#King!Stone is very close to just throwing away every single responsibility he has

[the-whispers-of-death]

just exactly how obsessed is king!stone?

Let me let you into my mind for a minute:

Me: *turns to King!Stone* How obsessed are you with Royal Guard!Reader?

King!Stone, with hearts in his eyes as he stares at Royal Guard!Reader: Can I step down from my throne and devote my every waking minute to him?

Me: ....So you're close to or exactly Criminal!Stone obsessed, okay.

[de-profundis-ad-astra]

WIP INTRO || WRETCHES AND KINGS Writeblr Masterlist

GENRE || Adult Urban Gothic POV || Third person omniscient STATUS || First draft completed, second draft in progress SETTING || Modern day THEMES/FEATURES || Modern mythology, criminal aesthetic, found family, immortality, death, revenge, grief cycle, moral crises, platonic soulmates

SYNOPSIS

An undeniable crime problem plagues the city of Easthold, an affluent city rife with thieves and bandits of all pedigrees. This in and of itself is not all that strange. What’s strange is the incredibly high volume of unsolved crimes, of acts no one has claimed, ones even the Easthold Police Department can’t even begin to find blame for. Even when committed in broad daylight, even when the police arrive on the scene in the middle of a heist, no one manages to catch more than unclear glimpses of the culprits, no bullets hit their marks, and when all is said and done there is somehow never any reliable evidence. No camera ever manages to catch a thing, no trap is ever successful, and never has a single witness managed a coherent report, like somehow none of them ever pay enough attention. Like somehow what they’ve seen can never be put into words.

Throw a stone in Easthold and you’ll hit a crook, from thugs to conmen to masked killers who all call the city home. They all know their place, yet somehow the balance of powers never really makes sense. Like something is missing. Like everyone is fighting to be the second best while the title of top dog remains empty. Not that the reluctance to take charge is all that surprising, considering the way any crew which starts to grow big enough to extend their hold over the city is cut down. Driven out or found murdered, often laying in the remains of what was clearly a vicious shootout, though the killers are never found. Like vigilantes, only not so altruistic; the spoils belonging to the defeated gangs are always taken, only to reappear at the scene of yet another unrelated crime.

There’s something deeply wrong in Easthold. Something strange and unsettling. Like a catastrophic event has knocked the whole city just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. It’s in the way the EPD have cabinet upon cabinet of unsolved crimes that never manage to make their way into reports, years of unacceptably unpunished offences that would bring the might of a federal investigation if only they were disclosed. In the way a startling amount of those offences resemble crimes from days long past.

There are secrets in Easthold. Things no one knows, things everyone knows, and awful, impossible, inescapable reality they’ve all been trapped within. It’s in the way unease builds and dissipates without cresting, citizens never quite recognizing their own discomfort, never fully acknowledging the oddity of acting without reason, of crossing the street or averting their eyes, of taking the long way home simply because that one corner just didn’t feel right. In the way the city is beset by sudden explosions, the way gunfire rattles, the way streets echo with chilling laughter like the ghost of a memory, the phantom chill of a nightmare, the ceaseless loop of those who will not be laid to rest.

MAIN CAST

MARLENE WALCROFT || As the leader, Marlene has always has to present herself as reasonably level-headed, controlled outside the occasional snaps of frightful anger, a little overbearing in her need to dictate every plan maybe, but what criminal kingpin isn’t? What’s odd is the new fear kept behind closed doors, Marlene second guessing her own ideas to a degree that is wholly out of character, running over plans again and again, pulling them apart and looking for flaws, debriefing even after successful missions when everyone else just wants to celebrate, unconsciously pressing her hand to her heart like reassurance that it’s still beating.

SPENCER MCFARLANE || He may be happier in a no-holds-barred fist fight, but nobody could say Spencer isn’t good with a gun, an excellent shot with just about any weapon he can get his hands on. What’s odd is the little burst of panic he gets right after firefights, patting his own chest, checking again and again like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t hit.

HYRENE BRAEDEN || For all her quick temper and flippant attitude, Hyrene can be utterly pedantic about checking and rechecking the timers on bombs, which honestly isn’t an awful trait. What’s odd is the way Hyrene gets angry about it sometimes, storms about the penthouse yanking out every last alarm clock, the way she swears she can still hear something ticking with furious intention, like the last seconds of a countdown.

TERRANCE PHOENIX || Terrance isn’t wracked by guilt, doesn’t regret what he does the way some might; he’s a killer and he owns it, he chose it, and it truly doesn’t bother him. What’s odd is the way he still can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes some nights when the darkness squeezes close and he feels so cold, like the depths of the ocean are pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs. As Marlene’s second in command, he feels the responsibility to hold the crew together in the event that the kingpin finally snaps.

KYE || In terms of safety, Kye is as reckless as they come, all slapdash impulses and delighted disregard, chasing amusement at any cost when it’s only their neck on the line. What’s odd is that sometimes Kye walks around with a parachute strapped to their back and no intention of flying that day, utterly overzealous precaution without any real explanation as to why, like some part of them is always terrified they’re going to fall.

CAIM ROBINETT || Caim drives like he made a deal with the devil, like every vehicle is just an extension of his being, inherent ability paired with unmatchable knowledge of ever backroad alley in the city. What’s odd is the nightmarish daydreams he gets sometimes, when he looked back at his latest baby and sees flickers of crunched metal and shattered glass, the phantom scent of spilled gasoline and the unmissable click-swoosh of a catching flame.

ELIAN REED || There’s nothing odd about Elian. Just an unfortunate case of someone who got caught in the wrong situation at the wrong time. Or perhaps something is off. Every moment spent with her savior, the queen with hair like fire, it’s almost as though she’s in the presence of a ghost. They’re all like ghosts, and she can’t quite place a finger on why. She also can’t place a finger on why not just Marlene, but everyone in her inner circle, is so hellbent on making sure she’s never around them for just a moment too long.

EXCERPT

This job. Shit.

Terrance had his own suspicions about how aware the others were of how frequently he snuck off. Hyrene knew. And that didn’t necessarily mean the others did, too, but it left the possibility. That was enough to set his teeth on edge. Marlene asking him to play such a pivotal role in the job only made it worse.

If she knew about what he was doing now, then she was undoubtedly asking him to do it with the belief that he would not be walking away from it.

And for that alone, he would be sure to prove her wrong. How dare she disrespect him like this. Besides, when he died and woke up still in her home, then that would be cause for a great deal of fun.

He hadn’t been prepared for it all to happen so soon, though. He’d expected another few months to prepare to get rid of the threat that was Marlene McFarlane, but in that time she, too, had identified him as a threat, and was making the first move to see him taken off of the playing board.

“Terrance.”

Not a question of his presence. A statement. He heard the clacking of Marlene’s heels on the hardwood floor before she appeared.

Maybe the first punches would be thrown tonight, then.

“Yeah,” he said in answer, dipping his head in Marlene’s direction as she made her approach. She stalked forward with the gait of someone intent of making him into prey. He did not appreciate that.

“I had a question for you,” she said, positioning herself across the island from him. A smart move, if she really knew the extent to which he could harm her. If he tried hard enough, there wasn’t anything in the world that could bring her back.

But she didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Right now all she needed was the reliable second in command that he had dutifully played the role of for many years. The time for surprises would come later. Perhaps sooner than expected, but they could still wait.

“Go ahead,” he said invitingly, even going so far as to open his hands to her. Nonthreatening.

Her pale green eyes fixed on his mask, still settled near the corner of the island. Her eyes tightened. Okay, maybe a little threatening.

“How did you do it?” she asked.

Terrance laughed out loud. “I’ve done a great many things in this life you’ve given me. You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Marlene kept her expression flat. Though emotionless, she somehow appeared angry when she asked, “How did you kill a god?”

Terrance paused in the middle of his drink, suddenly finding that he had to channel all of his focus into making sure he didn’t choke up what he’d already swallowed. Carefully swallowing what was in his mouth, Terrance lowered his glass to the counter with a quiet thunk.

“Who’d you hear that from?” he asked, his voice rasping slightly.

“People whisper,” said Marlene with a nonchalant shrug, leaning with her elbows against the surface of the island. “They spin the most splendorous tales out there, do you know that?”

“They’re also a bunch of crackheads who hallucinate half of the things they think they see,” Terrance countered. It certainly wasn’t false.

“But the imagery they spin is so vivid, wouldn’t you say?” said Marlene. “You haven’t heard the tales they tell about you?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“They whisper of the Renegade in a skull mask.” Another flicker of her eyes in the direction of the very same mask. “They worship the ground the Master of Death walks on as he mingles with the living.”

TAGLIST

@firefeatherx @goldenhour-goldenboy @mandoplease @mylifeliterally @phoenixhalliwell @havenforafrazzledmind @living-reminder @beatriz-silva-00 @pascalz @worldominatorx @givemethatgold @agirllovespancakes @lilacyennefer @dignityneeded @veuliee @briskywalker @davairys @aetherwrites @ryns-ramblings @teriwrites

[thecleverdame]

Gods of Twilight - 10

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking

Beta:  ilikaicalie

*Chapters 11-26 are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

-

“Are you mad woman?” Theo yells, slamming the heavy book down on the table with a boom.

“Lower your voice, good sir!” you hiss, taking a step back.

He’s a large man, nearly twice your size and formidable on a good day.

“The Kingdom's coffers aren’t your personal funds,” he spits, coming around the table. “I’m entrusted with great responsibility. Don’t make the mistake of thinking your title allows you unfettered access. If you were anyone else I’d have you stripped and flogged-”

“Watch your mouth, Actuary.” Sam steps into the room and you slink back away from both men.

“My King.” Theo bows, jaw tightening. “Please forgive me.”

“You’ll not speak to my wife in such a way.” Sam glances at you, taking a step to put himself between you and Theo. “Need I remind you you’re in the presence of a Queen?”

“Of course not, my lord. A thousand apologies, m’lady.”

“Do you accept his apology?” Sam turns, handing the power to you. “Or should I have him stripped and flogged for speaking to you in such a way?”

“I accept his apology,” you nod. Theo is glaring at you, nostrils flaring as he tries and fails to hide his discontent.

“If I ever hear of you speaking to her like that again, I’ll take care of you myself.” Sam points a finger at the financier who nods his head in return.

“I understand, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

Sam looks him over, before reaching to take your arm. You scurry beside him as he marches you down the hallway, several knights behind you. Once in the privacy of your bedchambers, he turns to you, eyes narrowing.

“What was he upset about?”

“I wrote a note, a promise of funds.”

“How much.”

“A thousand shillings,” you whisper, afraid of his response.

“A thousand?” He cocks an eyebrow, taking a step toward you. “Why? For who?”

“There is a woman in the village who takes in wayward children, those that no one else will care for. Her house is full, but the walls are crumbling and they’re starving. There was no bread to eat, no wood for the fire. Not even enough blankets for all the little ones. I had to do something.” You raise your chin, despite your fear of him.

Sam stares at you for a moment, cocking his head in thought. “Why a thousand?”

You’re taken off guard by this question, pausing to explain. “Golda and Phillip helped me estimates costs. She needed a builder for her walls, food and clothes for the children. We created a list of costs and threw in a bit extra.”

For the first time since you’ve known him a genuine smile crosses his face as he chuckles. “Well, it sounds like you did your due diligence.”

“Would you have preferred I ask your permission?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

-

It’s almost midnight. You’re sitting in a chair near the fire, reading and sipping tea when Sam returns.

“Are you hungry?” you ask without looking up. Over the last several weeks he’s made a point of having supper with you nearly every night. Tonight however he was noticeably absent.

“I’ll eat later,” he answers, walking over to you. “Get up and get dressed.”

“Now?” You look at him, trying to suss out what he’s playing at.

Sam is trying to put what happened behind you, but you’re afraid you’ll always feel wary of him.

Not to mention your added security detail. A walk in the village flanked by two dozen guards isn’t a walk, it’s a spectacle. Your life has narrowed down to this room and the small gardens within the Castle’s keep.

“Yes, now,” he instructs, throwing a thick cloak over his shoulders. “Put on something warm, we will be outside for some time and snow has started to fall.”

He waits, standing in the middle of the room as you get up and slink out of your nightdress and into a gown. Once you’re fully dressed in a cloak, hat, and thick fur gloves, he ushers you out of the room.

The halls are empty, the stones echoing with footfall as you walk behind him, following for what feels like a lifetime. You descend down toward the stables only to find a garrison of knights readying their horses.

“You’ll ride with me,” Sam instructs, gesturing toward a huge dappled horse that whinnies as it looks at you.

“I know how to ride,” you offer but he’ll hear none of it.

“Tonight you’ll stay with me.” Offering you a hand he helps you onto the steed’s back and then mounts, sliding into the saddle behind you. You lean back against his chest, gripping the horse’s mane as the entire party starts out of the keep and toward the bridge. They move in a choreographed manner, with Sam at the lead, knights two by two behind him.

Moving through the dark streets of the village you're surprised when the first commoner joins the caravan. He’s waiting in an alley and folds into the formation as they continue onward. A dozen other men join before you’re out of the city and then it’s across the drawbridge and out into the fields.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He counters, sliding an arm firmly around your waist, pulling you back in a crushing embrace. “Hold on.”

With one hand on the reigns and the other around you, he takes off at a gallop and his men follow. The sound of hooves pounding the ground and the horse's heavy breath is all you can hear as you near the edge of the forest.

You nearly yelp as the horse makes a sharp left, cutting along the tree line, narrowly missing the outstretched branches. As your sight adjusts under the moonlight you can see the open path in the woods ahead. It’s a small, narrow passage and Sam remains in the lead as they ride single file into the shadowy wood.

The whipping wind is made worse by the speed at which you’re traveling. Your nose has long since gone numb and the cloak you chose, while it is the thickest you own, is doing little to keep you warm.

The journey is a long one but Sam slows the horse as he approaches the unknown destination. Without warning the forest is gone and you’re in the middle of a clearing. There are countless torches aflame, surrounding the perimeter and several dozen men and women are gathered around a fire.

Sam jumps off the horse, placing both hands on your hips to help you to the ground, allowing his horse to roam free.

“Are you are cold?” he asks, watching as you pull the hood of your cloak around your head.

“Y-yes,” you chatter, now realizing that you’re practically frozen.

“Come to the fire, you’ll be warmer there.” He heads toward the gathering and you follow, staying close beside him. “They are all like me.”

“Wolves?” you breathe quietly, unconsciously moving closer to him, your shoulder pressing against his arm.

He places a hand at the small of your back, small comfort as you approach the rather raucous gathering. There’s music, an upbeat song playing on a lute as they pass flasks from one man to another. The chatter winds down to a whisper as Sam approaches.

“Your majesty,” a portly gentleman bends a knee with a roll of his hand and there’s a gentle laugh from the group. “We have a visitor, I see.”

“My wife.” Sam takes you by the arm, pushing you forward as you blink back at the faces watching in silence. No one says a word, and there’s a long, uncomfortable pause It’s a small dark-haired woman who eventually steps forward, raising her flask to the fire.

“We are glad to have you, my queen.” Her words are friendly but her eyes flicker from you to Sam with a spark that you make note of.

After a beat, the music resumes, chatter growing loud.

“What is this?” you ask, turning to your husband. “Some sort of secret society meeting?”

“Something like that,” Sam nods. “There is a full moon tonight. Many will shift.”

There’s no calming the uneasy feeling in your chest, as you look around. “Is it safe for me to be here?”  

“I wouldn’t have brought you if I thought it dangerous,” he confirms. “I will shift as well. Phillip will stay with you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” you sputter, watching as they begin to undress, stripping down in front of each other.

“Because you need to know what I am, to see it. And if you want freedom, you must know what lurks out here in the darkness. I can ensure your safety because you’re here with me and there plenty of my men to keep you out of harm’s way. But in the dark, alone, it’s not only Luther’s murderous men that roam, it’s also all sorts of wild things.”

He stares at you a moment longer and then takes off his cloak, handing it to you. He begins to strip along with the rest of them.

“Come with me, m’lady.” Phillip appears beside you, guiding you closer to the fire as they wander away, into the field.

You watch Sam, your eyes fixed on his naked buttocks as his whole body contacts in a sudden and violent twitch. His shoulders roll back, neck cocking to the side. The brunette who spoke to you earlier appears beside him, nude and jerking in the same fashion. Suddenly the night is filled with a chorus of moans and howls.

It appears as if Sam’s bones are shifting under his skin, moving in a most unnatural way and then the transformation happens fast. In the blink of an eye, his skin becomes a thick pelt of white fur and instead of the man that was there seconds ago, there is now a giant wolf, the very same that you walked with the woods on that fateful night. The woman beside him is now a smaller coal black wolf, turning back to look at you.

Sam takes off, legs springing to action as he sprints off into the darkness and they all follow. The night is filled with howls and yelps that fade into the distance.

You can scarcely breathe, looking at Phillip with wide eyes. For the first time your life you are truly speechless.

“Don’t be afraid,” he explains gingerly. “No one would dare to hurt you. Besides, they’re hungry for furry little rabbits, not a human woman.”

“You aren’t one of them?” You inspect at him in the firelight.

“I am,” he confirms. “I’ll have my chance when they return.”

“I don’t know what to say,” you sputter, staring off into the night.

“I suspect you’ll find the words eventually,” he grins, offering you a nip of his flask.

-

When Sam and the rest of them return they walk out of the darkness in human form, naked and covered in mud and small cuts. Sam is jovial, laughing with a bright smile on his face. His brother on one side and the woman at the other. He finds his clothes, pulling on his trousers before spotting you across the fire and making his way to you.

