. Dinging corpses out of the rubble.

"Wait-" The End dodged another of her attacks and Olivia's bad feeling grew teeth that tore into her stomach. He wasn't fighting back, why wasn't he fighting back?

A blast of her powers sent him flying and he just barely kept from colliding with a wall, Space and Gravity once more clashing as he activated his powers at last to catch himself.

Gigantor was still on the ground, breathing carefully and feeling along his throat and he did not look like he was going to get up to join the fight, so Olivia followed after The End.

It turned into a wild chase and Olivia felt baffled and ever more wary and suspicious. The End had never run from her. He had never run from anyone. He had confronted her and all heroes head on, with his powers that made the sky itself shake and the ground rumble.

He was a force of nature contained in human flesh, capable of destruction so terrible she didn't even want to think of it. He was the storm of all storms, the rage of the universe beyond the little ball they called Earth. He was the death from above and Olivia had once prayed a little, that she'd react in time, that she'd stop him in time, to avoid dying at his hands.

He tried to speak multiple times until he gave up and by the time Olivia managed to corner him in a dead end, she was breathing hard. He was similarly out of breath, looking almost panicked at his situation.

"I don't want to fight you," he hurriedly gasped out, his chest heaving. "Please, just stop."

"I'll stop when villains do," Olivia growled back, lunging forward and missing him by a hair's breadth.

"I'm stopping!" he shouted, cursing as he parried her blow, his strike unexpectedly lacking the force to hurt her. "Listen to me! Wai-! Olivia!"

For the first time since she had learned her lesson with The End, Olivia froze. He hurriedly backed up, reaching up to grab his mask and pulling it off. Rhys stared at her, eyes wide and beseeching and for a long second, Olivia heard nothing but the ringing in her ears.

It felt like she couldn't breathe as her world crumbled around her.

Suddenly, everything slotted into place. All the little strange moments, the oddities she had chalked up to Rhys being a person with quirks and his own past, one he didn't talk about much. The things he'd ask her, the way he had spoken sometimes, had looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

He had known who she had been from the very beginning. Had recognized her that day in the supermarket because he had been the one to shatter her mask to reveal a large enough part of her face.

It felt like her chest was being squeezed tight, so tight she had no idea how she kept drawing breath and her throat felt thick and tight, a scream and a sob so tangled together they turned into a ball of pain that held her voice captive.

"You knew," she rasped out just as The End – as Rhys, her Rhys, her kind and sweet and charming and funny Rhys, who had kept sending her pictures of Octi in various situations to make her laugh, who had brightened her entire world with nothing but lies – took a hesitant step towards her. "You knew all this time."

"I did," he answered, voice soft and cracking around the edges like he was holding back his own emotions.

Olivia found herself falling back a step before she caught herself. Her mind began to race, her emotions turning into a storm that tore up her insides, stripping layers off her bones and flaying her heart and for just a second her eyes welled with tears before she forced them down.

"How clever," she whispered and a terrible laugh scraped out of her throat, raw and awful and sharp like shards of glass. "How very clever."

Of course Rhys had wanted to keep talking to her. Of course he had laid the charm on thick, of course he had done everything to keep her around. Her, the Number One hero. How much information had she given him without meaning to?

Had he looked at her phone whenever she had fallen asleep around him, foolishly, naively trusting him? Had he looked at her laptop whenever she had taken a shower? Had he found out the few identities she knew of other heroes? Was her mentor still safe?

Suddenly his massive activity period during her sick leave made an awful lot of sense. He had known she wouldn't be there and with the other two heroes being all over the news, taking care of terrible messes, he had known no one else would stop him.

"No, it's not like that," Rhys said, taking a step forward again, only to cringe. "It was at first, but I promise you, I meant everything I said."

"I don't believe you." The words dripped like acid from her tongue and they made him flinch back, his expression nothing but pain and regret and suddenly it made her so very angry.

What gave him the right to look at her like that when he had betrayed her? When he had just broken her heart into thousands of tiny pieces, crushing her dreams of the future. She had dreamed of revealing the truth to him eventually, of asking him to move in with her.

Olivia had no idea what to do, she had no idea what she would have done, if Portalia hadn't shown up and grabbed The End, vanishing with him before he could pull free of her grasp, his other hand reaching out to her.

Olivia stood there for a long minute, viciously biting down on the sobs that crawled up her throat like moaning ghosts.

And here she had thought she had crushed all her naive, innocent hopes and dreams to pieces long ago. All her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ideas of a better future.

But Rhys had found the last little piece of her that had remained untouched and he had turned it into a mangled, bleeding mess.

She'd think he was doing her a favor if it didn't hurt so very, very terribly.

She shifted to leave, her mind churning, when her phone pinged and she received a message from Sunshine, telling her that her mentor had gotten caught up in a fight across the city. That she has gotten hurt very badly. They had no idea if she'd make it.

*.*.*

Olivia sat beside the hospital bed, staring down at her phone, re-watching the fight between her mentor and Life Eater a third time. The fight had only gotten recorded in fragmented pieces, cobbled together by whatever nearby cameras had survived during the battle.

There was something off about it. Something wrong about how her mentor moved. And yet, there was something eerily familiar about it, like Olivia had seen it before.

Olivia had trained beside her mentor for years, still sparred with her some days. They spent at least one evening of the week together, going drinking and eating and sometimes Sunshine tagged along outside of costume, trusting her to keep her mouth shut about his identity.

But things had been just ever so slightly off for a while now and it took Olivia a fourth re-watch for things to finally click. She had seen fights like these in the past, far and few between, but all the more tragic for it.

Those were the type of fights where a hero had given up. It was an Out fight. A last, final fight. Some heroes weren't even aware of what they were doing, but Olivia's mentor had always been too sharp for something like that. Had always been too self-aware.

Olivia stared at her mentor, at the bandages that seemed to cover almost all of her body. It had been a close thing, she had nearly died on the operation table and it had taken the doctors and healers hours to save her.

Olivia had spent the night in an uncomfortable hospital chair and had only recently been allowed to visit her mentor, to sit vigil at her bedside in the private wing of the hospital reserved for heroes. She hadn't even shucked her costume yet.

Her mind felt strangely empty, her chest tight and she closed her eyes for a long minute, feeling...wrung out. Angry. Exhausted beyond her physical body. A part of her grieved, a part of her raged and no side got the upper hand, leaving her hanging between them and so, so very done with everything.

When her mentor finally opened her eyes, Olivia waited until her gaze cleared enough, until their gazes met, before she opened her mouth, "Why?"

Her mentor closed her eyes again, suddenly looking so, so much older. And so very exhausted. So very brittle. It was a startling, almost frightening sight. To know that the one person Olivia had always been able to lean on seemed more like a husk than a person in this moment.

"I'm tired, kid," her mentor rasped and Olivia knew it would have been easy to chalk her words up to the current situation. The injuries, the hazy consciousness. But she knew better.

She knew the system they were in so very well, that it would not let them go until they were dead. That her mentor, like Olivia herself, had wanted to leave a long time ago.

"I'm done, kid," her mentor whispered, words slurring and then she seemed to have fallen asleep again.

Olivia stared at her mentor, her fists tightening as she replayed her mentor's words. She knew what her mentor meant, how tired she was of this life. Of being unable to escape it.

Stuck being heroes, stuck at the agency. Stuck in a life they had once chosen because they had been so very good. Because they had believed in that same goodness being present in the rest of the world.

Olivia had once thought that that goodness just needed a little saving, a little protecting. A little dusting off and guarding.

Until her hands had been stained red over and over again. Until she had asked the agency to leave and had been told of the ruin that awaited her if she walked out.

Olivia stared at her mentor, watched her chest rise and fall and the push and pull of emotions within her shifted as the grief was swamped by anger so encompassing and acidic and dark it felt like a growling beast that snapped vicious teeth around her heart, swallowing it whole.

For a second she couldn't breathe, felt like despair was going to twine around the rage like a toxic lover, clinging and refusing to let go, her mind churning, until a thought clicked in place and suddenly she could breathe again.

She knew what she had to do.

Something rose in her heart, something that refused to stay down no matter how hard it had gotten hit before. It was too bloody to be called hope, too gritty to be idealistic and too angry to be anything remotely heroic.

'I'm so done, kid.'

'Like, who saves our saviors, you know?'

'Don't be ridiculous, dude. Heroes save themselves, that's why they're heroes. They do the rescuing.'

'If you think you're a hero, then die like one.'

Very well then.

#my writing #short story #villains and heroes #romance #this became SO long #hope you'll like it anyway!#heroes and villains #original writing

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jisokai · 4 months ago

Text

If a tree falls (does it bring you to tears?)

Early in their journey, the Strawhats come across an unusual island, where a beast has been stranded—with you.

Set right before Enies Lobby.

strawhats x GN reader, slight romantic nami x reader Life of Pi and Haruki Murakami-inspired, reader lives in a floating tree, loss of home/habitat destruction, reader is a friend to animals, queerplatonic relationship-building with everyone basically 7.7k words | oneshot, complete

ao3 option

notes: this was my first fic when i started writing again recently so it has a special place in my heart even though it's pretty rough imo <3 definitely niche so i'm mostly posting it here for archive purposes. + the timeline for this is so nonexistent, i promise it's better for everyone if you don't think about it + there's some background/implied frobin

Distance. Space. Atmosphere.

Life at sea means many days of drifting into nothingness, waiting for a figure to appear in the distance to follow. Drifting usually starts as a peaceful pause between events, crew members taking time to find their strength for the next piece of their journey. But as the days drag on, quiet stillness turns to impatient irritation. There’s an itch for chaos, a fight, change. Not seeing land for days, weeks even, unsettles them.

But no matter their skepticism, they always trust Nami. Nami who has never failed them in knowing how to bring them to where they have to be, oftentimes a destination they were not aware of.

In the blue of the vast beyond is a speck, also blue from the space that sits between said speck and the Going Merry. Nami frowns when she sees it. Normally specks have a spread to them if they’re a landform, a long but narrow shape that appears all at once. The alternative is a ship, which usually has a particular proportion between its length and width. However, this speck is tall . So tall it disappears into the clouds. And it’s narrow. It isn’t perfectly straight, a little wobbly-looking from this distance. Glancing around her workspace, Nami locates her telescope, grabs it by the base, and gently kicks the door open to make her way out to the lower deck.

“Usopp,” she calls as she walks to the stairs. Usopp looks up from his seat near Luffy and Chopper curiously. Nami cocks her head to the upper deck where she plans to set her telescope, turning and walking along. The sniper pouts at the lack of explanation, but rises with a sigh to meet her.

Still too far away to be discernible, two figures lounge together dozens of stories in the air. One nestles itself into the soft warmth of the other’s fur. The other swishes its tail in contentment. It huffs, yawns with its tongue out, then blinks and lowers its head to sleep.

“It’s a tree.”

“It can’t be a tree.”

“Well what else could it be!? Through your telescope it even looks like there’s a branch.”

“Trees can’t grow in salt water. Besides, there’s no land for it to attach to. You think it just floats around? It would topple over!”

“This is the Grand Line, Nami. In Skypiea you could swim in a cloud in the sky. What’s a floating saltwater tree compared to that?”

“Then this is a tree growing higher than the clouds, Usopp. From sea level.”

That does sound ridiculous, he can admit.

“It’s a tree,” Nami groans the next day. Overnight the ship traveled significantly closer to the speck, now a more complicated looking blob that becomes much clearer with the telescope. Through the lens she can see the edge between the tree and sky clearly. Moss and vines are apparent now, too. Odd lumps reveal themselves to be knots and welts where limbs once were. There aren’t many branches in view, the canopy likely condensed in the clouds.

Usopp snickers next to her, “and you dared question the great sniper Usopp!”

Luffy interjects while she punches Usopp in the back of the head. “What’s a big tree doin’ in the middle of the ocean? It get lost like Zoro?”

“I don’t know,” she responds softly, questioning. She thinks Robin may have ideas, but after asking for her thoughts they still don’t have adequate guesses.

“Trees have quite massive root systems. It’s possible that this one’s go deep in the water and have anchored to something below. Or maybe the distribution of weight keeps it upright. Either way I couldn’t guess how it got here.” All Nami can do is sigh in response.

Without verbalizing it, the Strawhats are in agreement that the tree is their next stop. It falls in line with the route they were already traveling, and the crew never turns down a sidequest. Especially not after nearly a week without touching land. Nami figures they could make contact in less than two days with the winds coming in.

Intense winds make the branches rustle. Smaller twigs break off and fall into the marsh below. The bird chatter dies as they nestle themselves into crevices of bark. Rodents scurry the length of the tree to find refuge in clumps of leaf and sticks. There’s a stillness hanging in the air, one thick with moisture. The sign of a storm. The two figures make their way down, finding their dwelling in the base of the tree. This is how it goes. Creatures live in one tree, but live like nomads as the microclimates change with weather and time. They read the signs. They are ready.

A storm delays their arrival by another day. Nami isn’t sure how she misread the sky patterns, but it isn’t unusual for the Grand Line. She’s frustrated but she knows her reading will improve with time.

The sunlight begins to touch the water and the clouds begin to part when the Merry gently rocks while approaching the tree. The root systems span a wide diameter, serving as the base for marsh and wetland conditions. Lush grasses and shrubs emerge on the roots above the water, while the ones below are fuzzy with algae. Minnows weave through their habitats between the root structures. Bunches of lily pads and mosses part as the Merry charges forward, scraping the woven foundation of the tree.

The vibrations are noticed by the creature sleeping at the base. It wakes, rises with a careful shift of bones, and slowly makes its way outside to scout. The other remains asleep.

Nami and Sanji are the only ones awake on board. The navigator feels a deep relief at having made it, tired from surprises from the past few days. The cook rose earlier to begin the preparation of breakfast. He meets her on the deck to confirm their arrival. He’s already fawning too much and insisting he can moor the boat for her. It irritates her but she lets him do it if it means a break from his attention for a few minutes.

She does, however, step out onto the…shore with him. She’s curious about this land—this organism that became its own land. She wonders what lives here, what kind of life blooms in such isolation. If anyone else has set foot here.

Sanji becomes a distant sound as her eyes take in the landscape, the seascape. Nami feels a sense of security at the base of such a massive presence. As she looks up, the tree extends endlessly into the sky, asserting its height and wisdom. It withstood a storm with ease, now standing calmly in the water. Still.

A rustling sound brings her gaze back in front of her and she feels her stomach drop. All security she felt is now gone.

A lion.

A golden, massive cat is before her. It’s beautiful, with a mane that sticks up like streaks of grass. Its color is saturated, a deep gold unlike the pale yellow she associates with these beasts. It’s crouched within the overgrown vegetation. She realizes it’s stalking her. She’s alone. Sanji is less than a hundred paces away, but she can’t get herself to call out to him. Afraid it’ll trigger the lion’s instincts.

But Sanji, ever the sense for a woman in distress, turns to her after the mooring is complete. His voice dies out as he registers her panic and immediately moves on instinct. In the moment he takes a few steps her way, the lion creeps forward one. He easily closes the distance between himself and his crewmate, reaching to move towards the animal when a voice calls out.

“Hin,” it says. Firm. Meaningful.

The lion blinks, ears twitch. It rises to its full height and waves its tail, but it doesn’t break its gaze with Nami and Sanji.

They hear more footsteps. Nami takes her chances by moving her gaze from the beast and to the origin of the sound. She sees you.

You are what she least expected to see in this environment. A person, firstly. Specifically a person with a grounded presence, purposeful. Dirtier than herself, as to be expected. But stable. Sure of yourself. And unwelcoming, eyes on alert as you scan Nami and Sanji’s faces, take in the exchange occurring before you decided to intervene.

She’s not sure how to proceed, especially alone with Sanji while everyone else is sleeping on the Merry. Her instincts are alert, but less with run hide fight and more with determination to prevent Sanji from escalating things. She can sense the new tension in him after having a glance at you, gearing up her fist to punch him swiftly as soon as he begins: “Oh wow! What pleasure do I have to—”

She feels that these first moments are crucial. She hasn’t felt an intensity like this since journeying with Vivi in the deserts of Alabasta. Something about an unknown landscape holding people who are lost, looking for something. Adding to the map of their own lives. She feels that from you. Wants to participate.

She smiles nervously. “Sorry, we don’t mean any trouble. We’ve been sailing for days and saw this tree along the way. We figured it’d be a good place to reset before getting back on the water.” There’s no reaction after she pauses. She adds, “We’re just hoping to spend a night or two here, maybe find some food, explore if you’ll let us. We really don’t mean any harm.”

There’s a moment where she panics, wondering if there’s a language barrier she wasn’t prepared for. But you look like you understand her words. Still on guard, but opening to curiosity. You look towards the lion again.

“Hin,” you say, just as firm. The beast turns to you as you cock your head to the side, away from Nami. The animal turns slowly, looks back at the pair of pirates, and walks its way back to you. The exchange is not unlike the way Nami called for Usopp the other day.

After an excruciating silence you finally respond to her: “Who are you and how did you find us?”

Nami explains briefly that they’re pirates, but not the bad kind. You don’t seem to care either way, or at least until she repeats that they simply stumbled upon this tree while sailing to their next destination. It wasn’t intentional, or even on the map. She adds that they were just at Long Ring Long Land, but it makes you frown further in confusion.

It only takes a moment for you to remember the original implied request by Nami. You nod briefly, “It’s fine. You can stay for a few days.”

Nami sighs in relief, thankful to not experience your rejection or have one of their crew resort to violence to persuade you.

“But on my terms,” you add.

Nami grimaces, already imagining the way Luffy would violate every possible term you could propose. But she nods again, hopeful.

It’s not so bad, it turns out. You help them choose a better spot to moor the Merry and secure it in place with Nami while Sanji returns aboard to prepare breakfast. You’re gentle and helpful, but Nami still feels a slight intimidation. She assumes it’s at least partly from the massive predator watching her every move. While she’s curious, she avoids asking too many questions since Robin will ask them again later.

Luffy is still sleepy when he wakes and is quickly fed, which helps to keep him subdued. He does immediately fall into the water upon leaving the ship, leaning too far forward while looking at the roots in the water, and has to be surfaced by an annoyed Zoro. You show the crew around the marshy base of the tree and the small room you’ve made out of a particularly twisty bundle of roots. You then demonstrate to them how you make your way around: a system of vines and pulleys and weights that makes Zoro wince at its overcomplicated nature. Luffy bypasses this by shooting his arm towards the next branch and sweeps everyone into his other arm as he pulls himself in the air.