“I trust you were in good hands while I was gone.”

“Of course.” You force a smile at Phillip who bows his head and disappears. “This is quite a lot to take in all at once.”

“I understand.” He pulls his shirt back over his head, eyes locking on you. “Are you more or less afraid of me than before?”

Gathering your thoughts you start to speak and then stop, choosing your words carefully.

“My fear never had anything to do with...this.” You hold your head high. His brows pulls together, face unreadable.

“I see,” he nods, looking around as people begin a makeshift celebration around the fire. You can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine, you've been out in the elements for hours now.

“You’re shaking.”

“I am not as adapted to the outdoors as you.” Your teeth chatter as you pull your cloak closer around you.

“I’ll take you home.”

He settles behind you on the horse, wrapping his cloak around you as he takes off at a slower pace than you arrived. Several knights trail behind him.

“You’re practically frozen,” he huffs, hot breath at your ear. You’re trembling against him and the arm around your belly pulls you in tighter to him. “I shouldn’t have kept you out for so long.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll have a hot bath when we return.”

“I will join you.”

You sigh at his words, the two you have not been together in an intimate manner since the belting. You would have opened your legs to him out of obligation if he asked you to, but he hasn’t so much as suggested it.

“I am sorry for what I did to you.” He whispers, pressing a warm cheek against your temple. You’re unprepared for an apology, but even more unprepared for the promise that comes after it.

“I will never put my hands on you in anger again. You have my word. Will you please forgive me?”

Your eyes close as you release a breath.

“Yes,” you turn your head to the side, forehead pressing into his cheek. “Let’s not talk of it again.”

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Fracture (King Liam x MC)

Summary:  Inspired by this post from @ao719 and set immediately after TRH Book 2, chapter 1. The King and Queen have their first major blow up.

A/N: This was hard for me because I see both of their sides so perfectly, and I adore Liam so being mad at him, even fictionally is a challenge for me, lol

Tags: @senseofduties @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @badchoicesposts @drakewalker04 @canknot @sirbeepsalot @hopefulmoonobject @eadanga @texaskitten30 @the-unconquered-queen @flyawayboo @aestheticartwriting

~~

The air in the parlor is practically crackling with energy as Queen Kendall glares at her husband. There’s way too many emotions swirling around right now—anger, joy, confusion, relief, fear—and she can’t seem to get a firm grasp on them.

This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, of their life, but it’s not. Liam just agreed to give their baby away.

He waits on baited breath as she finds the words to respond to him. To say Liam is nervous is an understatement. Anxiety is a cruel mistress and she has a firm grip on his throat.

“You did what?”

“I agreed to their terms for an alliance.”

“How dare you? You married our daughter off and she’s not even a full day old yet!”

“Kendall, you have to–”

“I don’t have to do a damn thing!” Kendall hisses. “You caved! We’ve been working on ways to subdue them and keep them at bay for months, and you give in to their whims like that?” She snaps for added effect. 

The heartbreak is the worst. Not once in their relationship has never done something like this without telling her. She never thought she’d experience a betrayal, from him of all people, on this level. “You made a monumental decision that affects not just us, but our daughter. Our home! Our country! And you did it unilaterally. What happened to us being a team?”

“It wasn’t an easy choice to make, and I didn’t take it lightly.”

“My daughter is not a commodity to be sold off to the highest bidder, Liam.”

Liam reaches out to touch Kendall, but she recoils from him. The act makes his heart shatter in his chest. “My love, please understand. There was no other choice.”

“There’s always another choice,” Kendall argues, a bite in her tone that Liam isn’t used to. “You’ve opened the floodgates now. We gave into their demands, with no security on our side and nothing in return. Cordonia loses! And now that they have the upper hand, who’s to say they won’t come back with more demands?”

“They won’t.”

“Oh, because Bradshaw and Isabella are paragons of integrity?”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says. “I did what I thought was best.”

Kendall ignores his apology, biting down on her tongue so she doesn’t say anything she’ll later regret. Instead she looks down at Eleanor, her precious baby girl. A baby whose future is already set in stone, bound to a stranger in a foreign land, not someone she meets and falls in love with organically. It’s not the life she deserves. A tear rolls down her cheek, mourning the life she envisioned for their baby girl.

“You fought so hard to marry me,” Kendall says softly. Her voice cracks slightly and Liam feels even worse than he did. “You were determined to be with me, because we were in love, and you couldn’t live a lie. You couldn’t just marry for duty once you discovered that true existed. You said I changed your life.”

“You did,” Liam insists. “Kendall, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Then how, after going through what we’ve gone through, after experiencing true love, how could you marry Eleanor off? How could you rob her of the opportunity?” Kendall implores. “After seeing how upset and betrayed Olivia felt after she found out her parents married her to someone as awful to Anton, you turn around and do the exact same thing.”

Liam struggles to find the words. He wants to explain himself, he wants Kendall to see that he only had them in mind.

“I did this for you, my queen. I did it for both of you.”

Kendall shakes her head, refusing to listen. “You let them leverage me, like my life and Eleanor’s life are nothing more than bartering tools. I was scared and vulnerable, and you let them manipulate that.”

She sighs an exhausted sigh. Between finding out Godfrey murdered her mother-in-law, being trapped in the palace like a hostage, going into labor and nearly dying, and now this, she’s drained.

Kendall turns towards Liam and looks him in the eyes. “I’m too tired to continue this conversation, so I’ll end it with this. You’re the fucking king of this country, and you better employ every single drop of power that title has bestowed upon you to fix the mess you put us in, and I don’t give a damn how you do it. Rob, kill and destroy, hell start World War 3 for all I care.”

She stops, contemplating her next words. “Hear me well when I tell you this, Liam. I have endured a lot when it comes to living in this country, being the Queen, and being your wife, but this, I will not stand for. I will burn Auvernal to the ground before I send my daughter there to be a pawn in the game of politics. And if you don’t rectify it, and rectify it soon, I will go to that godforsaken country and split both Bradshaw and Isabella from navel to jugular myself, and I’ll do with a smile on my face.”

A chill runs down Liam’s spine at his wife’s words. He’s never seen her so angry before, it’s downright scary. “I promise you, my queen, I’ll fix it.”

“Good.” She hastily wipes away another tear from her eye. “Can you get Mara or Bastien?”

“Of course. What’s wrong?”

“I want to go to our chambers and I’m going to need some assistance getting there.”

“Nonsense, I can help you with that, darling.”

Kendall lifts herself off of the couch and immediately grabs the arm with one hand to steady herself. She wobbles a bit, slightly dizzy and Liam places a hand on her back. 

This was supposed to be happy. They were supposed to be happy together. But in this moment, Kendall can hardly stand her husband’s presence. “If I wanted you to escort me, I would’ve asked you.”

He falters, taken aback at the harshness. He’s never seen this side of Kendall. But he can’t blame her. He deserves it. “Very well. I’ll call Mara for you.”

~V~

Liam anxiously paces back and forth in the palace suite. Kendall’s been in labor for almost six hours, floating in and out of consciousness.

Drake runs a hand through his hair and huffs. “I can’t stand here anymore, I’m going to go help Olivia and Mara break down those doors.”

“I’m sure there’s a battering ram in this palace somewhere,” Maxwell muses silently.

But Liam just ignores them. He goes back to Kendall’s side and presses a kiss to her head, whispering calming words in her ear.

“You’re doing so amazing,” he tells her. “I’m so proud of you, love.”

“Liam, I can't do this anymore,” Kendall says with a whimper.

“Yes, you can. You’re so strong, you’re almost there.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.” Liam runs a hand through her hair, uncaring that it’s damp with sweat. “I just need you to stay up with me. Can you do that?”

She goes quiet for a long while and Liam stiffens. Finally she responds with, “I’ll try.”

“And you’ll succeed. Because I love you so much, and we’re just now starting our lives together. We’re so close to our happily ever after.”

Kendall leans in to his touch and closes her eyes again. “I love you. I want you to know that I love you and our baby so much.”

“I love you too.”

When silence fills the room again Liam looks down and sees Kendall has gone under again. “Kendall.” He shakes her shoulder to no response. “Kendall, wake up, baby. Wake up.”

His blood runs cold and again shakes her, much more forcefully, but her body is limp under him. His fingers slide to her neck, checking for a pulse. When he can’t find one, that’s when he flips. “KENDALL!”

Liam awakes with a start, cold sweat dripping down his forehead, heart beating wildly in his chest and his breathing erratic.

Tears stream down his cheeks as he struggles to calm down. He takes a moment to survey his surroundings, quickly realizing that he’s not in his bedroom, but in one of the spare bedrooms of his private quarters. Kendall is noticeably absent, the left side of the bed is cold and empty.

The dream—nightmare—was too realistic. Was it even a dream at all? Or was it actually a vivid memory?

On wobbly feet, he jumps up and rushes towards out of the room. He stumbles through the long hallway until he makes it to their master suite. He throws open the double doors, startling his wife. She’s awake, sitting up in the middle of the bed, baby Nori sleeping soundly in her bassinet beside her.

“Liam, what on earth are you doing?” Kendall looks at the time on the small digital clock on their bedside table. It’s almost noon, the arrival of their baby girl completely throwing off their concept of time.

He doesn’t say anything, he just rushes over to her and sweeps her in his arms. Kendall can feel his heart beating fast against her own, and every muscle in his body is stiff.

He holds her tightly against him for a long time, refusing to let go, afraid of what might happen if he did. Images of cold and lifeless form still cloud his mind.  “You’re alive.”

“Of course I’m alive.” Liam releases her from the vice-like grip she’s in, and that’s when she notices that his eyes are bloodshot and there are tears streaming down his cheek. 

Now she’s alarmed. Always one to remain calm and composed, Liam hardly ever cries.

“Liam, what’s wrong?”

Liam shrugs off the question. “Nothing, it’s nothing. I just needed to check on you.”

“You burst in here like a bat out of hell,” Kendall deadpans. “And you’re crying. Talk to me.”

“I just had a nightmare,” he confesses quietly, peering into the bassinet to get a look at his daughter. Not wanting to disrupt her too much, he runs a finger through her curly hair. She moves slightly, but doesn’t wake fully. “You were in labor, and you just kept passing out. And you were so...pale and weak. And I was trying to keep you conscious, but eventually you just closed your eyes. You closed them and they never opened again.” A strangled sob burst from his chest and he tries to clamp down on it in vain, but it comes forth anyway. His entire body shakes as the weight of everything crashes down on him. “You died.”

After hesitating for a moment, Kendall wraps her arms around her husband. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, his tears hitting her skin.

“Well that didn’t happen,” Kendall declares stubbornly. “I’m right here.”

“B-but it could’ve happened,” Liam argues, his voice muffled. After a few more seconds, he removes himself from Kendall’s embrace. He stands, drawing himself to full height and closes his eyes. “There was so much going on last night. I had just found out one of my father’s closest friends and advisors, one of my trusted advisors...mur–” he chokes on the word, shuddering as he spits it out, “murdered my mother. My pregnant mother. And there’s absolutely no time to process it because you went into labor, and there were so many complications.”

“Kendall, I don’t think you understand just how close you were to dying. How close I was to losing you. It felt like the walls were closing in on me, and just last week we had that car accident and–” Liam pauses. He drops to his knees and looks up at his wife, eyes still glossy with unshed tears. “I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. The Auvernese guards had the weaponry to break down the barriers, and I was willing to do anything in my power to get Dr. Ramirez to you. It was a terrible decision, but you were mere minutes away from going into full blown eclampsia and dying and I couldn’t let that happen, not when there was a solution in front of me.”

“Yes, Isabella and Bradshaw are horrible people for dangling your lives above my head, but you’re alive. Our daughter is alive. You have every right to be mad at me, but as long as there is breath in your body, I am at peace. I would make a deal with the Devil himself if it meant you and Eleanor were safe. I apologize for betraying you, but I can’t apologize for doing what I did to keep you alive.”

A tear falls from Kendall’s eye and she wipes it with the back of her hand. She didn’t even realize she was crying. 

Hearing Liam explain himself forced her to look at things from his perspective. It was a shitty situation all around, and he was cornered in a time of vulnerability.

“I’m sorry for lashing out at you earlier,” she whispers. “I’m just feeling a lot of feelings right now, and I got really scared on top of being incredibly hormonal, but you didn’t deserve that.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t,” Kendall insists. “I didn’t put myself in your shoes. And if it was your life on the line, I would’ve walked through the pits of Hell for you and our baby.”

The King releases a sigh of relief and his head falls forward. Kendall’s fingers graze his scalp, massaging away some of tension. 

“What did I do to deserve a Queen as amazing as you?” Liam muses. He takes Kendall’s free hand and presses it to his lips. 

“I don’t know.” She takes her hands and cradles Liam’s face, forcing him to look at her. “But my forgiveness has its limits. Don’t you ever, ever do something like this again. You’re not Constantine, and I’m not any of his wives. I will never be kept out of the loop. We do things together, 100 percent equal at all times.”

“Yes, my queen.”

She leans forward and presses their lips together in a kiss that’s over far too soon for Liam’s liking. “We’ll figure this Auvernal thing out together, like we always do. And they’re going to regret the day they ever decided to go against Kendall and Liam.”

Liam nods and wraps his arms around Kendall again. And for the first time in over 24 hours, he feels like he can breathe.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “Pelt of Furs”

Missing scene for 8x02, directly following Jaime’s trial.

Pelt of Furs

“At some point, it all becomes blurred.  This line between them, this world around them, this war raging through them.  At some point, it just whittles down to his chest breathing against hers, his fingers along her skin, her mouth at his ear.

At some point, it just becomes them.

‘I would wait for you, Jon, if you asked me to.’ And it’s the truest thing she’s ever known.” -  Jon and Sansa.  What they will never say.

* * *

“That was poorly done, Sansa.”

She slows her steps to a halt at his admonishment, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides.  Stiffly, she turns to face him.  He’s followed her from the main hall after Jaime’s informal trial, caught her in one of the hallways leading to her solar before she could fully escape.

Jon stares at her, his jaw clenched tight, shoulders rigid.

Sansa lifts her chin and winds her hands behind her back, a raised brow her only answer.

Jon huffs his frustration, wiping a hand over his mouth as he stalks toward her, stopping a few steps away.  “You can’t be counteracting her decisions like that.”

Her lips purse minutely, and she cocks her head at him, her cool gaze unbothered.  “I heard no formal declaration from her concerning Ser Jaime’s stay before I spoke – only elaborately veiled threats.  I counteracted nothing.”

“Don’t play games.”  He takes a step closer, his voice a hiss.  “You knew what you were doing.  You deliberately defied her.”

Sansa’s spine tenses at his fervent condemnation of her, the indignation rising hot and fierce in her chest.  “I am still the Lady of Winterfell, and those who seek to reside here are my responsibility.  I was doing my duty.”

“You were being reckless.”

Sansa’s nostrils flare, her hands tightening behind her back.  She doesn’t understand his ferocious defense of her, his unquestioning loyalty.  She steps closer, her eyes narrowing.  “Let’s make something very clear here, Jon. Daenerys doesn’t blame Ser Jaime for killing her father, a man who – let’s not forget – burnt our grandfather alive and brutally murdered our uncle.  She never even knew the man, and surely she’s heard the stories of his madness.  I can assure you there was no love lost there.”

Jon sighs, his shoulders still tight with tension, his stare still hard.  “What’s your point?”

Sansa can’t help the slight sneer that graces her face then, her hands slipping from behind her back.  “My point is that she wasn’t berating him like that because she felt some sense of familial need for justice.  It was because the very act put her in exile, because it forced her from her home, forced her to the other side of an ocean and away from a throne that was ‘rightfully’ hers.  She’s angry at Ser Jaime, not because he killed her dear old father, but because she was put at a great disadvantage from the very start because of his act.  And while I can empathize with some of that, it still stands that she may as well call it what it is and stop using her father’s death as an excuse to pass arbitrary commands.”

“’Arbitrary commands’?” Jon asks, his voice rising, the anger flush on his face once more.  “You agreed with her at the start, Sansa.  You condemned him just as easily.”

“Because he is a far more immediate threat to our family.”

He flinches minutely at her words, his gaze drifting vaguely past her shoulder, and she takes a moment to wonder at what it is that silences him so.  But it’s gone a breath later, his eyes flicking back to hers with that familiar irritation.

And seven hells, she wants to shake him, or maybe just bunch her hands in her hair and scream.  Something – anything – to make him see.

Because how can he not see?

Sansa stops, blinks, flexes her fingers at her sides.

(Or maybe he does see.  Maybe he sees better than any of them but then –)

Sansa licks her lips, eyeing him warily.  It’s a dangerous game he’s playing if she’s right. And she wants to be right. Because if she’s not, then he gave away their home for nothing more than a tumble in the sheets with the dragon queen. He gave away the North for a pair of pretty violet eyes and a warm hole to stick it in.

Sansa feels sick suddenly.

Not Jon.  It couldn’t be Jon.  And yet, she sees the way Daenerys slips her hand through the crook of his elbow with ease, and how her smile lifts just a touch higher when her eyes land on his, and how she inclines her body to his unconsciously when he speaks.

Sansa’s trembling suddenly, her skin strangely tight, her lungs clamping down on the air in her chest.  She can’t stop imagining his calloused hands on Daenerys’ thighs, his face buried in her treacherous white hair, his body pressed to her unburnt skin.  A hand slinks up to her throat unconsciously, fingers digging into her collar.