You then show them your gardening space by the second branch. A particularly odd twist in the tree’s trunk creates a series of small hills that drain into a pond. Lush rows of planted crops are growing, some bearing fruit or vegetables. You explain that they can have some of the fresh fruit and vegetables, but that they’ll mostly have to take preserves. But you're also willing to help them forage for other foods—the varying climates of the different branches offering a sizable variety.

Before Sanji can blurt out a nonsensical compliment and Luffy can grab a handful of whatever’s closest, you state firmly, “In exchange for my food and docking here for a few days, you will abide by these rules: you must keep your disruption to the other animals to a minimum, including killing and eating them. You also can’t damage the tree or the environments on it.”

Luffy immediately begins to pout while Sanji blabbers that he will make you the finest vegetarian cuisine in exchange for your hospitality. The others just nod in affirmation. Except for Zoro.

“You some tree guardian or somethin’?” he asks.

You huff, amused. “It’s complicated.”

It doesn’t turn out to be that complicated, just a long story that Luffy nods off to. You try to be brief, explain that you were on a research trip to study an island near your home in the South Blue. A storm came, swept you away to wake up cradled in the salty roots of the massive tree. You thought you were dead, especially after turning and making eye contact with Hin, one of the lions from the island that had been tagged for research. At the very least if you weren’t dead, you assumed you would be shortly. It was a delicate dance of asserting authority that became a sort of skeptic symbiosis. Lions are hard to read. Some days he looks at you with an intensity that registers as keep your distance , others you’ll comfort each other through a cold night. You think the mutual loss of prior kinship contributes to the unconventional relationship, but you’re still aware he could end your life at any moment he wanted. Even though he hasn’t in the past five years of opportunity.

Usopp shudders and mumbles to himself while attempting to spot said creature below, “I just don’t get why you’d keep a giant predator around. Push him in the water or something.”

Robin intervenes. “The South Blue? That must mean the tree is floating through the ocean. You’ve never touched land since arriving? I’d imagine the currents and winds would bring you to shore at some point.”

You just shake your head, having the same assumptions.

“That means you passed through the calm belt,” Nami realizes. “How would something like this get through there?”

Again you don’t know. You don't even know what the Calm Belt means. You’ve long since resigned the impossibility of things to the great mystery of the world. Plants and animals you can study, get familiar with and build knowledge (though they’re impossible in their own smaller ways). Matters of nonsensical geology and weather patterns were beyond the understanding of a single person.

You notice Zoro and Luffy are like that too. They don’t seem to mind that there are things they’ll never know. They just want to nap or swing through the branches. You notice that others in their crew see mysteries as the reason to keep going. Robin’s fascination and Nami’s confusion motivate them to take action and find answers. You notice that the rest are preoccupied with something else entirely. A sense of duty to a purpose. You notice it’s more of an alignment chart than it is a system of categories.

While you feel surrounded by great mysteries, you do know that you miss home. You resigned to never having the opportunity to return, so it was a safe longing that didn’t inspire you to take action, to take risk. You realize that while these pirates all have different means of navigating their mysteries, they’re taking a risk together. Some don’t see it as a risk as much as a necessity. You wonder how hard that decision was for them to make. You realize that you now have to make a decision of your own. There’s no rush, you have a few days to mull it over. A few days isn’t nearly enough time, but it’s a small comfort.

You help them explore the length of the tree and at night help Sanji prepare a meal at the top of the crown. He’s unfamiliar with some of the ingredients and you explain what you know of their flavors and best methods of preparation. You’re a mediocre cook, but the information is helpful regardless. Chopper asks you about your knowledge of their medicinal properties. You tell him that you can share your notes and show him how to care for them if he wants to take any with him when they leave.

Nami makes a complicated face. “You… you’re staying here?”

You think about your mom and your sister. Your dad. Close friends, other researchers. The rest of the world that exists out there. You think about Hin and all the life you’ve made intricate relationships with.

“I don’t know,” you say.

The sun falls through the clouds while everyone eats their meal. Sanji has to prevent Luffy from grabbing stray birds that linger in the canopy after he finishes his plate. The clouds turn pink, orange, red, a twinge of purple. As the sky fades into its deep sleepy blue, you remember your third rule.

“Don’t go in the water after sunset.”

Usopp makes a “huh?” sound while Robin excitedly asks why.

“It’ll eat you alive.”

Despite Usopp’s worries, the Merry is fine the next day. He was torn between being too afraid to sleep in the boat out of fear he would also dissolve in his sleep, and wanting to be with her in case anything happened. He felt sick to his stomach watching you demonstrate a few clippings of your hair turn into nothingness. Luffy thought it was awesome and Nami thought Robin looked the happiest she’s been in over a week.

When the sun rises you share your herbal notes with Chopper and your accounts on the island with Robin. You’re embarrassed at the personal nature of some of your entries, but figure the details would be forgotten eventually after she leaves. You notice your internal monologue is assuming you’re staying again. Luffy’s new favorite activity is to swing through the tree branches in a one-sided race with the monkeys, but Zoro spends his day strength training at the bottom out of fear that Luffy will fall and drown himself. Nami explores with Sanji, attempting to create a map while the cook forages. Usopp is forced to tag along to be Nami’s buffer.

The whole day Hin is clingy, more affectionate than usual. It makes Chopper nervous that the lion is hanging around you all day, but Hin barely acknowledges him. You aren’t sure whether it’s because of the visitors or if it’s triggered by something else.

The Strawhats decide they’ll want to stay a couple more nights. Usopp thinks he can gather material to do some decent maintenance on the Merry and get her in a confident position with some time. You’re glad you get a little longer to be in their presence. You can’t help but notice that the decision is already made: that you can’t leave. But maybe a few more days will convince you otherwise. Hin still won’t leave your side.

On what the Strawhats decide is their last full day with you, an unexpected storm rages through. You show them how you wait them out at the base of the tree, a secure place with less wind and more distance from lightning. The storm is pretty average until there’s one particular strike of lightning that radiates through the entire length of the tree. Your heart drops as you feel a splintering sound resonating through your entire body. It’s paired with a short period of deafness that ends just before there’s a massive splashing sound. The base of the tree rocks, lurches upwards with your stomach and then slams back into the water. There’s the chattering of birds, howls of monkeys, buzzing of insects all moving away. In the distance.

In all your time on this floating ecosystem, you have witnessed animal migration. Some birds leave for a season, others never return. New insects appear out of the blue along with grasses and fruits and fish. The nature of a groundless entity puts it in constant range of new variables, new lives that come and go for varying lengths of time.

Never has there been a mass evacuation of life.

When you run outside the sky is still pouring. A mist simultaneously rises from the ocean and you’re immediately drenched. There is no canopy to shelter the rain. The tree has fallen. Your livelihood, all your relationships and meaning, plummeted in the ocean. It’s still afloat, a mile onwards into the mist of the sea. But it’s gone. It will never be upright again. You can tell by the way the bottom is shredded, splintered into a million pieces. You’ve never seen growth below the second branch, no watershoots to suggest the tree could embrace a new trunk.

Even if there was a chance for survival, it wasn’t in your lifetime. It would take hundreds if not thousands of years for there to be even a fraction of the biodiversity that occupied this space seconds ago. You know the world is a cruel place. After days of resigning yourself to staying, with no temptation towards a life-long journey of returning home, you are forced to realize it is the only way forward. You immediately entertain dying here. It hurts to imagine Hin dying with you.

Your brain moves a mile a minute, contemplating sending Hin with the pirates to their next island. Let him try to rebuild his life while you die with yours.

You feel his presence beside you. It’s cold. He steps forward.

The memory of his affections is distant as you watch him. His steps hold intent, they do not waver. You call for him in your mind. Turn back. At least look back at me. You can’t stop him, can’t even call out to him, knowing that nothing will change his mind. He marches onwards. You know that you cannot follow.

The Strawhats stay another day.

You have to go with them. It’s the clear decision, has been since their arrival. You deny it, have been denying it despite it waving obviously in your face. You hate the clarity that this was inevitable. Hin’s affections replay through your mind. He knew too. He was prepared before the storm came, the moment the pirates stepped foot on your land, before they spotted your tree on their ship. Even the Strawhats knew, Nami’s confusion the first night resurfacing in your memory.

It’s unfair, so unfair. You spent five years building something, finding your niche and your way to coexist in such a rich and unique environment. Again you remember your mom, your sister. You remember the injustice you felt when you first washed up in the basket of roots in the ocean face to face with the king of the jungle.

Chopper is helping you salvage the remaining flora you can find to propagate on the ship. You have a library of seeds still mostly intact that Sanji moves to a room in the Merry for you. Robin collects your journals and works with Nami to dry out the ones that were damaged in the storm. Luffy is excited to have you aboard. Usopp comforts you poorly and Zoro doesn’t even try. You appreciate all of it, but simultaneously seethe with anger.

Nami checks in with you after doing what she can with the books.

“I can’t fight,” you admit out of nowhere. A thought that had been sitting in your throat in a way that made it hard to swallow. Until Nami appeared and it leaped without warning.

She smiles softly. “It’s okay. I wasn’t much of a fighter either. Still not compared to the others.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fight.” You did when you were little, with your peers and your family. You fight yourself these days.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll be plenty of help no matter what.”

You look at her suspiciously and shake your head. Your eyes naturally travel down and towards the ship, the bundles of leaves from the tangerine trees and the early stages of their fruit. You speak without thinking again.

“You know if you pruned your tangerines better you could yield at least double your fruit.”

Nami smiles brightly.

You have fantasies of the tree growing back. In a few thousand years time there will be a new ecosystem flourishing. A new mixture of life will grow and fauna will migrate and emigrate in stages, cycles. It’s a beautiful, hopeful vision that keeps your heart lukewarm as you feel the coldness of abandonment.

You’re the last one on board the Merry. Before you go you take a long look at the remnants of what was once your home. The trunk split just before the curve that you made your garden, preserving the collections of your life artifacts. Over the past few days the length of the tree up to its canopy has drifted significantly into the distance. You can vaguely see it in the water, just an inch or so below the surface with small branches breaking through the surface. Of course it’s drifting in the opposite direction of where the Strawhats are going next.

When you raise your foot off the island and onto the first step of the Merry, you hear a bubbling and rippling behind you. When you turn you see the collection of roots and stump begin to sink into the ocean's depth.

A pain flares in your chest. You march towards your room, slam the door, lock it. Sob into your pillow.

Grief is funny. It’s also gut wrenching. You think it might be the only constant in your life. In the next few days on the Merry you’re too blinded by yours to see that it’s a constant in everyone else’s. The Strawhats all have their own special dance with loss, ones that make them annoying about yours. It takes a while to realize they’re offering you what they need. You try to offer it back, communicate your own preferences. Some get it better than others.

Chopper is the one you find yourself around the most. Your trades coincide and you learn from one another. You teach Chopper about what you were able to salvage and start growing on the Merry. It begins your healing process in a painful way, one that constantly reminds you of what you lost. But it helps you preserve it, transform it, share its beauty with others and make it immortal—something you never imagined. Chopper shows you his own collection of herbs and medicinals, and then the ones he’s attempting to grow on the ship. He explains his process and concerns. You suggest some maintenance strategies and offer to work with his plants to see what works best for them. He looks so happy.

It’s comforting to have an animal presence. You haven’t communicated with people in so long that you’ve forgotten how to read them. Your speech is awkward too, having written to yourself for the past few years and rarely communicated orally with words. You realize your response time is often delayed and that conversation doesn’t run smoothly. But you can understand Chopper’s behaviors, his little mannerisms and particular looks. You get the sense that it’s unsettling to him, but he appreciates it once he’s used to it. Some days when you’re working together not a single word makes its way between you two. But it’s healing. Familiar.

You find yourself on edge around Sanji. He’s an overbearing presence in your grief, one that drives him to constantly check on you and offer you comforts. It’s irritating. You sometimes think that he’s trying to catch you off guard and see you at your weakest. You aren’t sure what makes you think that, maybe because you struggle to differentiate when he’s offering you comfort or making a pass at you.

One day in the far future it’ll make sense. You’ll learn things about him that will make you want to ensure you’re there for him every moment of the day. But for now you try to recognize this as his way of showing love and care. You wonder why it has to look like this. You embrace it as best you can, offer some constructive comments so the benefits go both ways.

“If you make me my comfort foods all the time they won’t have the same effect every time I eat them.”

An unreadable expression passes through his face before he begins to apologize. You don’t let him.

“It’s okay, I appreciate your efforts. I want to eat your food though, too.”

His face immediately flushes and he vows to serve you his finest cuisines. It’s too much, you can’t look at him when he thinks so highly of you. You look down at your meal and finish it quietly.

You’re not ready to say goodbye to the Going Merry.

When the time comes and Luffy’s decision is made, you can’t stomach the argument, the fight that occurs outside. Robin’s gone too and you’re trying to sort out how you’ll relocate the plants, preserve the seeds and your library. Fixating on plans is how you distract yourself, trick your brain into moving forward instead of spiraling in on itself.

You want to reach out to Usopp, tell him you understand and that it’s unfair. But you don’t understand, will never feel for the Merry what Usopp does. The Merry was your last resort, and not even what you put above dying. For Usopp the Merry was a gift. A treasure offered by a childhood partner and a reflection of himself, his potential. A potential rejected by his closest friends.

As you predicted, you’re useless throughout Water 7 and Enies Lobby. You’re quick on your feet, can work out a plan pretty quickly. You’re able to diffuse some tense moments, even if your mediation feels surface level. But you can’t fight—or rather, can’t get yourself to fight. It’s okay in the end. You—your crew—win(s).

Even so, you can’t find a moment of peace. There’s another crew member—one that’s loud and a little tactless but you don’t want to judge prematurely, especially after seeing the way Robin looks at him. You can’t stomach this feeling that you overstepped, saw too much too soon in both Usopp and Robin’s lives that you were never meant to know. You have the gall to apologize, Usopp first because he’s less intimidating.

He looks at you sheepishly but brushes it off easily. “It’s bound to happen, ya know? How do you think I felt watching your whole home-tree thing and friend disappear a few days after meeting you?”

He makes a fair point, even as he rambles on about how he’s fine and that he’s too great to be held back by things like that. It takes him a second to realize his potentially offensive implications of the way you’ve dealt with your loss, but you know enough about the sniper by now to understand what he’s trying to communicate.

You tell him that you would be sad too. You briefly relate it to your own feelings as of late. You tell him that if he ever wants company that you’re there for him.

His eyes well with tears as he sputters and scoffs. He turns away from you to wipe his eyes as he tries to flip the script and offer you a shoulder to cry on. The next day he’s in your greenhouse-office and you make him a blend of herbal tea as he shares with you his favorite moments on the Merry. You believe him. You have no other choice. It offers the opportunity to learn about the people you’re cohabitating with, how they came together and what brought them here now.

You’ll cross check the validity later with Nami, but for now you believe every word Usopp says. It’s what he needs from you for his healing.

You find yourself frustrated with Robin. Every attempt you’ve made at conversation with the goal of delivering your apology gets hijacked by a slew of questions for you. You think it may be like your own tendency to organize and plan to distract yourself: Robin takes in information to preoccupy her mind. For you to apologize would be to recognize what happened to her and admit that you were a witness. At some point that exchange will assist her healing, but for now you entertain her curiosities and hope that Franky is able to reach her.

You and Nami have the opposite relationship. Something about her makes you too quick to admit your feelings, even when her questions have nothing to do with them. It’s what let your guard down when she first set foot on your island and what had you sharing your insecurities before you came aboard. You don’t feel ready to share what she always pulls out of you. You never will be. You can tell she’s trying to confront you while also giving you proper space and you can’t help but hope she somehow understands the tension within you. That you want her comfort and her ease, but acknowledging these things about yourself will force you to move forward, take a step out of the darkness that connects you with your home.

You think she may know a thing or two about that, which is even more a reason to keep your distance.

“The tangerines have been growing really well,” she tells you one day. You think she’s caught on and is trying to give you space.

“Thanks,” you mumble, burying your face in the branches as you pick a few more and place them in your basket. You feel that Nami wants to say more, but you’re too flustered to leave the foliage. She walks off after a moment and Luffy pouts from afar. Why is it okay when you pick the tangerines?

The captain walks into your greenhouse-office one morning and witnesses your vulnerability. You had a hard time sleeping, mind racing with what if’s and hypotheticals and the same narratives you’ve been running through your mind for years. Luffy catches you in the middle of a crying session, tenderly checking the leaves of the saplings you’re nursing with blurry vision.

Upon being caught you try to reign yourself back into normalcy. You wipe your eyes with embarrassment and cough to level your voice. “Hey Luffy, sorry I didn’t—”

But he smiles, wraps his arms around you seven-fold and holds you close. He’s warm, like a heated blanket, like another body in the rain to keep you safe. You choke out another sob, one you didn’t know you had in you. You realize you haven’t been held like this since before Hin walked forwards and never looked back. You wonder where he is, where that tree took him. Who was waiting for him.

Luffy just snickers, in a wholesome way. One that finds your insecurities amusing because he thinks they’re silly (not that you voiced them; he just knows). Of course the Strawhats will be your family, hold onto you until you achieve your dream and then a little longer. Even when you push and push and keep everyone at a distance unless they’re trying to keep a distance from you.

You learn that Luffy is a great void for your most absurd or intrusive thoughts. He doesn’t remember them and his reactions make them feel like they might not be worth the world to entertain.

“What if I die before I see my sister again?” You blurt one day while the two of you are sitting on the head of the Sunny. It’s a spot you like to lay to soak up the warmth of the sun, but only by yourself. Sometimes being with Luffy is like being alone.

“Huh? That’d suck,” he says nonchalantly. “But you won’t, you’re strong.”

You can’t begin to fathom why he thinks that. But he’s so confident it breaks your line of thinking. This repeats a few times throughout the day.

“Sometimes I think that Hin left so easily because I didn’t mean anything to him.”

“That’s dumb, sometimes you just have to be somewhere,” he says easily. Pauses. “Why’s he called that anyways?”

You look up from where you're sitting to glance at Luffy’s face. He’s standing next to you, staring in the distance like he has better things to worry about, such as what Sanji’s making for dinner and the like. You can see the glow of golden hour sitting on his skin and his hat.

“It means the..” you trail off. From this angle, Luffy’s hat makes a perfect halo around his head. His unruly hair sticks out like a mane. Like light diffusing from one central bright light.

“The sun.”

(You think about how the crew agreed to name this ship the Sunny. You think about how Franky put a lion on the front before he heard anything about how you joined the Strawhats.)