Jon eyes the motion, moving to step closer, but Sansa holds a hand in the air, stopping him.  “Don’t,” she whispers, almost seethes, swallowing tightly.

Jon’s shoulders slump slightly, his brow furrowing. “Sansa.”

She keeps her gaze cool and unblinking, her hand sliding from her collar back to her side, her palm in the air slowly lowering. She raises a brow in question.

“Why did you change your mind?” he asks cautiously.

Sansa considers him a moment, the dark features, the strong shoulders, the way he gives her his undivided attention, breath stalled in his throat – waiting, but she doesn’t know what for.

Sansa sighs, bringing her hands before her, glancing down the stone walls to a glimpse of early morning light breaking in through a far, small window.  “I’ve come to trust those in my service – in our service.”  She hopes the inclusion reminds him just how much a king he still is to her – even when he drapes the arm of the dragon queen like some precious ornament (maybe especially so then).  She licks her lips and brings her gaze back to his.  “Brienne has always been truthful and forthright.  She’s always acted in my interest.  I wasn’t lying when I said I trusted her with my life.  And that means I trust her with my home, with Winterfell.” She takes a slow breath, hands folding over themselves before her.  “I am not so narrow-minded as to turn away a possible ally when those I trust advise me as such.”  It’s a pointed dig, she knows, but she can’t help it.  It falls from her tongue too easily, and maybe this will always be the way between them.  Quick anger. Quick defiance.

Quick surrender.

The image of his lips, parted and wet, ghosting across her ribs, overtakes her.  An image she keeps tucked in the shadow of her mind, lingering behind her closed lids when she drifts her hand down beneath the cover of her furs at night, his name caught behind her clenched teeth when she presses her face to her pillow and pants her silent release.

The only kind of surrender she has ever considered.

Shame fills her at the thought and she takes a step back, widening the distance between them.

Jon eyes her with a hard gaze, a veil of hurt glancing over his features and then it’s gone, replaced by the familiar discontent she has grown to loathe as easily as she has their new queen.

“You said he attacked… Father.”  He stumbles over the words.  An oddity in the face of his apparent anger.

“Yes.”

“And yet you accept him?  At the word of Brienne?”

“As you seem to have accepted him.  ‘Every man we can get’, remember?”

Jon stays silent, eyes shifting between hers, his body still taut like a drawn bowstring.  “There were a dozen other ways you could have voiced your opinion, without drawing her ire.”

“My ‘opinion’, is it?” she asks scathingly, taking that step back toward him unconsciously.  “Is that what the Lady of Winterfell’s word has fallen to?  Simply an ‘opinion’?”

“Sansa – ”

“Oh spare me your platitudes, Jon, please,” she spits.

Jon takes a single swift inhale, closing the distance between them easily, his jaw working over his clenched teeth as he variably shakes before her.

Her mouth goes dry instantly at his sudden proximity, her body a tight, stiff line as she keeps his dark gaze – unwavering.

“You are dangerously close to treason here, Sansa, don’t you fucking see?”

Her chest heaves, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.  “All I see is a traitor king and his tyrant queen.  So please, tell me what I should be considering here, if not treason?”

“A ‘traitor king’?” he scoffs, his features screwing up in fury.  “You don’t even – you have no fucking clue, Sansa, no fucking clue what I’ve – what I’ve needed to – ”  He stops, licks his lips, tries to reign in his labored breaths, turning and stalking away from her, stopping in the middle of the hall, ripe with unspoken ire.

“Then prove to me otherwise,” she challenges, tentatively walking toward him.

Jon looks over his shoulder at her, his brows angled sharply down, his grey gaze darker than she’s ever seen.  He heaves a long, tight breath, seeming to consider his words before he lets them taste air.  “You have to be careful, Sansa.  Far more careful than you are now.”

She takes another daring step.  She could touch him if she wished, stretch her arm out and graze the fur of his cloak – the cloak she sewed for him those many moons ago in the midst of her floundering, fledging affection for a brother she hadn’t thought to need quite so desperately as she does now.

(And not so nearly like a ‘brother’, as she should.)

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, leveling him with a steady stare.  “I’ve afforded her no less than the proper decorum required.”

“Aye, and no more either.”  He throws her a withering look, turning fully to her.

“And what more should I give?  What more can she demand when she already has my home and my people and my brother – my brother – and I… I…”  She takes another step, and without warning, they’re back to breathing each other’s air, and she doesn’t understand how they’ve managed to get to this point again, to this closeness, to this hesitant pulse of space between them – more than an exhale but less than a step – this tangle of air that seems to pull at their lungs, tugging, dragging – mauling them with its intensity –  until they’re steeped in each other’s scent and their skin is singing beneath the madness and every possible way she could touch him is right there in her grasp and –

“But I’m not your brother.”

The chasm has never been so wide.

Jon’s eyes widen at his unconscious release, mouth opening, and then closing, his gaze drifting down to the floor a moment.

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her tongue. She nods, breathing deeply, trying to stem the wetness dotting the corners of her eyes.  “You’re right.”

Jon’s head snaps up at her words.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  She shakes her head, rubs at her temples, tries to steady her breathing.  “You’re right.”

Jon’s eyes are searching hers, his breath stilled in his chest, something desperate and hopeful seeming to hang at the tip of his tongue.

“My half-brother,” she corrects, and she watches as he closes in on himself instantly, his face a shuddered mask of war-worn exhaustion once again, the ire leaving him so suddenly it’s like a visible exhale of his body.

Her brows furrow, confused.  Why is this still between them?  Hadn’t she named him a Stark when she spoke to him atop the ramparts of their newly reclaimed home?  Hadn’t she told him, again and again, that he was pack, he was theirs – Bran’s and Arya’s and… and hers.

(Maybe especially hers, but she won’t allow herself to think it outside the secure blanket of night, where she can stretch her arm out across the empty space of her large bed and pretend.)

“Sansa,” and the way he says it has her raising her hackles once more.

She doesn’t want another warning.  She doesn’t want another reprimand.  She can’t take this burning chastisement any longer without wanting to grab him by the face and… and – shut him up in any way she can (even in ways she should regret but wouldn’t.)

“Don’t.”  If the word were tangible, it would be ice.

Jon heaves a single, weary breath.

It makes her bolder, makes her desperate.  “When did she start to matter more?”  She should be mortified at her choice of words, but she can’t find it in herself to care.  Not now.  Not when he’s right there in front of her – right there in front of her – and he looks like the Jon she used to know and yet, nothing like him at all, and she can smell him this close, gods, she can smell him (like soaked wood and harpseed oil) and somehow, there is still a dragon queen between them.

Somehow, Daenerys has wedged herself seamlessly and adamantly between them, and Sansa is left to stare at him from across the chasm, wondering at the distance, mourning his absence, even when he’s back where he belongs, back at Winterfell, back home.

Even when he’s staring back at her just the same.

The look flickers from his face before she can properly register it, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

(Never outside the secure blanket of night.)

“She doesn’t,” he says lowly, like a secret, like he’s afraid to bring it to air.

Sansa licks her lips but doesn’t say anything in response, too terrified to shatter this moment, too terrified he’ll take it back.

Jon closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, and he is instantly older – unexplainably brittle.  “She’s our queen,” he says, as though it is reason enough.  “And I have already bent the knee.”  His eyes hit the floor and she should revel in it.  She should, but –

Her shoulders go rigid once more, a lance of resentment arcing up her spine in fine trembles.  “Before or after you fell into bed with her?”  She likes to think she keeps the sense of betrayal from her voice but it’s there all the same, rattling through her words like a Northern wind, breaking her down from the stem.

Jon’s head snaps up again.  He sucks a heated breath between his parted lips.  “I’m not having this conversation with you right now, Sansa.”

“Then when?  When she’s already burnt half the North to the root?  When you ride south with her for a pointless, bloody throne?”

He pulls his shoulders back, his jaw working. “How long are we going to keep repeating the same argument?”

“Until you start telling me the truth.”

She says it on a wild hope.  She’s just as tired of this argument, just as tired of this tearing, rending reminder of the threat he brought into their home, into their lives, into his very bed (and perhaps that last part shouldn’t matter so much as it does, but it does anyway, and she’s tired of pretending that it doesn’t.)

But she calls him out on his lying because she knows – she knows – he isn’t telling her everything.  And maybe that hurts more than she thought it would.

She knows he spoke to Sam the previous night. She knows because she had seen him exiting the crypts with his fists clenched at his sides, his brows drown low over his dark eyes, his very bearing, his furious, wounded gait, drawing her eyes easily even beneath the dark of night.  Sam had stood lingering at the entrance of the crypts hesitantly, and he seemed to be considering whether to follow or not.  She had made to leave her place along the ramparts to find Jon when her sweeping gaze caught sight of Bran staring up at her from his position near the gate, not far below her. Just the subtle shake of his head was enough to still her.

And it wasn’t simply last night.  Ever since Jon’s come home there’s been an added layer to the tension between them, and she’s had a singularly heightened sense of him, nerves at the ends of her fingertips – constantly – as though something lay thrumming beneath her skin, aching for release.

The way he can’t seem to hold her gaze for long.

Yes, there is something he isn’t telling her. Perhaps more than one ‘something’. And she will have it from him.

“Sansa – ”

“She burnt the Tarlys, you know.”  It slips out of her before she can question it, and then she instantly regrets it when she sees the pain etch delicately across his face.  But she swallows it back, presses on.  “Sam’s father and brother.  Burned alive with dragon fire.  Before their beaten and surrendered men.  Because they wouldn’t bend the knee.”

Jon swallows thickly but doesn’t answer her.

“Who else has she threatened to burn?”

Jon jerks his chin slightly, her name at the tip of his tongue, she’s sure, that warning look of his, that dark admonishment lighting his brow and she’s aflame with the righteousness again.

“Cersei, we know.  That’s hardly news.  Would she extend the same to Ser Jaime?  And what about the wildlings?  You know they kneel to no one.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Her throat itches with resentment.  “Has she threatened her advisors yet?  She’s been none too pleased with them lately.”

“Sansa.”  A deep rumble in his throat, his hand falling from his eyes as he levels his gaze on hers.

And there it is.

But she can’t stop.  She never could.  

Her eyes flick between his, her chest heaving. He’s so close, so unreasonably close (or maybe she is) and somewhere in the back of her mind there’s a thrum of danger beating quietly against her skull.

She licks her lips, tastes the sour air between them.  Something settles in her gut, heavy and sharp – not unlike terror (though she is loathe to admit it).  “And has she threatened to burn me yet?”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes widening minutely, his lips parting.

And oh, suddenly – the air winded from her – she realizes.  “She has,” Sansa whispers tentatively, disbelievingly.

“Sansa, no.”  He’s quick to refute her, quick to step that breath’s distance closer, his hand reaching to lift her chin when she dips it down toward her chest, her breath coming heavy, but his touch is too hot right now, too jarring, and she steps back, his fingers slipping from her jaw and yes, yes this is better.

Jon swallows tightly, his voice held tight with a string she dares to call desperation.  “Sansa, she wouldn’t – I wouldn’t –”  He stops, licks his lips, tries again.  “I would never let her.”

“You would never let her,” she repeats hollowly, gulping down the dread.  “But she would otherwise.”

Jon blinks at her, silent, mouth a thin line, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“This is who you brought into our home – into our home, Jon.”  She doesn’t understand the wetness dotting the edges of her vision.  She should be furious.  She should be shaking with the rage.  She should be loud and biting and vicious.  But she’s shaking for an altogether different reason.

Maybe it’s the way his face falls, his head shaking minutely, his mouth tipping open as though to speak but nothing comes. Maybe it’s the way he still wears her cloak, and the way her name on his lips sounds so wholly reverent, and the way she can still smell him, always smell him, as though her lungs were already stained with his presence.  

Maybe it’s the way she realizes – suddenly and irrevocably – that she’s in love with him.

“If Daenerys is what stands between us and the army of the dead, then – ”  He stops, takes a breath, keeps her gaze.  “Then let her.”

Sansa blinks at him, her lips pursing together.

“Let her,” he says again, this time rougher, this time with his whole chest, the breath raking from him.  “The pack survives.  And you have always been mine, Sansa.”

(She wonders if she is wrong to hear the words in an altogether different way – the way she craves, even when she knows she shouldn’t.)

Her mouth parts, and she isn’t sure whether it’s her own mind playing tricks on her or her own desperate yearning, but she swears his eyes trail to her lips – for only a breath – but it’s enough.

It’s enough.

“She has never mattered more,” he says, eyes fervent on hers.  “She never will.”

Suddenly, Sansa remembers his laugh when she had choked on his ale that first night at Castle Black.  And she remembers the way he had promised to protect her, his face a dark, longing shadow in the tent outside Winterfell.  And she remembers the warmth of his lips on her brow and the sigh he had braced against her skin and a million more times that he had told her, in soft, unspoken ways, that she was pack.  She was his.

(And is she greedy to want to stay his – only his?)

Jon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, his tired, pain-etched face, that face she has grown to recognize, in shadow and in light, in her dreams and in her waking moments, in her longing and in her dread. That face that she knows – intimately – without ever having traced its lines.  The crinkle at his brow, and the crow’s feet at his eyes, and the scar stretching down past his left eye.  The dimple in his right cheek when he grins – both wholly and secretly – and the lightest upturn of his lips when he mouths her name – her name – like some dark secret, like some whisper of aching revelation.

(Maybe she isn’t the only one who reaches across an empty bed at night.)

It’s a dangerous thought, one she won’t let fully form, because if she did… if she did –

She finds herself reaching for him before she realizes she has moved.

He catches her wrists before she can brace her palms against his cheeks, before she can thread her fingers through his air. He stands staring at her, and she stares back, and she thinks she may have stopped breathing entirely.

“Sansa.”

“And what if I told you, you were mine?”  The words stain her lips, her air halting along her tongue before she catches it behind her clenched teeth, swallows it back.

Jon sucks a sharp breath in, blinking at her furiously, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.  His hands tighten their grip over her wrists.

But this is not the blanket safety of night, and she would rather have him as a brother than not at all, so she lifts her chin and blinks back the salt-sting at the corners of her eyes.  “You’re my pack, too, Jon.”

And maybe she was wrong, because something splinters across his face at her last words, his brow furrowing, his breath releasing from him in a deep, lulling pull.  She can see the clench of his jaw when he tries again for words.  “I promised to protect you.”

“And you have.”  She hates how her voice cracks.  “Can you not see why I would want to do the same?”

He closes his eyes, chest rising and falling stiffly, and if he hadn’t held her wrists in his grasp she’d have tugged him to her by now, buried her nose in the hollow of his throat, wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders, felt him breathe against her.

And then he drops his head to her shoulder, his breath raking from him in one long, uneven exhale, and she can do nothing but stand there against him.

“Sansa, please, I can’t – I can’t do this with you, not now.”

She licks her lips, tries to steady her breath, her eyes fixed to the grey stone wall across from them.  “Then when?”

He turns his head just slightly, enough that she can feel the hot puff of air he releases against her throat and she sags against him, unable and unwilling to keep the distance between them.

Jon stiffens, fingers curling around her wrists.

“I’m with you, Jon, I’m with you in this, but you have to –”

His soft chuckle startles her, brings her brows down in a sharp, confused angle, and then she’s scoffing, rolling her eyes even as her own chuckle rises in her chest.  “Don’t give me any of that ‘before the word but’ nonsense,” she teases, and it’s a strange fullness that anchors in her heart.

Jon goes silent, just breathing against her, his forehead still pressed to her shoulder, his eyes still closed.

Sansa tests his grip, slowly bringing one of her captured hands to brace along his neck, her fingers trembling as they glide tentatively into his curls.  He releases a soft hum of contentment she doesn’t think he’s even aware of.

“I am with you,” she repeats, this time surer, this time with steady fingers along the back of his neck and her cheek pressing against his ear when she leans her head against his.  “Always.”

Jon shudders against her, her wrists still beneath his touch, and when he swipes a rough thumb along the pulse point of her free hand, the slow, tender caress more intimate than any touch she’s ever felt before, she sighs against the shell of his ear, his name a breathless exhale.

Something brews in his chest that is not quite sound, not quite vibration, released in a low, throaty hum.

At some point, it all becomes blurred.  This line between them, this world around them, this war raging through them.  At some point, it just whittles down to his chest breathing against hers, his fingers along her skin, her mouth at his ear.

At some point, it just becomes them.

“I would wait for you, Jon, if you asked me to.”  And it’s the truest thing she’s ever known.

Another hot exhale against her throat, his lips just a whisper away from her skin, and she understands, suddenly, without knowing how – she understands.  “But you won’t, will you?”

You have always been mine.

She can’t do heat.  Heat is blood and fever and him.

No, give her cold.  Give her Stark cold.  She will wear the winter like a fresh pelt over her shoulders.

Her hand slips from his hair, his grip a loose clutch at her wrist as she steps back from him.

Jon keeps his head down, even as it slips from her shoulder.  He takes a deep breath, pulls his shoulders back, raises his gaze to meet hers.

This is the way between them now.  An aching chasm in the space of a breath.  The howls beneath their skin silenced and collared. This is what it means to love between Starks, between wolves.

She waits for the night, as she always has.

(A safe blanket to wrap herself in – needful and throbbing and fierce.)

“You said you had faith in me.”

“I did.”  Sansa swallows thickly, eyes never leaving his.  “I do,” she corrects.

Jon nods, his eyes thoughtful, tender.  “I won’t test it again.  I promise.”