You lay in that same spot the next day, soaking in the sun and letting your mind wander. You try to remind yourself of the reality you’re existing within.

Footsteps come from behind you. They’re heavy, Zoro’s. You aren’t sure why he’s coming this way. He usually naps at the bottom of the staircase and trains in the lookout tower. You sit up, ready to leave if he has plans to use the space. Of everyone, Zoro is the one you’re simultaneously the most comfortable with and reserved around. He keeps to himself in a way that makes you feel like you should too.

To your surprise, he mumbles a “sorry” when he sees you and makes to turn around and go back down the stairs.

You call out to stop him. “I can leave if you want to be here.”

“Don’t. I won’t bother you, I can nap somewhere else.”

“You should nap here if you want,” you encourage him.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Don’t wanna make you nervous.”

He thinks he scares you, you realize. He has a shimmer of reluctance in his gaze that looks out of place. Usually you’re awkward around him because his stare reminds you of the intensity of a predator. An animal with a roar that rules as king in the hierarchy of life. At first it was too much, but now it makes you realize that the beings you love are everywhere. Hin might be gone, but you have Zoro. These archetypes will repeat in your life for as long as you live. They’re different, of course, but there’s a reason you keep finding one another.

“You won’t,” you tell him confidently. “You don’t.”

Sleeping in the same space as Hin was how you grew to be confident in your trust of him and his in you.

You ask, “Can I lay here while you nap?”

He frowns at the fact that you would ask. “Of course.”

You find a middle ground with Nami. You like looking at her maps, seeing the expanse of space that exists that you’ve never set foot on. Places you may have been minutes from and never known. You like the way the paper wrinkles ever so slightly with the touch of ink on its surface. When it dries it sits mostly flat again, but there’s a slight warpage you can feel by running your fingers over the lines. You’re watching her draw one evening when she starts talking about her mom and sister. You don’t interject, just nod to yourself and give the occasional hum of affirmation that you’re listening.

You smile to yourself. “I hope I get to fight with my sister again one day.”

A knock on the door interrupts whatever Nami’s reply would have been. It’s Chopper, excited about an observation he made in the greenhouse that he wants your opinion on. You look at Nami apologetically and tell her you’ll talk more later. You want to hear more about her life in the village. She smiles sheepishly, realizing how much she rambled. Your heart pounds excitedly as Chopper grabs your hand and guides you to your office despite knowing you know how to get there. You fight the urge to scoop him in your arms.

One day while you’re napping on the Sunny’s lion, Zoro in his own slumber against one of the pieces of the mane, a slight drizzle starts to fall. It wakes you gently and just as the weather picks up into a heavier rain. You’re disoriented, but stand and close the gap of a few strides to where Zoro is still sleeping. You shake him gently, urge him to wake up.

He has the nerve to look annoyed and ask why you woke him.

“C’mon Zoro, we should nap inside. We’re gonna get sick in the rain.”

He raises an eyebrow, unbudging. You give his arm a push but he’s motionless. You give up, try to step over him and to the deck, slip a little but catch yourself on the railing.

Zoro sighs and stands. He somehow scoops you around your front and grabs the back of your knees in a one-handed bridal carry. You would protest but he’s warm and you’re still sleepy despite being somewhat damp. Zoro gets onto the deck with ease and walks down to the closest sheltered area. There he sits and places you next to him so that you lean against his shoulder for support. He falls back asleep immediately. You’re too tired to think about the familiarity and the warmth of waiting out the rain. You fall asleep quickly.

It gets easier with time despite the continuing uncertainty. It’s a constant question of what to do, how to get back home, if your family would even be there still. The crew knows you’re struggling, that you don’t know what path to follow. They’re here for you, welcoming you with open arms even as you think about leaving them. But you were never good at making decisions, always moving through life by the only option left.

The default here is to stay and follow everyone else’s journey. Luffy asks if you have a dream. You don’t. That’s never been what moves you forward.

It’s another night in a bar with the Strawhats. Not much of a drinker, you learn to assume the role of designated navigator to the Sunny while Zoro helps carry the ones who can’t walk. As you’re trying to rally everyone to head back, Luffy lets out a loud laugh and points to something on the wall.

“Hey! Looks like you finally got a bounty, hahaha!”

You look to where he’s pointing and freeze. The poster definitely has a resemblance but the person in the portrait has lighter eyes and a different haircut than you. Your noses are slightly different. You yank the paper off the wall and read your sister’s name at the bottom. Your heart is thrumming in your ears, body on fire as you stare.

Sanji takes your silence as fear that you have a bounty and drunkenly pats your back. Then he slings an arm over your shoulder and leans his weight on you for support. “It’s okay, we’ll protect you. Your portrait looks good even if it’s a little inaccurate.”

You fold the poster and shove it in your pocket, urging everyone to get moving. Before you leave the bar you do a quick scan of the room to see everyone’s face. She’s not here. You leave.

The next morning you stand by the kitchen counter as you watch Sanji prepare and serve breakfast for everyone nursing their hangovers. You watch them grumble, some of them argue despite it being so early in the day. You think fondly about how they’ve become your family when you needed it most. You recount hugs, late night conversations, tears, naps, lingering together in silence. You think about the poster in your pocket.

You didn’t sleep much last night, preoccupied with what-ifs and hypotheticals. Questions of who your sister has joined on the water, how she got there, how she’s doing. You think that you should get a bounty of your own, to show her that you’re still out there too. You imagine an unexpected run in on the open water. One where you show each other the people you’ve met and tell stories of all that’s happened while you’ve been apart. You imagine your crews working together, maybe they become one giant crew. More realistically you’ll eventually part your separate ways. But it’s the kind of parting that comes with the chance for return, a reassurance that you’re allies and there will be an again. You can say “see you later.”

You’re standing there too long. Sanji looks at you with confusion as to why you aren’t coming to eat. Luffy just shoots an arm over and pulls you between himself and Nami.

“Let’s eat!” he cheers. “Or I can eat your food if you aren’t hungry.”

You can’t hold back your smile. Luffy’s arm is still partially wrapped around your waist from where he grabbed you and you put yours around his waist to hug him back. You put your other arm around Nami and hug her too.

She yelps and her face flushes. “Wh-what’s up with you this morning?”

Luffy just giggles and hugs you harder. You love them. You beam and put your head against Luffy’s. “Nothin’. Just excited for breakfast.”

You feel like you have all the time in the world.

ok i'm finally done with my crossposting & can breathe again

#i doubt anyone will read this so i'm not gonna bother maximizing tags LMAO #jiso.fics #one piece #fanfiction #strawhats x reader #nami x reader #sanji x reader #usopp x reader #luffy x reader #zoro x reader #chopper x reader #(it's platonic guys)

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thoughtlessthinkythoughts · 1 year ago

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I think the key to understanding show!Aziraphale is in some lines that are in the book but not the show. Because these lines represent a place that our show Aziraphale hasn't hit yet.

Before I get into this, let me explain why I think things that aren't in the show can be so important to understanding where the show will go.

For another example, let's look at the ending of the book/s1. In the book, Adam is not impressed with Aziraphale and Crowley. There is no pep talk. He actually has a pretty stern message to them about "not messing people around."

A lot of s2 might not have worked the same way if they had gotten that message. It would have cut off room for growth. The whole plotline with Nina and Maggie for one would have been much less likely. So by holding off the stop messing with people message to the end of s2 (and then only giving it to Crowley), it provides more room for the characters to change at a pace befitting a multi-season show.

So what else do I think will end up working this way?

Well, there's a scene I love in the book that hasn't made it into the show yet. It happens after Aziraphale is discorporated. In the show, he goes to heaven, then to Madame Tracy. In the book, he bounces around possible hosts first, including a televangelist. The televangelist is going on about the rapture and such, and Aziraphale cuts in with this:

"Well, nice try...only it won't be like that at all. Not really.

"I mean, you're right about the fire and war, all that. but that Rapture stuff well, if you could see them all in Heaven - serried ranks of them as far as the mind can follow and beyond, league after league of us, flaming swords, all that, well, what I'm trying to say is who has time to go round picking people out and popping them up in the air to sneer at the people dying of radiation sickness on the parched and burning earth below them? If that's your idea of a morally acceptable time, I might add.

"And as for that stuff about Heaven inevitably winning...Well, to be honest, if it were that cut and dried, there wouldn't be a Celestial War in the first place, would there? It's propaganda. Pure and simple. We've got no more than a fifty percent chance of coming out on top. You might as well send money to a Satanist hotline to cover your bets, although to be frank when the fire falls and the seas of blood rise you lot are all going to be civilian casualties either way. Between our war and your war, they're going to kill everyone and let God sort it out-right?

"Anyway, sorry to stand here wittering, I've just a quick question-where am I?"

Because even this more cynical version of Aziraphale is adorable, the scene ends with "Gosh," he said, "am I on television?"

We didn't get this in the show, but I can't help feeling that it might be in season 3, assuming we get a season 3. It might even fit in better there, assuming we are going with a "second coming" plot. In the show, Aziraphale hasn't reached this level of cynicism (yet). I can't picture s1 or s2 Aziraphale giving this speech. Sure, he's seen what a mess the archangels are, he was willing to go against heaven to stop them from starting the end of the world, but I'm pretty sure show Aziraphale still believes in the goodness of God if not the goodness of the way heaven is run. It makes sense that show Aziraphale sees heaven as a fixable mess, an organization that isn't living up to what it should be. Because the show is taking Aziraphale's struggle with morally complex situations and questioning God and making it a longer arc.