Her heart clenches at the words and she can do nothing but stare at him, her mouth parted, her eyes stinging beneath the salt of tears she hasn’t even noticed gathering.

“And when this war is done…”  He stops, breath halting, words failing him.  He looks at the slender wrist still in his grasp, stares at it a moment, and then he brings her hand to his mouth, his lips pressing against the smooth flesh at the inside of her wrist.

Sansa sucks in a breath at the motion.

His mouth lingers there, soft and wet, his thumb grazing up and over her palm as he kisses her skin.  And then he pulls back, his lips hovering over her pulse point for a moment, for a blinding, rending moment where she can feel the hot expel of his breath against her trembling skin, and then he’s standing straight, releasing her wrists, his hands falling back to his sides as he locks gazes with her.

“When this war is done,” he says, and never finishes.

Sansa understands regardless.  She nods mutely, her eyes never leaving his.

Because he will not ask her to wait.  He cannot ask her to wait.

And even still… even still…

Jon swallows back any other words lingering on his tongue, nodding once, taking a stalling, slow step back, and then he’s turning from her, walking back down the hallway where he came.

Sansa stands staring at the space he once occupied, one hand moving to cup the wrist he kissed, her skin still singing beneath his hot touch.

He won’t ask her, she knows.  He never would.

But she will wait all the same.

She will wear her fresh winter pelt like a true Northerner.  And when the sun bleeds through the snow-logged clouds, and the air warms with the coming of Summer, and wolves run free without the threat of dragons in their den, then maybe – maybe –

She may yet call him hers.  Pack or not.  Pack or more.  

For she has long been his.

When Winter has seen its last – she will open to an unending Summer.

Until then, she will wait for warmth.

She will wear her pelt of furs.

She will wait.

She will wait.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― V.ii. I Have a Rendezvous with Death

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

"Trust me now more than you have ever trusted me in all our lives and all our years." But... he vowed. He vowed.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Which one of them gave me up?” I knew I shouldn’t have used that ugly name again.

His eyes sweep through the wreckage of the trench. The wall supports are starting to cave in. Another shell might just bury them both.

Serafine doesn’t answer.

Fine. “I’d be happy to continue this on higher ground.”

“Non, here will do.”

“What is it with you and tunnels beneath the earth?”

Even through the smoke he can see the way she curls her upper lip in disgust. He swears that even as the dark plumes grow darker still he can see her spit at him from afar.

Not much has changed about Serafine Dupont in the centuries since he saw her last. Her hair woven tight back then crowns her soot-stained forehead now; stray curls peek their way around her temples, her cheeks. Admittedly Cynbel prefers her in this close-cut uniform, even more in that it doesn’t bear enemy colors.

Her admirers might choose to keep la belle de Paris pristine in their memories; donned masque with laughter and seduction on her tongue. But he is no admirer and sees her now as he did then; wreathed in flame and staged upon a scene of needless death.

Needless… The thought burrows and takes root as a pounding in his temples. New to him but that made it no less true. Even as he catches the distant final beats of a heart losing too much blood he thinks it… needless.

They had died, fine. But had they needed to? To suit his amusement, perhaps. As the war had suited his amusement up until tonight.

Behind Cynbel the sandbags yield. Earth and debris sliding full to brimming and he has to step closer to her, to the relative safety of a load-bearing door frame.

“You are an arrogant fool to take your eyes off of me.”

It brings him back to her with a humorless laugh. “I’ve been called a fool for many reasons. Better reasons that that one, anyway.”

“It is the kindest of words I can think for you,” he definitely doesn’t imagine how she spits this time, “le tueur.”

At least accuse him for a murder he’s responsible for. It’s bloody London all over again, isn’t it. Cynbel claws at the patch on his uniform sleeve, colors just barely recognizable through the dirt.

“Bear the colors, Dupont. Why would I kill my own soldiers?”

“Ha! That is rich coming from you.”

It’s out of pride that he keeps his hands firmly at his sides; endures the ringing in his ears agitated by her shrill remarks. His head is healed, the two lower ribs snapped back into place by now. But his eardrums take their sweet fucking time don’t they?

Cynbel blinks through colorless sparks behind his eyes and names them embers. Across the aisle Serafine raises her chin defiant. Not spit this time — it’s pure venom that flies from her tongue in words.

“Or were their lives not a sacrifice you deemed worth making?”

Then Serafine twitches her hand and pulls his world out from under his feet. The silence of a land cleared for war replaced by the hollow barely-there echoes of the city. The smell of burning no longer all around but faint and hidden below. The moon is the same one that hung in both skies but there are no shells here, these cobbled streets have seen no falling angels of war, so she bathes them full and bright in her light.

Serafine still looks like Serafine. A quick glance, the drag of his nails over military-issued cloth; Cynbel still looks like Cynbel too.

But Belgium is three hundred years away and all the slumbering souls in Paris know not of the war that rages beneath their feet. It’s the opposite of a miracle; beautiful but aberrant. And in all his years the Golden Son has never seen or experienced the like.

“What — how did we…?”

“Over the years I thought of many ways to play this out,” the vampiress says instead, “whether here or in the burning husk of the former grand hall. Then I wondered if somewhere else would be more fitting. You certainly gave me a variety of choices over the decades; les Trois Amants gouging the world wherever they went, all the catastrophe you left in your wake. I wanted this to serve as a reflection for you. The theatre had to be carefully chosen. It had to mean something.

“But I do not care about that any longer. I do not care if your brazen act of massacre on this night meant nothing to you when it was finished. It matters to me and that, Cynbel, is more than enough.”

Slow and sure he begins to understand.

“This is a memory of that night. Yours or mine?”

“Neither. It is the memory of Paris herself.”

The years haven’t been kind to Serafine’s sanity; that much is clear. But the risk is worth it when Cynbel looks at his back with the fleeting hope that Valdas and Isseya would be standing there now as they had been that night. He remembered them, she did too.

Paris, however, did not.

“It’s a feat of remarkable power and psychic skill.” He’ll give her that because to say otherwise simply isn’t correct. “Are we still in the trenches — physically, I mean. Ah well, burning flesh has never been my favorite part of war so I should thank you for making that go away at the least.

“I’d be obliged if you showed me the trick of it. There are quite a number of memories I wouldn’t mind bringing back for a little while…” Cynbel’s voice trails off with his thoughts but the damage is done. Bewilderment, outrage, vengeance twist through Serafine inside and out. And all in concert with the ringing in his ears as it grows, and grows, and grows.

“I know it was you who fired the gun.”

It grabs his attention and that’s all she wants. Because she waits until she has it to show him a second of her (apparently many) skills. Another twitch; not even. A shadow of a gesture.

BANG.

So loud and hollow and real that Cynbel feels muscle memory recoil from the pistol weight. It sends him staggering off balance, leaves him struggling to find himself firmly planted again but still in this psychic Paris.

That memory could be no one else’s; of that Cynbel’s certain. He laughs and laughs at it but with the pain growing in his temples he can’t quite tell if it’s from amusement or growing uncertainty.

The elder vampire shakes it off and steels himself with clenched teeth. His fangs ache sheathed in his gums. “Not like I covered my tracks that deeply — not to the right eye.”

“The supernatural eye.”

“The humans were content,” he flashes her a cheeky wink, “and I was in for a good spanking.”

“Are you really so blind to the enormity of your actions?!”

“Are you really here to scold me?”

What was hiding behind shadows of movements comes into the light with a war cry. Her voice shatters in her throat and with a wide gesture she throws Cynbel through the air. Pushes him prone with unseen forces against the nearest building wall. The stone should yield under the weight of him but Paris does not remember a crumbling wall, so there isn’t one.

He collides with a sharp jerk of his neck. Feels pain lance through him white-hot and growing hotter even when the force vanishes as quickly as it came and sends him crumpling to the alley flagstones.

Fucking psychics. It feels like their travels through China all over again.

And that answers a great number of questions. Many on the topic of pain.

Cynbel struggles—actually struggles, first time in… in he doesn’t know how long—he pull himself up and put his spine back in the position it’s meant to be in. Serafine watches with seething satisfaction and her laugh drips mockery thick as blood.

She approaches him slowly. Each step purposeful; an announcement. And with her advance every. single. time he feels it — hears that ringing like a hammer forging with his skull at the anvil.

“You, like the rabid hound of hell that you are, plunged the world into this war. This isn’t a religious campaign or a mere battle of territories, Cynbel. This is nations, continents! There are millions dead and more yet to come before it ends and you dare to ask me if I am here to—to scold you?! As if you are some child incapable of grasping consequences?!”

When she’s close enough Cynbel takes his turn and spits on her muddy boots.

“Well pardon me, since that’s what it looks like.”

“You are a monster!”

Serafine psychic grip is far less dainty then she; he learns this the hard way. Can feel something pop out of place as her invisible power wrenches him from his knees and a head above her. The spread of her fingers shaking in wrath, in righteous justice spreading his limbs very near free of the rest of him.

Whatever she’s doing — some part of the memory, her psychic fury made physical, everything is too needled at the edges for Cynbel to know — it hurts. Pain like he hasn’t felt in millennia. The boar that gouged his side when he was a child. The first of his Made-God’s kisses that devoured his throat.

He isn’t healing. Or not like he should. And he will continue to suffer so long as Serafine wishes it.

No, not wishes. She demands it. And here on the battlefield of her own choosing his body can do nothing but yield.

Through her power she binds him at the throat; head held high and unable to look away from her bared fangs, her hellish eyes. “You are a monster,” she repeats, “and worse — you know it. You have always known it. Haven’t you?”

He doesn’t even try to answer; doesn’t think he could if he wanted to and his defiance tightens her hold. “I said haven’t you!”

“Yes —” Cynbel’s blood tastes burned at the back of his throat and leaves him choking on it, “— I am a monster. Yes — I know it. I know the war was my doing. I know there are millions dead for it. The millions before them, too, were my doing.”

But Serafine doesn’t care about them. He’s near certain she doesn’t even care about any of the bodies piled higher than mountains behind Cynbel, behind his beloveds. She only cares about them.

His lips peel back to fangs red with his own blood. “Just like I know every dead vampire under your feet was my doing too. I always have. But you seem to be laboring under a delusion that says otherwise.”

“I assure you I see everything very clearly.”

“Do you now…? Because what I see is the scared young hostess; the pathetic waif that would rather flee in cowardice than take up arms. How many of my dead could have been saved had you stayed to fight?”

Serafine backhands him. A physical touch. One that stings physically and fades like all wounds should. And he prefers it that way — all psychic blows lack the passion and heat of the fight. Of the kill.

And no one has ever claimed him lacking in passion.

“I thought as much.”

“You cannot twist blame onto me. I mourn your dead; even the ones I do not know. I must.”

“And why the fuck is that?”

“I see the threat you pose!”

“Let me free and I’ll show you how much of a threat I can be.”

“Not you — not you alone. But you — your blasphemous Trinity.”

The surprise of it stuns him. It lasts just long enough for the vampiress’ own passion to make her falter. Just a little — a little is more than enough.

He finds the place where her psychic bonds are weakest. Cynbel wrenches his leg free of them with a primal growl and finds the crunch when his boot collides with her face undeniably satisfying. Serafine staggers back, howls at the pain and all of those little psychic bonds quickly unravel at the seams without her to keep them woven.

Paris melts around them. Buildings, the cathedral in the distance, even the moon melting like candles until they are left back in what remains of the trenches — smells, sounds and all.

In the distance thunder — not thunder, thunder holds strength but he can hear only power — more shells, then. The enemy are determined to claim the land in victory and they spread their fingers out wide to do it. Like Serafine had.

Serafine who groans on her knees and rushes to stand. Blood and dirt caked to her chin and neck while her hair comes down in curls around her face. It brings a wildness to the sight of her.

It brings him to finally see the murderous intent in her eyes. It’s been there the whole time. But Cynbel let himself ignore it; he had to. The war has made him weary but he’s still him. Still Cynbel, the Golden Son, firstborn of Valdemaras — he is the wars raged across the world throughout time.

He is weary but not enough to die. And Valdas promised to take him home.

Serafine was as little of a threat then as she is now. Or that’s what he’s allowed himself to believe.

“You three will be the death of us all.”

Pop — he rolls his shoulder bone back in place. “Cut the dramatics.”

“I see it. Kamilah sees it too. And Gaius would — if the destruction in your wake interfered with his plans again.”

Again, she says it like she was there, the arrogance… “You’re trying my patience.”

“Be it human or vampire you three have proven endlessly the havoc you will wreak in one another’s name.”

“What the fuck else do you expect?!” It was a lie — he has no patience for her to try. Cynbel pins her to the door frame holding on for dear life and they aren’t in a memory, not anymore. The wood creaks in warning.

“No one understands. No one can — no one has the capacity not even fucking Kamilah Sayeed.” He laughs; weak, lamenting. “I gave up trying long ago because of this — you. Those like you.”

Her sneer is pitiless. “We are the ones who have suffered; the ones who have lost and grieved because of your obsessive, destructive love!”

He’s cut out tongues and torn hearts in two for lesser insults. Which he’ll choose for her will be entirely dependent on time.

“Wrong! You are the ones who see us in pieces, fragments. You come into our lives and judge us in your entirety but you—you and all others like you are so. very. temporary. You don’t deserve the right to judge us but you take it anyway. Where you see your beloved Paris we see the land that was crushed to build it. Where you see what you call obsession we… we…”

If Cynbel had continued the shell that makes impact a hundred paces ahead would have drowned him out. But he’s trying at a fruitless pursuit the Trinity has been struggling against for two thousand years. Trying to put words where they are none that tell the story fully, none that can fill the vastness of their hearts and instead leave them with scraps.

“We have seen—done—lost so much. We are our constant. And nothing I could say could ever give you enough to feel it for yourself. Not if we had hours. Not if we had days, years. And I’m… I’m sorry for that. I could never live without it.”

Let her judge us, he thinks. She already has and she will continue to for as long as I keep her alive. And she is not the first nor will she be the last.

He wants to let it go. For Valdas waiting for him in whatever remains of the nearby town. For Isseya waiting for them both to return to her. He wants to let it go.

But that won’t save them. Serafine Dupont is unique — she’s gotten closer than anyone ever has before. But what of the Serafine that follows her; the faceless figure who follows in her footsteps? Or the one after that? Maybe not now, maybe not in a hundred years… maybe not even for another two thousand. But one day… that’s all it will take.

He won’t be enough to save them.

The next shell lands close enough they both flinch. Misses the vampires and the crumbling trenches only enough for chunks of Belgian soil to rain down overhead. Serafine tries to fight him off to no avail. He will always be older — he will always be stronger.

Cynbel blinks back tears from stinging eyes. Dirt and ash and smoke and the dead all around them.

He isn’t quite sure her tears are quite the same.

“You would let the rest of the world grieve…” he catches every vibration, every hesitation with his hand on her throat, “… so you never have to?”

“For them… yes.”

He knows from the moment the word leaves his lips that, to Serafine at least, he’s made the wrong choice. But he tried; he did. He tried to help her—make her understand.

Because loving them was never a choice.

Her attack comes unexpected. Because he loves them, because he misses them, though more likely because not every psychic blow is dealt outside the mind.

She drills a hot poker through his popped eardrums and skewers his head upon it. She makes the ringing in his ears louder and louder and endlessly tolling with every church bell he’s ever heard. She transmutes every nerve and thought into brittle glass, shatters them, and puts them back together at jagged angles that bleed him dry.

Serafine is too focused to hear the high-pitched whistle; the song the last shell sings through the air.

It doesn’t miss.

read: I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger

[atlantic-riona]

1, 2, 5-8

1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

It swings between a story with friendship/family dynamics, lots of humor mixed with drama, and ultimately a happy ending, and a story that’s philosophical, vaguely terrifying and/or depressing, and ultimately bittersweet/scary.

…The former tends to be longer stories, while the latter tends to be my short stories. I have no idea what that says about me!

2. Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

I would love to try my hand at writing faeries. I feel like a lot of modern stuff I’ve read tends to either crib off of Tolkien or be really badly done/uninspired (although for an excellent, wonderful interpretation of faeries, everybody reading this should go read @hobbitsetal‘s Mute, because it’s amazing and I will never stop talking about it).

However, I’m not sure that I could do it well? I don’t know. I have vague plans for something similar to faeries in The Raven’s Return, but these might get adapted as time goes on.

ALSO I would really want to try an arranged marriage story because secretly I ADORE them. it’s just!! their marriage is arranged!! but then!!! they fall in LOVE

5. Share one of your strengths.

I feel like dialogue is a strength of mine? It’s really easy for me to write, at any rate!

6. Share one of your weaknesses.

Description. I really struggle to write description. I’m never sure if I’ve overdone it, underdone it, or what.

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

A solitary figure stands forlorn, silhouetted against the sunset. The mass of curls on her head burns in the dying light, like a sputtering fire. It’s her. Helen of Troy.

“I know that’s what they call me,” Helen says without moving. Her gaze is fixed on the carnage below. Cassandra hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but now that she has…

She moves closer and Helen speaks again. “They used to call me Helen of Sparta.” Her lovely, hated, adored face remains turned away, shadowed and sorrowed. “And my husband–”

“Which one?” Cassandra interrupts, having assumed a careless position of relaxed leaning against the battlements, one elbow propping up her chin. At the tenseness of the other woman’s shoulders, she shrugs and looks away. “I mean, there are so many of them.” Despite the laxness of her appearance, her muscles are thrumming like a just-fired arrow. This woman is bringing murder and grief to her city, all for the sake of her stupid affair. Cassandra has no interest in hearing any sad story from this woman. Sad stories won’t resurrect the dead or comfort their grieving wives.

Helen turns to face her then. Cassandra stares coolly back at her. She’s beautiful, indeed, but beautiful like a snake. Cassandra has experience with snakes.

“Do you know what it’s like?” Helen of Troy asks her, advancing. “To have never had a choice?”

Cassandra says nothing, because her breath has been stolen away. As with Scáthach, though, she does not retreat. She is no coward.

“All my life,” Helen says, “I have been a prize. A prize to be fought over. First, I was a prize to Theseus at the tender age of seven. My brothers stormed his stronghold and won me back, and so I was again a prize for my father. Then I was a prize for all the kings of Greece. And so that no one would feel insulted, I was not left to choose one out of all of them. Instead my would-be husbands drew straws. And the man who won was not even there to claim me, his winnings–his brother was.”

“You’re still a prize,” Cassandra interrupts, taking a step forward. “Don’t you realize? You’re a prize that Aphrodite granted to my brother for saying that she was the most beautiful goddess. You’re still a prize, so why do it? Why give in to it? Why is it better to be a prize over here, in Troy–why is it better to destroy my city as Paris’ prize than to live quietly with your daughter as Menelaus’ prize? Tell me.”

The crows circle overhead. Helen remains still, frozen like carved ice. A moment later, when she moves, it is like ice shearing off to reveal a storming sea. “Because,” she says, her eyes reflecting the carnage below, “because I have chosen to be here. It may be my destiny to eternally be someone’s prize; but I’ll be damned if I don’t choose who wins me.” A single tear falls. It shatters on the stone like glass. “And I thought you might understand,” she says, “because you’re god-touched too.”

______

I really like this one because it was one of the few times in my life where the descriptions were exactly what I wanted, with barely any editing at all. I also like it because Helen of Troy and Cassandra have fascinated me for, like, ever and I always thought they were such intriguing characters to play with.

Like, Helen can be written as a victim or as a villain or somewhere in between (and when you read the Iliad, it’s pretty obvious that Aphrodite’s heavily involved and making Helen do stuff she doesn’t want to, but also Helen’s life has basically been plotted for her since the beginning–she’s the daughter of Zeus, she’s been kidnapped by Theseus, she’s going to be married off and she’s the most beautiful woman in all of Greece–who’s to say that maybe at the beginning, she chose to do something for herself? I think for this version I went a little more ‘ice queen’ and ‘selfish’ than how I would read the actual Helen in the Iliad, but I do think she can be seen that way). And for Cassandra–is she mad? Is she trapped? Is she going mad? (Wouldn’t you, if you could see everything that was coming, but nobody listened to you, and you couldn’t stop it?)

In I See It Crimson, I See It Red, I was playing with the idea of fate and destiny, and whether it was even possible to have free will if you could see the future and your destiny, so Helen was kind of an example of knowing one’s destiny but making a different choice.

Also, this was a really fun twist to write, because for the earlier parts of the story, Cassandra hates Helen, and Helen gets portrayed extremely negatively, but here, Helen makes the point that she and Cassandra are not so different–both of them have gods meddling with their lives–so that was something I really liked.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“You shouldn’t curse people,” he said firmly. “That’s wrong.”

Great. The Raven had standards. “Sorry,” she said, getting up and brushing her knees off, “not all of us had the luxury of morals in the recent past.”

Milon was still warm to the touch when she pressed her hand to his forehead—a little cooler than before, or was that wishful thinking?

“I only meant,” came the Raven’s voice behind her, “that it’s not right. You shouldn’t have to hurt people for money.”

“Are you any better?” she shot back without turning around. “Seems to me you do the same thing, only a little more violently—that’s right, I heard about the massacre in Arciun. A little bit before my time here, true, but the others are still talking about it even now. How many people had to die for the money you and Noz gained?”

“That’s different. Those people—they deserved it.” Almost to himself, he muttered, “King’s blood, you should have seen what they’d done.”

“Oh, but the brother that screwed over his family didn’t? The drunkard who beat his wife and children didn’t? The wife who cheated on her husband and laughed at him when he cried didn’t? The girl who tormented every other child in her village until they were reduced to tears didn’t? At least I don’t kill all of my victims.”

He came over to look down at Milon. “Those Valaviri nobles in Arciun—they kept slaves. They’d practically enslaved everyone else, too. The children were starving. There were—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “There were more orphans than adults. The nobles had killed their parents for resisting, or sent them off to prison—and worse, in that prison, they’d be—” Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. “I met the prisoners from Arciun. In prison, where we were all waiting to be killed. If you had heard their stories—” He broke off. “And we didn’t kill everyone, either. That’s a lie. Only the ones who were responsible.”

“And that justified making their children in turn orphans? Taking their wealth so they could take their own turn at starving?”

The Raven felt Milon’s forehead and bent over to listen to his breathing. “We didn’t take all of their money,” he argued as he straightened. “We left them enough to live on. More than enough.”

“Oh, yes, so very generous of you—leaving scared children in a province full of people looking to exact however many years of pent-up vengeance upon somebody. Noz feed you that line?” One of her friends had a brother who’d lived in Arciun—she’d cried for weeks when the news finally reached the Tower. “The way I heard it, nobody survived the second round of killings. Now the whole province is still in uproar—how many more orphans have you created? Noble rebels, my foot.”

He shoved his hair out of his eyes. “We—I—had nothing to do with that. You can’t—”

“If you hadn’t set everything in motion, none of that would have happened!”

“They were Valaviri,” he said, eyes flashing in rage. “You don’t know what they’re capable of, how cruel they can be!”

“For your information, I am Valaviri,” she told him coldly. “I may have been born in one of the outer provinces, but without the empire, do you know where I’d be right now?”

“Not running for your life?” he bit off.

She clenched her teeth. “I’d be slaving away on a farm somewhere, instead of knowing how to read—oh, and also how to throw literal lightning.”

The anger in his eyes hadn’t faded; Calista dug her nails into her palm, understanding suddenly why everybody in the camp was terrified of the Raven. He looked as though if she spoke one more word, he would leap across the tent and put her in the ground right then and there.

“Look,” she said, striving for a calmer tone, “I’m not here to make friends or debate politics. I appreciate your help with my little brother, really, I do. Just tell me what you want in return and my debt can be settled.”

He turned away, dismissing her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Why had she expected anything different? Lulled by the banter between the two boys, exhausted from worry and late nights, she’d hoped—desperately, painfully hoped—for an ally, a friend; someone who could show basic human decency and understand her plight.

Instead, she had been bitterly reminded that she was surrounded by rebels who saw no harm in killing those she considered her friends and countrymen. Fine. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need anyone. She and Milon were just fine on their own, thank you.

“That’s what you say now,” she threw at his retreating back. “That’s what Noz said at first, too.”

“I’m nothing like him!”

____

Because the majority of characters in The Raven’s Return are Falian, we generally see a very anti-Valaviri perspective of the world. And there’s good reason for that, but that’s not the way reality works. For one thing, you can’t blame an entire people for something that their military or government decides to do–and even then, how do you blame an entire group like that? Are the people in the military only in the military because they need money? Is it a way to make their lives better? Did the people in the government make their decision based on what was best for their people? Since people don’t have the benefit of 20/20 hindsight like we do, would it have been feasible for them to take the alternative route like we think they should have? What were the available options that they knew of at the time? Obviously, there are definitely cases where we can look at an event and the people involved and say, “here’s what went wrong, here’s what would have been better for everybody involved, here’s who’s to blame,” but history is complex. People are complex. And for a lot of people, that’s hard to wrap their minds around, because a narrative with good guys and bad guys is so much easier to process and understand.

Part of what I’m trying to do with The Raven’s Return is show the complexity of history and the effect of that complexity. The nin Roys and other Falians hate the Valaviri because their land was invaded and their own culture was taken over. But Lucan wasn’t the one who did that–that invasion happened centuries ago. Plenty of Valaviri weren’t responsible for that. And there are elements of Valaviri culture to be admired–Cal brings up education, and how that improved her future. The issue here is messy, and it’s complicated, and both sides have some of it right and some of it wrong. There isn’t a clear cut “bad group” and a clear cut “good group.” There is an empire, and a lot of the characters hate it (pretty much all of the characters have some problems with how it is right now, but that’s pretty standard for anybody with their government), but it’s not an evil empire, and Falia isn’t the noble rebel nation. It’s messy, just like history.

So I like this conversation because it gets into that a little bit. Cal doesn’t like the government or the magicians right now, but she appreciates the empire nevertheless. Bran can’t understand that, and maybe he never will, but he needs to hear that the world is more complex than he might think.

Also, I love having characters with different worldviews have discussions without one character being a strawman. That’s really annoying to read, and seems so lazy to me. So I like this little snippet for doing that.

[sailorshadzter]

the wolf and the dragon.

part 3. 

you can read part 1 & part 2 here 

When Sansa wakes that first morning in Dragonstone, she finds a gown has been brought to her rooms. It hangs on a peg across the room from the bed and once she rises up from the blankets, she crosses the room to finger the whispering silk. The gown is of the palest blue, the neckline cut so very deep it would surely reach just above her navel, where there it met an intricately designed gold belt that would wrap her waist. The skirt was all soft pleats and every stitch was of delicate gold thread. Perhaps on another woman, it would be a lovely gown, but Sansa drew back from the gown with a roll of blue eyes, a smirk toying with her lips. Did Viserys truly think she would don such a garment, just to please him? She's reminded of Margaery though, such a gown would have looked lovely on her.

"He had that sent to your rooms at first light," it's Brienne, come in so quietly that Sansa had not even noticed her. Sansa turns, a frown replacing her smirk as she faces her sworn soldier. Brienne was without a doubt the only person in all of Dragonstone that she could trust, that she was certain would keep her safe. Sword or no sword, Brienne would rip even the man's dragons apart if it meant keeping her safe. "You aren't going to wear it, are you?"

"Of course not," Sansa remarks with a shake of her head. It's then that she turns to her trunk, brought in from her ship the night before, opening it as Brienne stokes the small fire in the hearth behind her. "This shall do," she murmurs to herself as she pulls a gray gown from the trunk, shaking it out. It's not as heavy of a gown as the one she'd worn the day before and she hopes it won't be too thick for the warmer Southern air.

When she finally dresses in her own gown and breaks her fast, she escapes her chambers and wanders through the halls of Dragonstone. It's a large castle, old and dusty from its long years of standing alone. Stannis Baratheon had lived in its walls for a time, but even that had been short lived and years ago. Sansa puts out a hand to touch the dragons carved into the stone wall, fingers tracing the outline of its scaled back.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

She turns at the voice, surprised to see Viserys standing there at the end of the hall. He comes towards her, well dressed in a black doublet trimmed in Targaryen red. A three headed dragon pin is pinned over his heart. "They say this castle was built with magic," he continues as he comes to stand before her, his violet eyes meeting her blue. "Magic that made its walls strong and fearsome as the gargoyles that sit upon its outer walls." His hand slides down towards the head of the dragon, with its teeth barred.

"Beautiful is not quite the word I had in mind," Sansa admits to him, her words bringing an amused sort of smile to his face.

"No, I suppose no Northern girl can see the beauty in a creature such as a dragon." He inspects her then, Sansa can feel his hungry gaze taking in the sight of her. "Was the dress I sent to you not to your liking?" Sansa could feel the danger in his question and so she smiles, giving a small shake of her head.

"In truth, far from it." She decides honesty is the best policy- if she offends the so called king, then he will look foolish for throwing a fit. She tilts her head as she watches his face, ever intent on capturing the truth of his response no matter what his words said. Again she was met with that amused sort of smile, his violet eyes narrowing for a single moment- though, not from anger. But rather he regarded her closely, as one might inspect something of value. He was inspecting her like a possession.

"You're an honest woman... I like that." Viserys says a moment later, offering her his arm so they might finish strolling the castle. The young woman does not hesitate, much to his surprise, and Viserys finds himself wondering more about this self proclaimed queen. Her temperament was as fiery as her hair and Viserys wants to tame her. He wants to make her his as he had his dragons. "Though I must say that blue would have been lovely on you." Viserys is a man of fashion, Sansa knows this, and it's something she might even say they have in common. "You have the most beautiful hair, the blue would have complimented you well," he observes as they turn a corner, making their way towards the staircase that would lead down to the main floor of the castle.

"You're far too kind," she replies, ducking her head to hide that she's not blushing, but rather smiling. She can only hope that if he catches a glimpse he'll think she's smiling from pleasure, not mirth.

"And this is where I must take my leave of you," Viserys says as they come to stand before a chamber door, one which lead into the painted table room. His war room, Sansa knew it to be. "My lady," he raises her hand to press his lips to and she dips the quickest of curtsies, holding his gaze a moment longer. His eyes narrow ever so slightly but then he turns, disappearing into the room without even a backwards glance.

The moment he's gone, Sansa can't help but to breathe with relief.

[ x x x ]

She hates this place.

It's hot, humid, and it's not the North. Sansa never realized how much she truly loved her home, how much she loved Winterfell, until she was gone from its walls. Ice ran through her veins and even now she could feel it melting beneath her skin. She stands on the cliffside, overlooking the sea, wondering to herself what Jon was doing right then. Did he miss her as much as she missed him?

A moment later, she hears approaching footsteps and she turns, surprised to see Tyrion walking towards her. He comes to stand beside her in silence, his gaze following the same path hers and taken only moments before. "I came down here to brood over my failure to anticipate the Greyjoy attack," he says, reminding Sansa of the events of the day before. Yara Greyjoy's fleet had been attacked by Euron Greyjoy and the attack had nearly demolished them in entirety. Sansa felt the familiar twinge of pain as she thought of Theon, who she knew had sailed for his home after helping her to escape Ramsay's clutches. She knew not if he lived or died. "But I see you are here already."

"I'm a prisoner on this island," she blurts without warning, turning to face the man she once called husband. Tyrion looks uncomfortable as he fumbles with his words, saying that he wouldn't call her such a thing. "I am a prisoner here as I was once a prisoner of Joffrey in King's Landing, as I was once a prisoner in my own home at Winterfell," Sansa spits, venom in her eyes and her tone. "You say I am free to walk the castle, to walk wherever I please. But I am unable to return to my ship, for you have stolen it from me."

"I wouldn't say we stole it from you-" Tyrion begins, his tone good natured, as if he means to placate her.

"I'm not playing word games with you." She snaps, interrupting him. "The dead are coming." She says with earnest, turning back to face the little man. "Perhaps they are already there and I am here, far away from my home and my family."

"Why don't you find out what to do about my missing fleet and murdered allies and I shall find out what to do about your army of the dead." Tyrion speaks, this time with more force, his tone bringing her gaze to his face.

"It's hard for me to fathom, it truly is... If someone told me about the white walkers, about the Night King..." She pauses, shaking her head before she turns away once more, sapphire gaze lingering on the roaring sea below them. For several seconds there is nothing but silence between them, the only sound that of the waves crashing against the rocks below, until she sighs. "You probably don't believe me."

Tyrion surprises her when he speaks. "I do, actually." Sansa turns back to him with widened eyes, a brow arching in her surprise. "I know your brother, Jon Snow. He is as noble as your father and thus, incapable of lying." Sansa can't help but to smile, knowing this to be true. "I trust the eyes of an honest man more than what everyone else claims to know." He's come closer to her now, so close they are just an arm's length apart.

"How do I convince people who don't know Jon... Who don't know me?" Misery is settling in. She's fearful that she's fighting a losing battle here and Viserys Targaryen will forever be her keeper.

"People's minds aren't meant for problems so large," Tyrion replies with a shrug, as if they speak of something mundane, not the lives of everyone in Westeros. "White walkers... The Night King... The army of the dead... It's almost a relief to confront a comfortable monster like my sister."

Sansa sighs, shaking her head. "I need to go home. I need to help prepare my people for what's coming." She thinks of Jon and how tirelessly he must be working to prepare the North for the battle that lingers ahead. Any given moment, the dead could be upon them, and she would be here. "I want to go home." She finishes, softer than the other words, speaking the honest truth from the depths of her heart.

"Something tells me you were not chosen as Queen in the North simply for being your father's daughter," Tyrion's words bring her head back, surprise yet again taking root in her sapphire eyes. "Are you to give up so easily?"  No, she shakes her head, of course not. "Viserys Targaryen is not so inclined to go to war against anyone for a girl from the North that he barely even knows." Tyrion goes on and Sansa blinks, a new thought coming into her mind as she stands there in the afternoon sun. "Perhaps if you got to know him as I do, you too might see why he will be a good king. Perhaps you might even be able to work together so you both get what you want." He offers her a smile before he takes a step back and turns away, walking the same path that had led him down to the cliff's edge. Sansa watches him as he goes, until he disappears from her line of sight. Overhead, one of the dragon's shrieks as it streaks across the sky, reminding Sansa of the king that sits inside the castle behind her.

All this time, perhaps she had been tackling things in the entirely wrong way.

[ x x x ]

"You need not do this, my lady."

Brienne's vocals are full of discontent, her eyes sweeping her lady up and down, taking in the sight of her in the blue gown. It was true, the gown fit Sansa in a way that none of her own did- the pale blue color complimented her vibrant red hair and brought a warmth to her ivory skin. But it was not a gown her lady would ever wear- even in her time in King's Landing, she had never dressed in such a way. This was a gown cut for a Targaryen queen, not a Northern one.