My guess it that, as his tenure as archangel is likely to go terribly and not give him any more answers (or at least not answers he likes), he will get to the point where he could give this speech in season 3. My guess is that he's likely to also end up in a horrendous mental state once he reaches these conclusions (a perfect opportunity for some hurt/comfort). He's likely to build himself back up after that, but with a clearer look at the world.

End conclusion: if you are telling a longer story, sometimes you need to hold some things back to give your characters room to grow. So, it isn't a sign something is wrong with a story when partway through a character hasn't hit upon an obvious point.

#good omens #good omens spoilers #aziraphale #good omens meta #good omens season 2

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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genderfluid-insomniac · 10 months ago

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this is a request for Furina.

Spoilers for 4.2 Archon Quest so it’s simple.

Furinas trial but reader is her spouse in the crowd watching. once quest is finished this will make sense but I just would wanna see how she would react in a situation like this where she would have lied to her partner for so many years about her true self.

“Trial of deceit and betrayal”/// Furina x reader (Angst + Hurt/Comfort)

During the trial, you saw your girlfriend stuttering and failing to come up with answers to a shocking statement that Furina wasn’t their hydro archon at all which seemed impossible to you. Alas, as the trial went on the evidence was overwhelming and Furina was in a state of shock, sitting on the throne in the opera box completely still and letting tears stream down her cheeks. You were in a mix of many emotions as you felt betrayed that your lover lied to you for many years but she was clearly beside herself and telling her citizens that she had a good reason. You wanted nothing more than to go up there and comfort her but suddenly an enormous whale burst into the opera house causing you to instinctively run to Furina.

Heart racing as you ran up the stairs and fearfully eyed the giant narwhal falling towards the both of you, you grabbed your girlfriend and shielded her with your back. You heard some commotion which gave you a hint that the whale had left but you still kept her close and broke apart before cupping her face. Her tears still fell down her cheeks in addition to her hiccuping and slowly looked up at you with confused hurt eyes. “Why? You just found out that I lied to you for as long as you’ve known me. You should be mad, hurt, disgusted, or furious even but you’re not. Why did you save me after I lied to everyone about being an archon when I’m not?!” She said with a meek voice at first then yelling her question at you.

Furina was sobbing now, her fists gripped your clothes like you were going to disappear like the others, and her arms tightly wrapped around your waist. You took off her hat and smiled at her warmly, wiping her tears away with your thumb and holding her face. “I’m sure you had a reason for pretending to be Focalors and it’s clear you care for the people of Fontaine so much. There is never a time when I’d let you get hurt because I love you.” You whispered and kissed her lips gently. Her heart had calmed down and she quietly sniffled, her tears slowly stopping and trying to smile at you.

You brought her into your chest as the sound of waves crashed against the Opera Epiclese signaling that the sea levels were rising and rested your forehead against hers to look away from the waves visibly crashing against the windows. Both of you held the other tightly and whispered loving words to one another, slowly waiting to be hit with the primordial sea water only for it not to happen.

Everything went quiet as you opened your eyes to see the building intact and rubbed circles on Furina’s cheek, letting you both relax for now and looking around to see nothing was broken (at least nothing new from the damage the whale did). Slowly you got up as you hugged your girlfriend and wiping her tears as she got up very confused. You both walked out the doors to see people looking up at the sky as ocean water drains into the ground. Rain is still falling but it’s peaceful and normal for the first time in a while, holding up your head to see the stormy clouds parting as you smile brightly and turning to see Furina with a confused but hopeful.

You ran over to kiss your lover and wrapped your arms around her, holding her in your arms and you softly laughed. “It’s alright. Whatever plan Focalors had. Whatever plan you both had. It worked and I’m so proud of you. Through anything you’ll always have me here beside you and I will never stop loving you, Furina.” She looked at you clearly holding back tears and fell into your arms, sobbing and clinging to you for comfort.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #furina x you #furina #furina x reader

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ohsunnyboy · 1 year ago

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against everything | shen quanrui ˚₊‧⁺˖

you know nothing about shen quanrui, duke of the north. all you do know is that you're getting married and you're winning this sword fight.

TAGS: royalty!au, cold duke!ricky, gn!reader, rivals/enemies/strangers to lovers, arranged marriage, sparring!!, a little mean!ricky for the sake of the au, gets angsty in the end v sorry haha

A/N: this has been in the drafts since debut lmao it's v long but enjoy!!! as always, purely self indulgent ! (pls imagine historical manhwa level visuals iykyk)

WORDS: ~1900

Could there be a worse fate than this? Marrying Shen Quanrui, elusive Duke of the North and Lord of Yuehua.

You knew that marriage was coming. Being the youngest in the family and the rest of your brothers off to the capital to play bachelors and sisters bartered off for titles. One by one, marriage invites piled up over your desk until it finally came time for you to write your own.

Yet still, you have yet to meet him.

What you do know of the duke, is that he exists and is not mere fragment of your imagination — according to your mother. It’s his estate you’re getting married at, but he hasn’t shown his face once in your week here. Not a letter, a word, anything! Anything would be better than this silence that plagues the grounds.

You pull your coat tighter around you as the northern chill slides under your bones. You want to begin to rethink all your feeble decisions right then and there. Or rather, the lack of your decisions that's brought you here. Wandering the Shen gardens like a ghost with an intent to haunt someone you’ve never even met.

Though, it seems like a calling of fate when you turn to an open yard.

Here, the snow clears away to worn cobble leading to a snow spackled dirt and a sparring platform. Swords line the training ground and gleam in the moonlight as you make your way towards them. Clearly standard issue and worn beyond ware, but swords, nonetheless. You can’t help but feel a little giddy, no one should be about at midnight like this, and no one should be out looking for the training grounds either. You clamber up the stairs to the wooden stage. Each board creaks lightly under your feet, almost like the decks of the galleys you used to run about on. From above, it’s easy to become entranced watching the snow spiral down as it settles.

You really could stand in marvel all night, but a figure watches you from where you came from. A bolt of fear strikes through you, dark eyes watching you freeze. Is it fate? Another ghost that haunts this place?

"Who are you?" the boy ask – or rather, demands.

You almost blink twice to make sure you aren’t dreaming. His hair is the palest of whites, rivalling the light of the moon and the falling snow itself. You’d stay in your stupor for longer, but he stares with a hard set in his eye that you know only means trouble.

"Oughtn’t you introduce yourself before you ask?" you snap.

“I asked first.”

“And it’s rude to ask and not offer your own name first.”

Your reply only ticks him off further it seems as he reaches for one of the sabres on the rack. "Then we fight for it,” mystery man says simply.

"Now? anyone could see us plain as day if they look out the windows! are you insane!" You can hardly believe it when he kicks another sabre across the stage to your feet. "What if the duke sees us?" you hiss, but it only makes him smirk further.

"Then let him," he counters with a flourish of his blade. "Or are you scared, peasant?"

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you swipe it from the floor with indignation. Honestly, he’s nothing impressive. What’s a pretty face when he’s built like a sheaf of paper? Your brothers are easily bulkier and taller compared to him, and you've swept the floor with them before. With him? it’s a matter of deck scrubbing him into the snow.

The sabre fits into your palm with a comforting weight. It's a far throw from duelling on ships and jagged seas but it's the song of duelling that sounds like home.

"Done playing with it? Or do you need a sword lesson instead?" and oh, that smirk is infuriating. "First to yield divests their name and title – should they even own one," he drawls.

All you can do is nod and settle into stance. Low and wide for balance, steady as an anchor in tide – all the more important with the ice. He mirrors with his own, a little taller, a little more forward, and with a whole lot more ego than what he should have.

A moment, slow and quiet, is spent staring down the edge of your swords. His steps, closer and closer, the howl of the air—

Then, he lunges.

When you meet, it’s mean, forceful and utterly demanding. Though, would you expect anything less of him?

It’s a game of darting and pushing. In and out of each other’s reach by just a breath. When you circle each other, his eyes follow you everywhere. It’s a gaze that would crumble you if you weren’t running on sheer adrenaline right now. You could count the sweat on his brow each time he tries to brute force his sabre down on you, but you parry just as strong.

Every strike you sweep, you channel all the pent-up nerves behind them. A week of restlessness, of anger all coming down an a willing, taunting target.

The next sweep that he dives for cuts from his left to right, instead of parrying, you decide to lunge again. You go low, essentially diving under his blade and entirely into his space. You seize your chance, blood rushing in your head and mouth twisted in a horribly cocky grin and shove him to the floor. When he lands with a thud, lips parted in surprise, you waste no time in pinning him down, forearm barred across his chest and sword staked into the wood next to his neck.

"Do you yield?" Your breath ghosts across his face, twining with his own in this cold air.

The moon illuminates his sweat like shattered stars across his skin, pale as the snow and flawless as the sky. You want to sneer it into his skin: his gorgeous devastation. Perfection and arrogance wrapped into one.

"Out with it,” you glower over the pound of your heart and the silence between you two.

He must see something because you have no idea what’s got him smiling like that.

"Shen." What? " Warden of the North and Duke of Yuehua." A thousand thoughts, and a million more revelations. No way, this isn't possible. "Shen Quanrui, though, I thought you would have known already – with your attitude and all."