"I have to," Sansa says softly, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. She knows everything rides upon this alliance with the Targaryen king and if pleasing his ego in this way was the only way, then so be it. "I am still me, Brienne." She says this more to herself than to her sworn shield, though she's frowning when she turns to face her. "I will do anything to protect the North." Brienne holds her gaze for a long moment but then nods, swallowing down what other words she thought she might say.

Together, the two women make their way down to the main hall, turning a corner to face the double doors that will lead into the war room. Sansa gives Brienne the briefest of nods before she reaches up to knock, three short knocks that alert those within the room of her arrival. It is Mossador that opens it, giving her a quick bow before he steps aside, allowing her and Brienne entrance to the room.

Viserys' feels his breath catch at the sight of the woman when she steps into the room, her appearance catching him off guard to say the least. The proud Northern lady had set aside her black gowns and furs for the blue and gold gown he'd sent to her room days before; she wore it as well as he had known she would. Viserys can't help but to allow his gaze to linger upon the young woman's chest, the swell of her breasts barely contained behind the thin blue silk. "Lady Stark, you look... Beautiful." Viserys says, coming around the side of the table to stand before her, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. His lips linger far too long on her knuckles but she smiles prettily, silently thanking her mother for her every lesson on courtsey, silently thanking her years in King's Landing that taught her to mind her face in every moment of every day. "It was as I said, the gown is quite lovely on you."

At once, he's Joffrey, full of flattery that is more for his own benefit than hers. Viserys is pleased in knowing he was right and therefore, he's happy with her. Sansa smiles and dips him a quick curtsy before he steps away, returning to the seat he's just vacated. "You've joined us at a most opportune time, Tyrion, go on then." Viserys gives his hand a wave, indicating for the small man to continue on with his thought that Sansa's arrival had interrupted.

"I was saying... Your grace, my lady," Tyrion shoots her a pointed glance but Sansa looks away, instead focusing her gaze upon the great map that's carved into the table they stand around. It is a map of all of Westeros and at once, her gaze falls upon the North. "If we were to retrieve one of these White Walkers... One of these wights you speak of, it will prove their existence to not only his grace, but to my sister Cersei, as well." Now Sansa's eyes are on him and their gaze is sharp.  "If this enemy is as great as you say they are, we will need an alliance. My sister will not believe in stories, but she will believe if you bring it to her."

Brienne scoffs from where she stands, looking over Sansa's shoulder. "You expect who to do this?" She asks, swinging her gaze from Tyrion to the king and then back to Tyrion. "You surely cannot expect that she-" Sansa holds up a hand, silencing her sword shield, focusing her blue eyes upon the king that sits across from where she stands.

"A team will be provided for you, of course." Tyrion continues, his voice drawing Sansa's attention back to him. "And the king will remain close, with a dragon, should you fall into trouble."

"This is a suicide mission!" Brienne scowls, shaking her head.

"Fine," Sansa interrupts, giving a nod. It was as she had always said, always thought... She would do anything to protect the North. Even this. "I will go with this team of yours, even just to the Wall." She glances at Brienne who looks as if she would strangle Tyrion Lannister where he stood, but she smiles upon her, softening the scowl Brienne wore. "But when we have secured the alliance with Cersei, I would like to return home." She returns her attention to Viserys, who sits up a little straighter in his chair. "Winterfell will serve as the best place to fight back. It will prevent the Night King from spreading further into Westeros if we stop him there in the North." If nothing else, this would secure her return home before the fight begun.

It takes several long, silent moments before Viserys nods.

But that was all she needed. That was all she wanted. She would be home again. Oh, it would be so sweet to be home again. It would be so sweet to see Jon again.

[vannahfanfics]

May I request A current in-character canon-compliant, soft, angsty, romantic soowon x yona endgame fic please 🙏 thank you very much!!

Hello, dear! Very sorry it took a while to get this request to you; I’ve had a lot going on with the semester and my 200-follower event and such. However, at long last, here it is! ^.^ Enjoy!

Mad World

The wooden floor of her palace room groaned and moaned with her feverish footfalls as Yona paced back and forth, back and forth, back and back and forth and forth and back again. That was all Yona could do, was pace and think and think while pacing and pace while thinking. Back and forth, think think think, riddle on what the hell she was supposed to do basically imprisoned in her bedroom like this. No dragons, no Yoon, no Hak, just Yona. Yona, alone and pacing and thinking.

It was maddening.

With a sudden, deranged screech of lunacy, she whirled on her heel to tear into the curtains framing the large window overlooking the palace courtyard. Her fingernails ripped into the silken fabric, reaming into the threads and pulling them asunder as she yanked on the curtain with all her might. Little, angry screeches spilled from her mouth while she tugged and tugged, rattling the curtain rod mounted into the stone wall. The linear metal piece desperately tried to cling to the rough surface, but with Yona’s continuous and manic assault, dust began to rain down as the brackets began to wrench loose. Yona wasn’t sure why the poor curtain was the object of her ire, but nevertheless she tore into it like a mangy feral cat, dropping shreds of torn fabric around her slippered feet. Very soon the screws could bear no more and jumped from the wall; the heavy, decorative metal ball welded to the main body made the rod’s plummet all the hastier. Yona jumped violently as it collided into the wooden floor with a massive thunk! and the curtain slipped from her hands to puddle like white milk at her feet. She stared dully at the half-destroyed, dismounted curtains with burning red eyes. It was not satisfying at all; her fingers still itched to maim, to tear into everything in this room and leave it a maelstrom of silk and cotton and splinters.

“Princess! Are you all right?” Of course the noise would attract whoever happened to be nearby. Yona hadn’t much cared of the consequences of her actions at the moment; she was boiling with boredom and anxiety and frustration, and desperately needed an outlet. Normal people might cry, but Yona had elected that tears wouldn’t do. She was beyond tears now, or so she told herself. But…

Why did it have to be Soo-Won?

The young king stared with wide eyes at the curtain rod hanging at a diagonal angle from the wall, the one set of brackets struggling to support its weight, and the tatters of silk curtain surrounding the hem of Yona’s pink kimono. Her eyes were lidded and cold as she just watched him gawk. This was all his fault, really. Sure, Yona had decided to entire an alliance and come to the palace, but if Soo-Won hadn’t set off the chain of events that resulted in that alliance, this wouldn’t be happening.

Yona immediately regretted the thought. She knew better now. If none of this had happened, her people would still be struggling and Yona would be living in blissful ignorance. Sometimes, however, she just couldn’t help but crave that ignorance… Especially when the lingering flames of her love for Soo-Won decided to rear their ugly heads.

Yona’s mouth curled in on itself as her heart lurched in her chest just at the sight of him. It was maddening, the way her desire to dig her fingernails into his cheek mixed with her longing to softly caress it, the way her desire to rip every one of those flax-golden hairs out of his head mixed with her longing to run her hands through him, the way her desire to scream and yell and curse him in a thousand tongues mixed with her longing to throw herself at him and sob and beg and surrender. Maddening, yes it was. It was driving Yona to near insanity, and as she stood there, she was wide-eyed and teetering on an abyss from which there was no return.

“Yona.” His voice was soft and full of concern as he uttered her name. His eyes, still huge with the sight of Yona’s shredded prey, finally flickered up to meet her own fiery ones like dawn. To his credit, he did not flinch away at the inferno there; he just stared, measuring, waiting for her response. “Are you… displeased?” he said finally when she refused to respond. Really, Yona was still so embroiled with her own feelings that she couldn’t formulate a response. His question returned some sense of normalcy to her mind. The fire died in her eyes, cooled by the sheer incredulity at his question.

“‘Displeased,’” she echoed. Slowly, like water trickling from within rocks piled high, her wits returned to her. Her head dropped to do as Soo-Won had, stare numbly at the carnage she had wrought on the poor, innocent drapery. Her hands began to sting terribly with the weight of the own violence she had wrought, as if they were coated in hot, sticky, burning blood and insides. They were just curtains; it wasn’t like she had killed someone. Still, Yona’s stomach flopped about with the unsettling possibility that if someone had stumbled upon her in her mania, she might very well have unleashed on them like a woman possessed. It made the bitter acid of shame flood her tongue. Yona had never been so violent before. Sure, she had done violent things, but always with good reason. This was wanton destruction, and the fact that it was borne of her own hands rattled her to her core.

Well, it wasn’t entirely without reason, she rationalized. “Displeased,” she repeated in a hoarse voice. “Displeased” didn’t even scratch the surface of what she was feeling right now. She didn’t have a word for what she was feeling right now. Silent, teeth clenched, she just stared at the mangled curtains and lamented her own sorry state of being. How had it come to this? Cool, calm, collected, and strong to manic, deranged and mad?

“Yona.” His voice called her with maddening power. Of its own accord, Yona’s head rose to obediently meet his beckoning gaze. She hadn’t heard his footsteps, but he had closed the distance and was standing in front of her. She compulsively swallowed. His eyes were the one burning now, pulsing with a soft yet furious heat that made her tremble. It wasn’t anger, or disappointment, or disdain; it was something else entirely, and it both frightened and excited her. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he smiled that gentle reassuring smile that she missed so dearly but wanted to slap off his face. “Tell me what happened.”

 She wanted to lie. She did not want to admit that she had just had a psychotic fit and wrenched the curtain rod off the wall and destroyed the curtains like some kind of beast. Yona, however, felt the pitiful attempts at falsehoods dissolving on her tongue under Soo-Won’s gentle yet critical stare. There was no point in lying and he knew well enough what she had just done. “This alliance isn’t working out the way you wanted it to, is it?” he asked her with a degree of amusement in his voice that made her skin itch with fury.

“No. No, it is not, Soo-Won.” The steel in her voice was sharper than the finest-crafted blade. At the iron on her tongue, the king exhaled deeply and his body sagged sadly. The reaction disquieted her; was he acting for her benefit or truly displeased that she was going crazy cordoned off in this bedroom? His eyes shut for a second, and when they opened, Yona felt electric shocks pulse over every single one of her nerves. The way he was staring at her, apologetic and guilty, was a look she had imagined every day since she witnessed him drawing a bloody sword from her father’s limp body.

It was not satisfying, not at all. Somehow, she wanted more. The madness began to scratch and howl in her ringing skull again.

“How dare you. How dare you look all sad and guilty when I’m stuck here with nothing to do but pace and think and fret all day!” she screamed at him suddenly. She lunged at him, fingers clawing into his kingly robes like they had done the curtains, but rather than shredding them, she only clutched onto them with an iron grip. Her red eyes burned as they bore into his, as if a glare alone could make his combust. “How dare you. You want to know what happened? I am losing my mind! I can’t take it anymore!” A dam erupted inside of her, releasing long-held feelings and tears. They were like rivers of ice and fire as they flooded down her cheeks, and her voice cracked as she hissed again, “I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what is up and what is down. My mind is reeling. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know what you’re doing, and the one single comfort I could be afforded while I’m all but your prisoner in here is barred from me!” Her head dropped, chin banging against her chest. Her quivering hands held onto his clothes like the were the lifeline preventing her from being washed out to sea. She hated herself right now, admitted all this to him. But if she didn’t release it to anyone, even if it has to be Soo-Won, she really was going to go insane. What was her country? What was her fate? What was Soo-Won’s plan and how should she respond? These questions plagued her, maddeningly so.

With the weight of her on psyche mounting on her frail body, her knees finally buckled. Soo-Won reflexively caught her under her elbows as her legs folded in on themselves. Sobbing and groaning, she just cried pathetically while he held her up. “And you know… you know what the worst part is?” she choked out between sobs. “I hate you, but I love you. I despise you for what you did but I love you still. I thought I had grown so much, but I came back here, and it all has come crashing down upon me. I’m still that naïve, foolish little girl who wasn’t worth killing.”

“Yona!” She did not expect such harsh bite from his voice. It made her head snap up to look at him with wide and watery eyes. His lips were drawn into a taut line and his eyes were their fieriest yet. “I did not let you go because you were ‘not worth killing.’”

“Then why?” she demanded in an agonized cry. Her fingers dug further into his clothes, probably bruising the skin underneath. “Why, Soo-Won, I don’t under-”

The rest of her words came out as a surprised squeak muffled by his lips crashing into hers. It was not at all kingly, the way he kissed it her; it was passionate, carnal, desperate and mad. If Yona’s legs had been able to support her then, her kneecaps would’ve been obliterated to dust the instant their mouths smashed together. Her eyes fluttered shut with a low, needy whine; as if responding, Soo-Won’s tongue pushed into her mouth and tangled feverishly with her own. She didn’t object. She got drunk off him like she was partaking in the finest wine in the world, her tongue savoring every little bit of his essence. She could vaguely feel his fingers in her dawn-colored hair, caressing and twisting, but most of her senses were dominated by the explosion of feeling fireworking over her body. Oh, oh, how she had wanted this, and how much she hated herself for it.

She lamented the loss of his warmth and touch as he pulled away, and despite herself, her lips involuntarily chased him. She wanted to spend forever in that kiss. In that hazy fog, she didn’t have to think about the circumstances or how wrong it was; she just had to think about him, her mouth on hers and his hands on her body. It was simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. He permitted her pursuit for a moment, giving her another softer kiss with more feeling, but pulled back again after a few seconds. He said her name and it pulled her out of the fog, back to her confusing and complicated and maddening reality.

“Does that answer your question?” His voice was breathy and laced with a fair bit of irritation. Maybe with himself, maybe with Yona- maybe both. She swallowed and licked her lips, mouth suddenly drying up. Was she supposed to be satisfied with that? A kiss that seals the deal and makes everything all right? The trouble was that she was one hundred percent satisfied with that.

She stepped away from him, trying to hide the tremor in her still-recuperating jellified legs. She felt that her hands needed to be doing something so she smoothed out nonexistent creases in her kimono. Her brain whirled desperately trying to make sense of everything, but nothing made sense anymore. That was her problem to begin with. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” He sounded amused, like he had expected it.

“What do you expect?” she huffed. The fight was dying from her voice and spirit, replaced with indescribable weariness. She was so tired. She was so tired of fighting whatever this fight was, but that was the only thing Yona could think to do was fight. Surrender simply was not in the meek, naïve, ignorant princess’ blood, apparently. Her hands continued to fix her perfectly fine kimono while she refused to look at him. “I just… I can’t…” God, she couldn’t even explain herself. This is not how she wanted to look in front of him, flustered and stupid. It was like her previous self had been taken captive and replaced with a bungling imposter, and she was trying so desperately to get it back with little luck. Her hand began stringing through her hair, which was crimping uncomfortably with sweat. All the while, Soo-Won watched her, thankfully without pity. “I hate you,” she grumbled finally, because it was the only thing that sort of made sense.

“I know.” Oh, hell, no, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t get that sad look on his face and think that it made it all okay. But it did. In Yona’s stupid, manic, mad mind, it made it okay. Defeated, she kicked the curtain rod aside and sank down on the cushioned seat that sat below the windowsill.

“I love you,” she simpered as she put her flushing face in her hands. She didn’t have to look at him to know he had that other look on his face, that soft, gentle smile that made her heart sing and wail simultaneously. That smile that carried a hint of sadness that never faded.

“I know that, too.” A period of silence settled between them. She peered through her fingers to see his own twitching, like he was trying to figure out how to comfort her but arriving at no conclusions. She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t know what to do with herself, either. As she sat there, the moonlight cool on her back as it flood through the unshielded window behind her, Yona finally began to feel a sense of normalcy returning to her. She partitioned off the confusing kiss and focused instead on her situation and what she ought to do about it, and was beginning to feel that clear-headed determination return to her. I just have to keep fighting. That is all I can do. I will resist as long as I have to and find out what Soo-Won wants…

She felt the cushioning dip beside her and heard the slight ringing of the metal as it rolled over the wooden floor when Soo-Won seated himself beside her. “I wish things were simple.”

“You’re the one who made it complicated.” She kept her face buried in her hands because she didn’t know what would happen if she looked at him.

“I suppose that’s true.” His laugh was hollow and mirthless. “I wish I could explain it all to you. I really do. But if I did, I didn’t know if you would believe me.”

“Can’t fault you for that.” Another hollow, joyless laugh that rang through the quiet bedroom, followed by a slight sigh. “I’m not giving up, you know. Don’t think this changes things. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

“No, I expect you won’t.” She finally lifted her head to look up at him, finding him smiling as he looked at her out of his peripheral vision. “You wouldn’t be the girl I loved if that happened.”

Surprisingly, her body garnered no reaction from that bombshell of a statement. It felt more like she had known it all along and she was vindicated now. It made a funny taste tingle on her tongue, one she couldn’t quite place; possibly a mixture of things. He smiled more as he pushed himself up from the seat and began heading for the door. “I’ll send someone to fix that in the morning,” he said with a lazy gesture to the destroyed curtains. Yona watched him go with confliction and a heavy heart.

“Yeah. Sure.” Once the frame of the sliding door clacked against the threshold, she exhaled loudly and flopped onto her side; the cushion embraced her, sinking her down into its fluffy softness. With the adrenaline no longer pumping in her system, her muscles now felt the strain of torturing the curtains. Dully, she stared down at its wispy corpse spread out over the wood floor.

The Celestial Dragons. The usurper King Soo-Won. The displaced princess. The Thunder Beast. The unknown battle for the world as they knew it.

Maddening, it all was to Yona. Somehow, though, the one thing that should be the most maddening was no longer maddening at all. She smiled thinly to herself and rolled onto her back, the moonlight washing over her like enclosing her in a blanket.

You drive me mad, Soo-Won… But still, I love you so.