You feel the heat of the situation pour into you like the sun projecting a thousand-fold upon yourself. You scramble back, desperate for some decency because you've effectively just sat on the duke, warden of the north, and, least importantly of all, your soon-to-be husband. Quanrui rises as you fall backwards into the snow, the sword clattering next to you as he reverses the position.

“My lord,” you’re babbling now. The grin on his face is sly and all too prideful but it brings an angry red to your face that would have your brothers rolling in laughter. “I…I had no idea.”

And Quanrui huffs a small laugh at you beneath him, scrambling for words. “You have made that quite clear, darling.” His silhouette eclipses the moon, and you swear the glint in his eyes twinkle along with the stars above.

“Darling?”

“Do you not like it, darling?” Quanrui says it like trying a new wine on his tongue. He tries to roll it, like one of those sopranos at the opera, all natural and beholding. Is it stupid to be so entranced in someone? You know nothing about him – no one does. But can you say that when he’s staring at you like this? Calling you darling like this? Holding you like this?

So blind to it all, isn’t he?

“No, not at all.” You shake your head getting yourself out of your stupor, trying to put your words together. “It’s just… you have not come to see me once in my week here. Why do you only turn up now, not even on purpose, when we’re to be wed by the end of the fortnight?” It comes out in a stream, past freezing lips and over piles of abandoned reasoning. “Is this the cruelty they speak of? Your empty coldness then a taunting heat? What then after this, my lord. Will you leave me to the cold another week, to haunt your palace like a fool? What then—”

An arresting hand presses over your mouth, stopping your stream of consciousness. Devastation paints Quanrui’s face when you blink past your anger. Long gone is his smirk, and all the stars in his eyes. It’s pinched with guilt.

“I never meant for it. Never – I never meant for cruelty. I’d thought you would want space, time to adjust and settle in by yourself! I thought—”

“You thought! But you never wrote, you never knew in the first place, my lord,” you sneer. “You never had a right to assume, when all you know are damned titled deeds and how many men my father will send for your blasted armies. Do you even know I’m from the eastern coasts? That I’d never even seen snow until I stepped foot into your land. And you think I wanted space!?”

“Enough.” He sits back on his heels, head facing to the falling sky; illuminated like a god ascended. What a waste of a pretty face when Quanrui looks down at you, eyes bared to confess. “I had no right. You are true, everything is true. I do not know you, but I will learn you,” he promises. “I won’t leave you to bear this cold alone. Leaving you to face against everything yourself was my first mistake and I will make it my last.”

You almost laugh, nigh incredulous at his claims. “Bold words, my lord. Are you rehearsing your vows as we speak in this moment?” Your temper ebbs and flows, this is cruel, you want to say, but you bite your tongue before he remembers that abandoned sword next to you.

“Nothing about this—“ Quanrui gestures to both your states “—is rehearsed, I swear.” The honesty is etched into his being. “You fought me – the real me. And beat me well at it too.”

Finally, you do laugh. “That I did! Doesn’t that make you even more unworthy of me?” It’s posed like a barb, but you say it with a grin. If he can fight for his honour, there’s a chance at the truth.

Infuriating as ever, his smirk is back in full force. “I don’t know. How about we settle the score properly?” Maybe you’ll come to love it – just one day. One day you’ll see past the snow and ice, remembering tumbling waves and open sun, to love a marriage wrought with him.

“Alright then.”

The night is long in the north, impossibly so. But time will come, and the day will thaw the love that was buried all along.

i ran away with this defo, but i'm glad i’m done :) thanks so much for reading!! Please leave a reblog and a like if you enjoyed ⭒ masterlist

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patroxlos · 6 months ago

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in another ask u said that reader feeds into his insecurities and worsens his abandonment issues could u explain it more? also loved how we got to know reader more in the last chapter it helps build character and made me think abt how much deep the reveal is gonna be (angst coming? 👀). tnks for the food💕

the angst will be coming! and they will be miscommunicating so much more than they are right now! im excited because ch8 is significant to establish the reader's motive >:) but to answer your question...

SUMMARY:

all will be revealed as the story progresses >:) i was intentionally vague in that ask because it hasnt been revealed in the story yet what caused you two to fall nearly out years ago, but that said im a yapper HAHAHA

your role as his childhood friend is significant bc u are tied to his past in japan, a place and culture he has very conflicting feelings about

he thinks you don't need him in your life esp because you're so confusing and indecisive about what you want from him

you both were very toxic for eo during your situationship.

If you want to see me yap about Kenji's abandonment and attachment issues, keep reading.

There is narrative purpose as to why I figured a childhood friend would fit in well with Ultraman: Rising's plot in itself

the movie is very family-centric, and a lot of how kenji achieves peace with himself in the film is by reconnecting with the past, be it his family or the culture he left behind

while i figured that it would be fun to write a reluctant team-up to lovers, bc ill be able to play around w kenji's personality pre-Emi, i also didnt see the place of a romance forming while he's struggling being a single mom

but i also wanted the story to take place during the movie's run bc i wanted to include Emi since she plays a big part in us learning who Ken is, so writing a fic that starts after the film didnt feel in the cards for me

since kenji grows as a person by the end of the film through making peace with his conflicting identities and his tumultuous past, i thought having a childhood best friend would make sense since i dont think he has the space to introduce anyone new in his life

bc reader is a childhood friend who he is meant to be close to, i cant write kenji interacting with reader the same way he is at the start of the film because there is a familiarity that breaks down his walls— which caused me to have a dilemma about how to characterize him

it also made me a bit sad that i cant write full-on ken sato the "egomaniac" bc i think thatll be fun since he's such a boyfailure

but that means that we see a softer ken when he interacts with reader, someone who is a bit more vulnerable with showing that he strives for further connections in his life even if he wants to look like he can do it all by himself

Kenji feels alone and disconnected from everyone, including you

it's also clear to the audience that kenji doesnt have any friends, and anyone he's friendly with is probably friends with him on a surface level. Ami states in their first interview that he is known as someone who keeps others at a distance, and who is untouchable

the team behind Ultraman: Rising did state that there is a deleted scene where he is clubbing, which is meant to show that he feels alone even in a sea of bodies. and his dad in the movie isnt surprised that he is throwing parties at his house, so it just clues us in that he probably lived life with very shallow connections and has filled his time with materialistic pursuits (e.g. his car collection...what he need a mclaren for)

i decided to make the reader someone from the 1% for two reasons: first being so that i can explain why her and kenji meet up over the years (i see a lot of friends who migrated to north america only once a year and we're still close!), and second, because i wanted you to be on the same playing field if not higher playing field than him.

Ken puts up the front that he doesn't need anyone else, but he is insecure about how he thinks you don't need him.

bc u have ur own things going on!! u have ur own friends

what makes it worse is that u genuinely think that kenji is the same. u think that since he's very successful, he would have his own thing

i havent touched up on it much yet, but it's very evident to kenji that you will readily pick yourself over him, which isn't a bad thing but it reminds him when his dad picked Ultraman over keeping his family together

ken feels like he can never be anyone's first choice or priority, and your situationship messes this up further

I haven't touched much on what happened between them yet in the story because it's building up to it, but

it soon feels for ken that youre only seeking him out on convenience. that he doesnt matter to you beyond what his body can do for you

bc spoiler: you are the villain in the situationship! you're the one who insists that everything is casual yet you keep the line blurry

^ karma is gonna get to u soon in the main storyline ure gonna be dry heaving when u realize u actually do want something with him

your constant back and forth with him will be revealed in the flashbacks... you not wanting more than a casual relationship yet youre talking abt what it would be like if you two got married???

Spoiler but during the situationship years, you're also the first one to say "I Love You" ROMANTICALLY yet youll later on backtrack and say that you didnt mean it in that way

can you blame him for getting confused and insecure about where you stand and whether or not he actually matters to anyone.

it doesnt help that his presence in your life is actively harming your reputation and career.

in ch8, it's briefly mentioned that ur media hate train is caused by ppl who are paying for bad press abt u starting from when you were 18. if you remember ch3-4, kenji freaks out abt a new article abt u two, and ch6 he was conscious of what others were saying.

one thing i want to elaborate in a separate post is that ken is AVOIDANT ATTACHMENT and reader is written to have DISORGANIZED ATTACHMENT.

Even if Kenji is avoidant due to his trauma of abandonment (e.g. self-reliant, avoids social connections), he can't help but yearn to be with you

so it's so confusing to him bc with everyone else, he would want to leave first. and he's close to leaving you so many times

yet you keep making these promises, saying sweet things about how much you need him, that he cant help but get roped into it a bit

When he is younger, he's fully aware that it is not a healthy mindset, but even if you're just using him at least it means that he still gets to be in your life. It makes him feel needed.

in the present timeline, sometimes those thoughts definitely cross his mind but at present he is focusing on maintaining the boundary you guys set about strictly being friends

So far I hope you caught in the story [as of ch8] from the subtext or dialogue that

in the present timeline, you are both 26 years old

the situationship started when you were 16 and lasted until you were 23

bc ure both high profile starting when you were 18, and u both publicly seem a lot closer than what ure claiming to be, it is well-documented that you two kind of go back and forth with each other (think justin and selena/shawn mendes and camila cabello)

(a new photo recently surfaced of shawn and camila together at Copa América and ppl were kind of confused as to whether or not they got back together again after breaking up for like the fourth time and i was like omg... home base core...)

when you both were 23, three years ago, you two had a really bad falling out caused by your previous situationship

it caused you officially end it for good, and while you maintained your friendship for those three years you weren't able to properly see each other face to face (partly. bc covid is canon in the fic HAHAHA but i havent talked abt it)

yall dont know how to act around eo anymore like why a little eye contact making u nervous .... yall had ur privates in eo's mouths (kenji munch next chapter soon promise hihi)...

since it is revealed that a large part of the hate train against you is paid for by people who want you out of power, kenji as much as possible wants to avoid being seen as more than friends with you atm bc he's worried it will derail your career

SORRY if it felt like I didn't say anything at all since I don't want to reveal too much at this stage lmao but I can do my best to elaborate on any points of interest!