Enjoy this story? Here’s Part II! Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents! 

[griffinsandpeacocks]

Loony Two Writing Challenge Week 4 Prompt 1: Birds and Erm... Birds?

Griffin paced around nervously as he had told his parents he couldn’t marry a princess that was interested in him. When they ask he explains he’d tried through tears to be the prince they needed he just couldn’t. His mother had calmed him down asked him to explain and he admit softly that the princess had made heavy advances but he hadn’t responded at all nothing had happened and he’d been terrified he’d be killed, banished, disowned or anything else because he just had no interest in her. 

“There is a King I was wanting to make an alliance with... You can help me with that.” His father calms him and he nods a bit numb as all he’s heard since were crude rumors about him and nasty comments from other nobility that have heard. His life was miserable. Guards made snide remarks! He didn’t have a single friend within the Kingdom at this point. The only good thing he had going for him  was the fact he wasn’t dead and his parents didn’t seem disgusted with his existence. Though the near death experience a couple days later makes him wonder if exile would have been safer. 

He’d left his room to meet with his father when a man had run at him with a knife he’d fallen on his ass but managed to wrestle the knife away and hold it to the culprit's neck until the guards finally decided to come and help after he’d called for them several times. He’d gone straight to his father and had been unsettled since. They’d discussed going to the other’s city and Griffin relaxed realizing that would allow him to get away from all the harsh words and crude comments aimed at him. Hopefully once he comes back the gossip would have been stirred up by something new. 

The travel is grueling several hours he is only happy he’s good at protecting himself as when bandits attack it’s everyone for themselves. Griffin can’t rely on other’s to have his back like his father can. He get’s a sword in his side before his father takes charge furious the guards had left Griffin open to attack without support. Griffin just pants as a cold sweat starts up and he is grateful his father drags him onto horse back hearing they’d make as quick a run for the city as possible. He faints. When he comes to a nurse is dabbing cool water over his brow. He swallows and blinks trying to see clearly. 

“Oh you’re awake! I shall fetch your father, King Marius, and King Oberon. They’ll be glad to hear you’re alright.” She says and Griffin tries to say something but she’s already gone and Griffin just looks around feeling drained. He sees he’s in a very nice room and sighs closing his eyes to take a deep breath.His side throbs and he groans in pain as the door opens he opens his eyes the attack making him paranoid. There’s an albino man next to his father wearing a silver crown sporting diamonds and star patterns. This must be the king they’d come to negotiate with. He tries to push himself up but the pale King stops him a hand on his shoulder keeping him down.

“Don’t stand on my account. You’re wounded enough as is.” He says and Griffin blushed as he stopped trying and laid still. He’s certain nothing can get worse. Making a terrible impression, getting stabbed because the guards despised him, having his life threatened at every turn and now he can’t even properly stand and thank the king whose staff had saved him. How could this get worse?

“Griffin, King Oberon agreed with the treaty on a single condition.” His father says and Griffin looks at his father uncertain. Typically a marriage was requested to lock in an alliance but Griffin had looked through all the information he could on the Runes Kingdom and it’s ruling King and had found nothing about the Mage King having any daughters. Not that he’d be useful in that regard as soon as it was discovered he couldn’t preform the woman he was married to would probably demand her father kill him for lying. 

“And... What might that... Be?” Griffin asks feeling incredibly insecure as he can’t hide how uncertain and uneasy he is. Oberon snickers watching him and his father sighs and looks uncomfortable. 

“Once you’re fully recovered he asks you duel him.” Griffin felt his brain break. He was wanting to ask a multitude of questions but he couldn’t quite get his head around the fact a mage wanted to fight him. 

“You... Want to duel me? Not my father?” Griffin asks confused and Oberon laughs and Griffin blushed both because he suddenly felt stupid and because it was a nice sound to hear. Also slightly mortified as he had a sudden urge to make the man laugh more often. 

“You’re father’s married, there would be little point.” King Oberon says and Griffin blinks and looks at his father the gears creaking as they begin to turn. 

“I would like an explanation.”  Griffin asks his father who blushed rubbing the back of his neck looking at Oberon then Griffin. He doesn’t like the way his kingdom had responded to the gossip about Griffin especially the number of near assassinations on Griffin. 

“You’ll be safer here... I know you’ve practiced heavily to be able to fight along side me in the case of a war... I just... I want you safe and in this case you’d be in the place of a princess and become the standing Queen of the Runes Kingdom.” King Marius explains and Griffin swallows thickly looking at the wall. So his father had seen how the staff had responded. His father cared enough to drag him to another kingdom to get rid of him which he supposed was a blessing. He looks at the Mage King and wonders if he could stand a chance.

“So the duel’s to make sure I can at least protect myself and be somewhat useful.” He guesses and his father frowns going to say something but Oberon nods.

“You’ve made it this far so I’m sure you are somewhat capable but I would appreciate having a partner that can actively defend themselves should the need arise.” He explains and Griffin nods. There’s little in the way of options. He either impresses the other enough he agrees to take him off his father’s hands or he fails and ends up as useless baggage on his father’s name. 

“Then I suppose I look forward to the chance to duel you. Can you do me a favor if I fail just kill me.” Griffin says and thunks his head back looking up at the ceiling. His father sighs and it sounds like he tries to say something but whatever it is he must not know how he wants to word it and instead he squeezes Griffin’s shoulder and walks out. Griffin closes his eyes tears glittering in his lashes as he clenches his hands fighting not to cry.

“Why would you want to die if you don’t prove to be up to my standard?” Oberon asks and Griffin flinched hissing as his side aches at the sudden reflexive jerk. He looks at the mage who is sitting in a chair by the bed watching him with sharp red eyes that seem to be cutting into him and dissecting him.

“I’m the only Prince my family has. Instead of getting a competent future King they have a son that can’t respond in any way other than flustered blubbering to  escape the advances of a woman. I can tell you anything you want to know about my Kingdom’s history, even the bits that I’m certain were very different but victor writes history and all that. I can give decent battle strategy but I prefer the reserved approach. My father’s council has never liked me and they have constantly told me I’ll make a poor king. So if I can’t be useful this once then I don’t want to go back. I’ll get assassinated anyway, so at least this way I’ll go down fighting rather than a lucky stab or poison or something equally sad.” Griffin says ranting and needing to get this all out of his head and confide in someone. Oberon listens and sighs shaking his head.

“A king has no need for men that throw caution to the wind. A king is  not made great because councilors nor their opinions. You sound dedicated to learning which has never been an ill mark for a king.” Oberon says and Griffin sighs and looks to the wall feeling awkward.

“Yet I’ll never be a King. I’m marrying one if I can prove I’m worth it.” He says and Oberon snorts and leans closer grabbing Griffin’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes.

“I want an equal not a concubine.” Oberon states firmly and Griffin goes bright red startled by how forward the mage King is. 

“Subtlety isn’t something you exercise is it?” Griffin squeaks and Oberon chuckles.

“I’m afraid not, so you’ll be a nice breath of fresh air to my court if you can hold me off in a fight.” Oberon says grinning. Griffin sighs again and looks up at the crown. 

“I was always curious why your Kingdom has such strong symbolism around stars.” Griffin says and Oberon leans back in his chair shrugging.

“For us the stars are what we attribute to the source of our abilities. We mages hold the heavens sacred and what is more beautiful than a night sky lit with diamond like stars?” He says and Griffin looks at Oberon.

“Then you’re Kingdom must think you as beautiful.” Griffin says as the King was gorgeous and pure pale splendor much like the stars. Oberon blinks at him blushing now as well he coughs and stands walking away. Griffin grins slightly at the very shy response to the compliment. He sighs as the door closes. He grins faintly thinking that maybe just maybe his life wasn’t getting worse. 

Once he’s on his feet and can manage moving without wincing he’s given a tour of the castle and Oberon watches him like a hawk as his father explains several customs Griffin will need to see to before and during the start of the duel.

“The wakestone might actually awaken a power in you. You’ll need to touch it before the duel as an acknowledgment to magic’s guidance.” His father explains and Oberon nods and Griffin frowns in confusion.

“Wouldn’t we have to have magic in our linage in order for a wake stone to have that affect?” Griffin asks and his father glances over.

“We’ve had several mages marry into our family none within the last couple of generations though.” He explains and Griffin nods deciding this might be where all his strange quirks come from. He is grateful he gets one last day he’s gotten mixed reviews. Those from the mage kingdom all gave him high praise for being bold enough to duel Oberon while those from his home made snide remarks on his uselessness and how his father was at least getting rid of him in style though he didn’t deserve to draw his sword for it. Griffin just dealt with it surprised how often the mages would compliment him and wish him well. There were several offers for his hand if he was not taken on by the King. He wasn’t sure how to handle any of it. 

“Prince Griffin place your hand on the wakestone with King Oberon.” A woman wearing robes says and Griffin had learned she was the Priestess that took care of the magical artifacts of the Kingdom. Griffin does and frowns as he feels an odd tingle run up his arm and he gasps as he feels like he gets a kick to the chest jerking back and swaying a moment feeling dizzy and like he might be sick. Oberon grabs his shoulder and holds him up.

“Just breathe, close your eyes and breathe.” Oberon instructs and Griffin takes a few deep breaths swallowing as the dizzy sick phase passes and he takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes and Oberon takes a sharp breath in when their eyes meet. Griffin feels confused until his father also blinks in shock and looks at Oberon.

“That was supposed to happen?” He asks and Oberon coughs and looks at him.

“Well apparently... It’s nothing bad it just means he is powerful really. To have golden eyes is regarded as a mark of someone destined for great things.” Oberon says and Griffin paused his eyes had been a yellow brown that looked like gold in the right light but they weren’t gold. The Priestess with wide eyes holds up a small mirror for him and he blinks in shock his eyes are bright shocking yellow gold. 

“I’ll call this duel off, I’d be honored if you’d agree to be my fellow King.” Oberon says looking at Griffin with awe. Griffin reluctantly nods not sure what’s going on he knows that his father making this alliance would be the only thing he could do for his home. He’d take it. 

“I’d be honored...” Griffin says confused still and feeling a bit unsteady he yelps as Oberon sweeps him off his feet grinning down with a mischievous look. 

“Then it’s settled, you’re mine.” Griffin goes bright red sputtering as he tries to catch up only to feel lips on his and blink in shock.

“Shall I get the circle ready?” The Priestess asks and Oberon nods and Marius smiles happy his son will be safe now though confused how he was so magically apt. Over the next several days Griffin is pampered by mages that go about making sure he’ll look the part of a king to stand by their current ruler. He is flustered when the day comes his mother had made the trip to see him marry and he’s bright pink as he is standing opposite Oberon and the Priestess sings a chant to make the circle glow and then they meet in the center and both recite lines in the magical language Oberon grew up with that Griffin knew so little of. The chimes like millions of little bells make Griffin blink in wonder as hundreds of star like lights float around them like glowing butterflies. 

“This means Magic herself approves.” Oberon says softly and Griffin grins reaching out to poke one that glitters merrily and more start flocking to his hand. Oberon chuckles softly and pulls the once prince into a kiss.

“I’ll teach you everything that I know... I swear to you I will make this day forward the best days of your life.” Oberon swears and Griffin blushes and looks up at the ruby eyes and smiles shyly. Maybe this wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened after all.

[soundslikenerds-blog]

I Need to Talk About “Avengers: Endgame”

WARNING: THIS WILL BE VERY SPOILER-Y!

PLEASE, IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE, DO NOT READ THE SPOILERS!

IT’S SO HARD TO STAY AWAY WHEN YOU’RE CURIOUS AS HELL, BUT PLEASE DON’T LOOK AT THESE SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE!

SPOILERS WILL BE BELOW THE CUT, SO IF YOU DON’T TURN AWAY NOW, I CAN’T BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SPOILERS YOU WILL SEE!

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!

OK!

I have an actual metric fuckton of stuff to say about this movie-too much, really. I won’t be able to hold it together for even a part of it, since I cried like a baby throughout 90% of this movie. I have a lot of words and a lot of emotions. Walking into this movie, I had a lot of theories. Some of them were true, and others were not. Some of them, I wished I had been wrong about. I steered clear of all spoilers, dropping off the face of the world once I heard that a leak happened, and I’m somewhat relieved that I can be back. It’s not gonna be the same, though. Never.

I’ve only seen the movie three times so far (I had to edit this twice while writing this reaction, ngl), so I’m definitely still missing some shit. I just haven’t been able to keep myself collected for long enough to write it all. I’m definitely going to see it again tomorrow, which is like opening a gaping wound and pouring salt, vinegar, alcohol, and tears into it. Why do I do this?

So, here it goes. It won’t be in order, but I’m just writing it down as it comes back to me (while listening to the Avengers Theme because I need to cry for a bit longer, I guess).

I was a bit upset that the movie didn’t open with the original Marvel fanfare. I was angry until I cried for the first time in the movie, which happened a mere 3 minutes in.

Clint’s. Fucking. Family.

When he starts running around, yelling for them, I was absolutely gutted. It felt like someone drove a knife into my back.

The Russo Bros.

JESUS. CHRIST. GIVE. THIS. MAN. A. BREAK.

GIVE. ME. A. BREAK.

Tony’s physical state in space was absolutely mind-boggling. I was crushed just seeing him like that, like a little skeleton man. I’m realizing as I write this that I can’t even think about Tony right now. Nope.

No.

Anyway, now that I’m crying, I might as well keep crying.

Nebula lifting Tony up into the seat like he’s a small child. YES, GIVE THIS MAN ALL THE LOVE AND CARE IN THE WORLD! HE DESERVES EVERYTHING GOOD! DON’T TOUCH ME, I’M CRYING!

When that little light hit Tony’s face, I was like, “CAROL! IT’S MY GIRL! WHAT A GODDESS!” and the entire theater erupted with applause. I was so happy I wasn’t stuck with a theater full of people with sticks in places they shouldn’t be.

STEVE SPRINTING UP TO TONY WAS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL, TOUCHING, WONDERFUL MOMENT, BUT THEN, THESE TWO FUCKERS FIGHT AGAIN LIKE 2 SECONDS LATER! DON’T TAKE MY LITTLE SHREDS OF HAPPINESS AWAY FROM ME, MARVEL, FFS!

“I lost the kid” -Tony, making me want to vomit because of the sheer emotions.

Pepperony reunion was beautiful. I cried. Everyone cried. Not everyone. Me and a few other people.

Tony losing his shit on Steve left me gutted. I just wanted everything to be okay between them, especially since both of them came so close to dying.

“I needed you!” -Tony, 2k19

“I need you two to get along” -Me, 2k19

“Up until this moment, I thought you were a Build-a-Bear” -Tony to Rocket, and the theater erupted in laughter. The Russo’s were trying to butter us up with as much funny shit in the first half as they could because THEY KNEW WHAT WAS COMING, AND NO ONE ELSE DID!

When I saw Carol’s tears in her eyes upon seeing Nick Fury’s picture as one of the vanished, I...ugh. No. I’m feeling a lot again.

She was so ready to kick some purple ass, and I was like “YAAAASSSS, KWEEN! Kill the evil grape!”

The fact that we saw the jump in the reflection of Steve’s eyes, my heart fluttered. What a beautiful...whoa. I was...the EYELASHES?! HeLp!

WHEN THANOS GOT HIS NOGGIN CHOPPED CLEAN OFF, THE WHOLE AUDIENCE LOST IT, BUT WE KNEW IT WOULDN’T BE THE END OF THANOS. The cheers were full of joy and also a bit of fear for what would come.

“I went for the head” -Thor, 2k19

Even though, I was fully committed to this movie, when the “five years later” faded onto the screen, I couldn’t help but read it in a Spongebob Narrator voice. OOPS!

Steve trying to be a little optimist in the absolute worst circumstances...ugh!

Joe Russo’s cameo. I was like, “yaaaasss, represent the LGBTQ+ audience” but I was also like, “you’re gonna kill me in this movie, aren’t you?” AND THE SECOND TIME I WATCHED IT, WHEN PEOPLE CHEERED BECAUSE OF HIM IN THAT SCENE, I JUST SAT THERE WITH MY ARMS CROSSED LIKE AN ANGRY BABY! I KNEW WHAT WAS COMING! I KNEW THAT HE WAS GOING TO STAB ME STRAIGHT THROUGH MY FUCKING HEART IN A LITTLE WHILE! The second time around, I was more excited to see Jim Starlin in that scene.

CAROL’S HAIRCUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seeing Natasha cry over Clint’s disappearance was...rough. 10/10 don’t like seeing my heroes cry because it turns me into an actual blubbering mess. Natasha was a strong, fierce, incredible warrior goddess, and to see her crumble over the stress was both so incredibly realistic but also heart-wrenching. She has done such a good job holding it together in the worst circumstances throughout these movies, but now we get to see her as just as vulnerable as anyone else. Natasha was a gem, and SHE DESERVED SO MUCH BETTER. I NEED TISSUES. I’M CRYING!

On a side note: I love that new hair she’s rocking, ngl.

“I tell people to move on; some do, but not us” *chills*

I’m upset that the peanut butter sandwich wasn’t credited and had no appearances in the trailer. It played such a pivotal role. First, it was Nat’s. Then, Nat tried to pass it off to Steve. Then, Scott practically fell in love with it.

Scott, looking at that peanut butter sandwich:

While we’re talking about Scott Lang, I have to say that a lot of us in the theater cried like little tiny babies, when Scott and Cassie finally saw each other again. Five hours passed for him, but his daughter aged five entire years. That was heart-wrenching and also such a happy scene.