#answered #home base #kenji sato #ken sato #ultraman: rising

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c-e-d-dreamer · 8 months ago

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It do be that time again! WIP Wednesday! I hope everyone enjoys this snippet of the next chapter of Top Shelf Love 😏

Cassian had known Nesta was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen since he first saw her picture, but seeing her in person is another thing altogether.

Her hair is braided back in an intricate updo, but with her head bent down, a strand of golden brown hair tumbles down her temple and kisses her jawline. Deft fingers brush the hair aside and behind her ear, further revealing the sharp cut of her cheekbones. When she turns the page of her book, her lips part, eyebrows jumping, and Cassian thinks he might give anything to see her eyes, to see if they spark and flare along with whatever she’s just read.

“Reading on the job?”

Nesta snaps her book closed, her attention finally rising, and Cassian gets his first look at those blue eyes he’s so often thought about. They’re a similar shade to Feyre’s, sure, and yet so different somehow. They seem to burn with a silver fire that leaves the cool shade of them looking like a storm roiled sea, especially when that gaze narrows on him, her lips pinching into a scowl.

Cassian doesn’t let the reaction deter him. If anything, it only stokes the embers in his own chest, beckoning him into the flames. He closes the final few steps between them, leaning against the register counter with a smirk.

“Nesta Archeron,” Cassian greets.

“Cassian Valdarez.”

His name falling from her lips shouldn’t sound as sweet as it does, especially with the clipped tone she speaks it, but a zing of electricity still skitters down Cassian’s spine nonetheless. What would it take to have her saying his name again? To have her sighing it? For him to taste it?

“So you do know me, then?” Cassian drawls, daring to glance down at her book. A Calanmai Secret. “And yet, you couldn’t answer any of my texts.”

Nesta crosses her arms, leveling him with a hard look that Cassian is sure is meant to send him running. “Most people would take that as a hint. Yet here you are. In my bookstore.”

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #Top Shelf Love #my fic

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musette22 · 3 months ago

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Wait Minnie that clip you posted of the Seb interview without context of him saying he’s going to get Chris has me thinking of a cute Evanstan au where maybe they haven’t ever met and worked together and Chris has been in the industry a long time and Seb rises to fame quickly and he’s always joked about Chris being his celebrity crush but now they’re on the same level and so Chris starts seeing all these clips and getting tagged in memes about this adorable man who wants (to work with) him and goes down a rabbit hole of watching all his stuff and then just DM’s him out of the blue to work together (on a romcom perhaps??) and then they hit it off and fall in love and ahshfjskdnjd 🥰🤭😌

Oh my god 😭 I am in LOVE with this. That is so freakin' cute, I can't deal 🥹 I can totally imagine all of this and I'd read the hell out of it! Actually, I think I read a Stucky fic with a sort of similar concept recently, but in that one, Steve was the movie star and he was using his social media platform as a way to try and catch the attention of his childhood crush Bucky. And also, I was part of an Evanstan AU collab a few years back in which Chris and Sebastian were both actors but they'd never worked together, and they got in touch via the internet during quarantine and fell in love that way, which is also kind of similar (Seas(on) The Moment)

But yeah, it's not quite the same as the scenario you're proposing, and I do love that one so very much!! In fact I need ittt, can someone please write it pretty please? 💗🙏🏻 Thanks for sharing this adorable thought with us, nonnie!!

#evanstan #rpf #minnie answers

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nausicaamusiclover20 · 2 months ago

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reader pegging submissive dave and he shakes and cries from the pleasure🙏

I hope you like it I think it's a bit bad

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, fem dom, using of dildo, power dynamics.

His mistress

The room was warm, the faint scent of lavender mingling with the soft glow of candlelight. Everything about the space was intentionally—inviting, intimate, a haven for us to explore without fear. Dave knelt at the foot of the bed, his hands resting obediently on his thighs. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly, and I could see the faintest tremor in his fingers as they flexed against his skin.

“Eyes up,” I instructed gently.

He obeyed immediately, his gaze meeting mine. His dark eyes were a swirling sea of emotions: apprehension, excitement, vulnerability, and trust. That trust was everything—the invisible tether between us that allowed him to give himself so completely. I stepped closer, standing tall before him, savoring the way he seemed to shrink just slightly under my gaze—not from fear but from the weight of his submission.

“You’re trembling,” I said, tilting my head slightly. My fingers brushed his cheek, then traced along his jawline. “Tell me, what’s going through that head of yours?”

“I...” He hesitated, his voice trembling. “I’m nervous, Mistress.”

The title fell from his lips easily, almost instinctively, and I couldn’t help but smile. “Why are you nervous?” I asked, letting my thumb graze his lower lip, the touch deliberate and teasing.

“I—I want to please you,” he confessed, his voice cracking slightly. “But I’m afraid I’ll... disappoint you.”

His vulnerability hung in the air, raw and unguarded. I leaned closer, lowering myself to his level so I could look him straight in the eye. “Dave,” I said softly, my voice firm but reassuring. “You could never disappoint me. Do you trust me to guide you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, his eyes shining with unspoken emotion.

“Good.” I straightened and took a step back, letting him feel the distance, the weight of my presence. My movements were deliberate as I walked to the bedside table, where the strap-on harness and dildo were laid out, gleaming in the candlelight. I picked up the harness, the soft clink of the buckles cutting through the quiet.

When I turned back to him, his breath caught audibly. His gaze locked onto the toy in my hands, and I could see the way his chest rose and fell faster, the anticipation written all over his face.

“You’re going to take this for me tonight,” I said, my voice calm but commanding. “And you’re going to call me Mistress every time you speak. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied immediately, the words tumbling out in a shaky breath.

“Good boy,” I praised, watching the way his cheeks flushed at those two simple words.

I took my time fastening the harness, the straps snug against my hips. Each adjustment was intentional, not just for practicality but to build the anticipation between us. His eyes followed every movement, his breath quickening as I secured the dildo in place, giving it a testing tilt before turning back to him.

“Hands on the bed,” I instructed, my tone firm but patient.

He obeyed without hesitation, climbing onto the mattress and positioning himself on all fours. There was a hesitance in his movements, a shyness that only made him more endearing. I stepped closer, running my hands over his back, his skin warm and taut under my touch.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” I murmured, letting my hands trace the curve of his spine, down to his hips. “So vulnerable. So mine.”

“Mistress,” he whimpered, the title a soft, desperate sound that sent a thrill through me.

I leaned over him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Say it again,” I commanded, my voice low and teasing.

“Mistress,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of arousal and emotion.

“Good boy,” I murmured, straightening as I reached for the lube.

I warmed it between my hands before spreading it generously over the dildo, ensuring it was slick and ready. The cool sensation as I applied it to him made him shiver, a soft gasp escaping his lips. I leaned close again, my lips brushing against his ear.

“You’re going to feel full tonight,” I whispered, my tone dripping with intent. “And every time you moan, every time you shudder, I want to hear you call me Mistress. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice barely more than a gasp.

“Good,” I said, smiling as I positioned the toy against him.

The first press of the dildo made his body tense, his hands gripping the sheets tightly. “Shh,” I soothed, running a hand down his back. “Breathe for me, Dave. Relax.”

He exhaled shakily, his body beginning to soften under my touch. Slowly, carefully, I pushed forward, inch by inch. His head dropped forward, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips.

“Tell me how it feels,” I commanded, my voice firm but laced with genuine care.

“It’s... intense,” he admitted, his voice shaky. “But it feels good, Mistress. So good.”

“Good boy,” I praised, my hands steady on his hips as I began to move, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Every sound he made was intoxicating. Soft whimpers turned into broken moans, his body trembling beneath me as he gave himself over completely. I leaned over him, my lips close to his ear. “You’re mine,” I murmured. “Every sound, every inch of you—it’s all mine.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped, his voice raw with emotion.

I quickened my pace, watching as his body responded to me, his thighs quaking and his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “I—I can’t—” he cried out, his voice cracking.

“Yes, you can,” I said firmly, my grip on his hips tightening. Let go for me, Dave. Give me everything.”

His cries grew louder, raw and unrestrained. His arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the bed, his body trembling violently as tears streamed down his face.

When I finally pulled away, I climbed onto the bed beside him, pulling his shaking form into my arms. He buried his face in my chest, sobbing softly as I stroked his hair and whispered soothing words.

“You were perfect,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “My beautiful, perfect boy.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but full of gratitude.

“You’re mine,” I said softly, holding him tighter. “And I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m yours,” he replied, his voice barely audible but resolute. I smiled, savoring the feeling of his body melting into mine.

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shady-tavern · 5 months ago

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Preview for "Paint the Town"

(warnings ahead for semi-graphic violence, mentioned and implied death, as well as implied suicidal ideation of a side character, please be sure to take care of yourselves)