TONY STARK FINALLY HAD SOME HAPPINESS! HE MARRIED PEPPER, AND THEY HAD A DAUGHTER, MORGAN! I CAN’T! DON’T TOUCH ME!

Professor Hulk was both really unsettling, really funny, and everything that I wanted. I didn’t really know whether to laugh or cringe a little bit. It was really well done, and it made for some laughs, but ngl, I was a bit...disturbed by it.

The picture scene. Scott is just...the most relatable.

“Take the goddamn phone” -Scott Lang, leaving myself and the rest of the theater in stitches.

“Shit” -Tony Stark, 2k19

“Shit” -Morgan Stark, 2k19

Tony = Parenting Goals, leave me alone.

“I love you 3000” -Morgan Stark being the sweetest little peanut in the history of all things. Someone protect her LIKE THEY SHOULD’VE PROTECTED TONY! HELP, I’M CRYING AGAIN!

“But would you be able to rest?” -PEPPER GODDAMN POTTS, KNOWING THAT WE’RE GONNA EXPERIENCE THE WORST PAIN IN MERE HOURS!

*ahem*

Scott’s transformation between adult, child, old, baby, and back to adult was funny af. Every person in the theater lost their shit during that scene.

“Someone peed my pants” -Scott Lang...legendary

Steven Grant Rogers in THOSE pants. We all know which ones I’m talking about. The ones he wears when he walks outside the facility and is greeted by Tony Stark. I needed an inhaler because it took my breath away. Wow.

TONY GIVING STEVE HIS SHIELD BACK REPAIRED MY SHATTERED HEART AND CLEARED UP MY SKIN.

Scott sitting outside with his little taco, only to have it blown away thanks to Rocket and Nebula, OH LORD HELP ME! I nearly pissed myself, I was laughing so hard. Then, when Professor Hulk walks by and hands him a taco with this big ass green hand, everyone went from “lol” to “awwwww” like he was some giant green puppy!

Nebula throwing serious shade at Scott! LIFE!

“What’s up, Regular-Sized Man?” -Rhodey, coming in for the kill.

Prof. Hulk riding in the back of the truck with his thicc ass, the theater erupted.

VALKYRIE! WHEN IT PANNED OVER TO HER, EVERY SINGLE TIME I’VE SEEN IT, THE THEATER WENT FUCKING BUCK WILD! PEOPLE LOVE HER! I LOVE HER! I WOULD MARRY THIS FUCKING GODDESS!

Thor.

Wow.

Whoa.

Huh.

Like, when it showed him, I laughed because...it’s still the God of a man, Chris Hemsworth. At the same time, though, it made me so goddamn sad. The audience didn’t always know whether it was right to laugh or get a bit emotional about it. He feels like he failed his people and the entire universe. That’s a lot of guilt on his shoulders, and we know where this guilt REALLY belongs.

Peter.

Quill.

STAR

DUDE

HE IS A LORD NO LONGER!

Like, I love you, but this is on you, homeboy.

MEEK AND KORG!

When Prof. Hulk mentions Thanos, and Thor gets really quiet and teary-eyed, I couldn’t help but getting emotional about it. He feels like such a failure, and that’s heartbreaking.

He...is using Stormbreaker...as a bottle opener...wtf, Thor?!

“There’s booze” -Rocket

And that was the line that convinced Thor Odinson, the God of Thunder, the King of Asgard to join up with his team again and kick some ass. Really. I’m not lying. This is the true motivation for my dude, Thor. Wow.

“Jane put her hand in a rock, and the stone put itself into her” -Thor, 2k19

*THE THEATER LOSES IT*

Rhodey motioning what he wanted to do to baby Thanos was one of the funniest bits in the movie. I almost puked, I laughed so hard, and then the reaction he got from the other characters. Oh shit!

“See you in a minute” -Natasha to Steve, and the second time I watched it, I lost my goddamn mind. The people next to me were probably like “wtf is gonna happen?” because they knew I had seen it the previous night during the premiere. So when Nat is doing her little “hahaha, I’ll see you in a second” I was just over there dying, trying to hold back my gross sobs. Like I’m doing right now.

I can’t see the keyboard.

Seeing a different view of the Battle of New York was fucking stellar. I was dead. I knew that this was the moment I would get to see Loki being Loki. Wow. Much anticipation.

Prof. Hulk having to pretend to Hulk out left me shook. I couldn’t hear the movie because of the audience laughter.

Bruce and the Ancient One was a great little duo, and I would honestly pay to see Tilda Swinton just interacting with my favorite heroes all day.

“That suit was doing nothing for your ass” -Tony

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s America’s Ass!” -Scott, speaking on behalf of everyone in the universe.

LOKI IMITATING STEVE WAS A BEAUTIFUL CALLBACK TO “THOR: THE DARK WORLD” AND I LOST IT. I LOST IT AND COULDN’T FIND IT FOR A HOT MINUTE! Then, Thor just slaps that Asgardian “shut the fuck up” mouthpiece on him, and I don’t get to hear Tom Hiddleston’s silken waterfall of a voice again throughout the movie. Who approved this? Like, I enjoy knowing that there was a reason behind said mouthpiece, and it was because Loki couldn’t stop running his mouth, but I just...I wanted more of Loki than I got.

Hulk getting mad about taking the stairs. That was a mood and a half.

When Steve got into the elevator, I was low-key hoping for another can of whoopass like in “Captain America: The Winter Soldier” but what I got was even. fucking. Better.

Hearing Cap say “Hail Hydra” was just as bone-chilling as when I read it in the Captain America: Steve Rogers issue a while back. It was pretty intense hearing him say it, but I thought it was a cool hint to the comic. It gave me chills, but it was also…

Alexander Pierce, ugh! Listen, Robert Redford has always been-and will always be-a stone cold fox, but Secretary Pierce is the #worst. No one likes him. Seeing all these “long lost” characters was such a nice send-off for our heroes. This was the end of a decade-long saga, and this truly felt like a fan-service movie with a lot of heartbreaking moments that we didn’t want as well.

Seeing Tony have that cardiac dysrhythmia was not my favorite thing, but it was much easier than seeing...the INCIDENT AT THE END THAT SHATTERED MY UNIVERSE!

Loki’s eyes following the case when Ant-Man kicked it away left me cackling in my seat. Every time I’ve watched it, it was hilarious. Idgaf, every single time Tom Hiddleston is on that screen, he steals the show, even when he can’t speak.

God.

That man.

Help.

Hulk busting out of the stairwell and hitting Tony across the fucking room was hilarious.

Then, this little shit, Loki, picks up the tesseract and yeets himself right outta the movie like he was never there to begin with. We don’t see him another goddamn time. I was low-key hoping that Thor could’ve found a way to be in on the plan to get the tesseract so that he could’ve seen Loki one more time, but whatever. I’m not in charge of anything ever.

Like, we’ve gotten to see him as Loki for like a cumulative 4 minutes in two entire movies. How rude.

STEVE RUNNING INTO STEVE!

AND THAT FIGHT SCENE!

I was all kinds of whoa.

Me during that scene:

“That is America’s ass” -Steve Rogers, 2k19 or...2k12…? Help.

Steve and Tony going back in time to the 70’s was all kinds of tears. Like, Tony getting to see his dad got me all choked up. AND HOWARD’S LIKE “THERE’S NOTHING I WOULDN’T DO FOR HIM” AND I’M JUST CONFLICTED BECAUSE TONY SUFFERED BECAUSE OF HIS DAD, BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING ANYMORE!

And when I saw Steve grab four of those vials of Pym particles, I was like “HONEY, YOU KNOW GODDAMN WELL YOU DON’T NEED THAT MANY! PUT IT BACK! DON’T BE LIKE THIS!” I felt like a mother in the candy aisle with a free range toddler.

Listen.

Now, here’s a question.

HOW.

THE FUCK.

DID PEGGY CARTER.

NOT SEE.

HER MAIN MAN.

STEVE.

AMERICA.

ROGERS.

????????????????????????????

Steve’s there like:

And my girl, Peggy, is just:

Completely oblivious.

Whatever.

1970′S JARVIS! FUCK ME UP!

Tony giving this “stranger” a hug after having a quick chat with him on an elevator was hilarious because Howard had no idea what the shit was going on.

Honestly, Nebula’s trip to Morag with Rhodey was nice and all, but I wasn’t as invested in it because I knew that it would tie into Thanos, and it did. I was just sick of seeing this purple nutsack-having face. I was done with him. THEN I HAD TO SEE PETER QUILL AGAIN, AND I WAS READY TO PUNCH A HOLE IN THE SCREEN BECAUSE I’M STILL MAD ABOUT INFINITY WAR! I will blame him for this until I die.

And then we get Nebula 1.0 meeting Nebula 2.0, and I was 10/10 uncomfortable. Not a fan. Not a fan at all. Negative fan.

Thor talking to his mom made me cry. Frigga is the goddess Asgard needed but not the one it deserved. AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

When I realized that Steve, Tony, and Scott went to NYC, Nebula and Rhodey went to Morag, Thor and Rocket went to Asgard, I knew. I knew that shit was about to go down on Vormir. I already knew that someone was going to die in order to get the Soul Stone, but I didn’t want to think about who it was going to be. AND WHEN I SAW IT, I WANTED TO FUCK RIGHT OFF OUT OF THERE. NO THANK YOU!

I knew that Clint and Nat would want to sacrifice their own lives to keep the other from doing it, and they’re two of my favorite characters in the MCU, far above many of the newcomers. They’ve been around since the beginning, and I have an even deeper connection with Nat because I could identify with her as a woman. She didn’t have superpowers, but she wasn’t the damsel in distress, and I found a lot of power in that.

That entire scene had me on the very edge of my seat, and it left everyone else in the theater the same way. Even going back to watch it, I’m still on the edge of my seat, even though I know what happens. The first time around, I didn’t know who it was going to be, who was going to sacrifice themselves for the Soul Stone, and I gasping for air every time one of them made a break for the edge of the cliff thing.

Thinking about that scene still gives me chills. Thinking about how Clint was holding onto her arm as tightly as he could and nat was sitting there, not even trying to hold on. Ugh. It makes me so fucking emotional. I don’t give a fuck. Natasha went out a fucking hero. She sacrificed herself for the greater good, knowingly. I know a lot of people are like, “they did her dirty” but I prefer this death to one at the hands of Thanos. She sacrificed for something she loves: her team, her family. She sacrificed so that Clint wouldn’t have to, so that he could be with his family when they were brought back. The MCU did Natasha dirty by not giving her a movie earlier on, but this death was selfless and heroic, just like Natasha. She died a hero, and no one can change my mind on that.

I’m crying.

Wait.

Ok, so seeing Clint break down and cry was not my favorite thing.

AND THEN THEY GET BACK, AND EVERYONE IS SO FUCKING SAD ABOUT NATASHA’S DEATH! SAME! LET’S BE SAD TOGETHER!

Steve cries: mood.

Hulk throws shit: mood.

So, gauntlet 2.0 is built, and Prof. Hulk puts that shit on and ruins himself. Good job!

Nebula 1.0, who is pretending to be Nebula 2.0, brings Thanos to the future, which is not the best. I was just in shock by the amount of fuckery going on. Like, I didn’t understand any of the time stuff, and if anyone claims they did, they’re lying. Or they’re smart.

Prof. Hulk reverse snaps his fingers, and everything is good again! Birds are chirping, Laura’s calling for Clint, the sun is shining, Thanos’ ship is shooting at the Avengers facility, and he’s being a little prick. Everything’s back to normal.

I was low-key nervous that Hulk, Rocket, and Rhodey were gonna drown under the rubble of the facility, and I was not impressed. But when Scott was like, “yo, I’m on my way,” I was ready for snack-sized Ant-Man to go full on King-Sized Ant-Man again. I was ready.

Thanos sitting outside on a rock, looking like he was ready to kick puppies or some shit. He just wants to be the worst version of himself, I swear to butt!

Thor, Tony, and Steve fighting Thanos was what I signed up for. Like, Clint’s doing the hundred meter dash beneath the facility, and he’s being chased by weight lizard/gorilla/alien hybrids. Then, we have the holy trinity putting Thanos in his place.

Wild.

STEVE.

ROGERS.

CAPTAIN.

AMERICA.

WIELDING.

MJOLNIR.

WAS.

EVERYTHING.

CHANGE.

MY.

MIND.

As soon as that hammer lifted up off the ground, gasps could be heard all throughout the theater. I heard people gasping halfway around the world. People woke up from REM sleep just to gasp. They didn’t know what they were gasping about, but they felt the power of what was happening. I died but was resurrected just to continue gasping.

When Mjolnir was thrown and bounced back only to show that it was thrown by Steve, THE THEATER SCREAMED SO GODDAMN LOUD THAT WE WERE ABOUT TO BLOW THE ROOF OFF THE PLACE. IT WAS LIKE CHRIS EVANS HIMSELF HAD WALTZED IN, PLEDGED TO MARRY EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM, AND ALSO GAVE THEM $38 TRILLION A PIECE. IT WAS MONUMENTAL. THE GROUND SHOOK. WE CAUSED THE WHOLE PLANET OF JUPITER TO QUAKE. SOMEONE SHOULD CHECK TO SEE IF IT STILL EXISTS BECAUSE THE CHEERS AND THE SCREAMS WERE ENOUGH TO BLOW UP THE ENTIRE PLANET. IT WAS THE WILDEST MOMENT. THE BEST MOMENT. THE MOMENT WE HAD ALL BEEN WAITING FOR SINCE CAP NUDGED THAT FUCKING HAMMER IN AGE OF ULTRON. THIS WAS THE MOMENT!

Then, we get one of the most epic scenes in cinema history.

Steve using Mjolnir and his shield at the same time, summoning lightning and kicking Thanos straight in the dick (figuratively). It was the wildest ride. I swear, people started punting each other across the room because they were so excited. I wanted someone to punch me in the face because I was so hyped. There was just a lot going on.

Then, Steve starts to lose to Thanos, and I was not ready. I was like, “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NOPE! I DO NOT LIKE THIS! I WANT TO LEAVE! STOP IT!”

“On your left” - Sam Wilson, 2k14

“On your left” -Sam Wilson, 2k19 or like 2k24 because it’s 5 years in the future. Or is it 2k23 because the 5 year skip came almost right after the events of Infinity War? I don’t know what year it is. Help.

Anyway. Beautiful.

THEN THOSE PORTALS START POPPING UP, AND I WAS LIKE:

I had goosebumps seeing ALL of these characters on screen. It was bittersweet not having Natasha there, but it was such a beautiful moment. That moment wouldn’t have existed if it wasn’t for her. I will give her credit always!

“AVENGERS...Assemble” -Steve “The Guy With America’s Ass” Rogers with the line we’ve all been waiting for since the beginning. It’s been a long time coming, but we got it...finally. Once again, the theater screamed, jupiter exploded, the farthest star swallowed itself, it was a lot.

Tony and Pepper fighting back to back in their suits.

Give my heart a break.

The all lady team up. I get that it was a bit on the nose. I feel like it would’ve been cooler if no words were spoken but all the female cast members just started to line up behind Captain Marvel. I was more than okay with this, though. That scene was cool as shit to see all my ladies lining up to kick some the purple nutsacks ass.

“I am inevitable” -Thanos, that little punk bitch.

“I am Iron Man” -Iron Man, 2008

“I am Iron Man” -Endgame, 2019

Everyone in the theater opening night was like “WWWWHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! YEAAAAAHHHHH!” including me when Tony snapped those little fingers. It was the best line that could’ve been delivered before that snap, but no one saw what was coming. People continued to lose their shit as Thanos’ army was dusted. It was poetic justice. And when Thanos got dusted, everyone continued to “WWWWWHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! YAAAAAAASSSSSS!” including myself. This changed the second night. As the theater erupted, my ass was sitting there like “NO, YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAPPEN! STOP CHEERING!” as I’m holding back adult sobs!

Then.

The camera found Tony.

The cheering died instantly.

The theater got so fucking quiet.

I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.

I could hear the collective heartbreak around the theater.

We had won.

However, we also lost.

I can’t talk about it. I can’t write about it. I just cannot. Of all the people I thought would go, he was low on the list. I was almost certain that Steve would be ripped away from me, but I never thought that this would happen. I’m not okay. I’m really sad. I’m not smad anymore. I’m just sad as shit. Rhodey, Peter, and Pepper getting their moments with him only hurt my heart even more, and I can’t. I’M CRYING AGAIN! I’M NEVER GONNA STOP!

“You can rest now” -PEPPER POTTS

TONY STARK DESERVED BETTER! HE WENT OUT A HERO, BUT I CANNOT! I WILL NEVER BE OKAY ABOUT THIS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!

“I love you 3000” -TONY FUCKING STARK’S MESSAGE TO HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER. I’M GONNA PUKE! SOMEONE THROW ME AWAY! I’M DEFECTIVE! HELP!

“Your dad liked cheeseburgers. I’m gonna buy you all the cheeseburgers you want” -Happy to Morgan, fucking my entire world up.

“Proof Tony Stark Has a Heart”

It was so touching to see that every hero was gathered there to pay homage to a hero. It was such a beautiful scene. Seeing everyone there just felt like the twist of the knife in my cold, dying heart. It was great. I loved it.

I’m convinced that the only people who didn’t cry in these scenes were stone cold killers, and I will refuse to believe otherwise until I’m dead and gone. Like, my father cried during these scenes (Nat’s death, Tony’s death, and Tony’s funeral), and it takes...a lot to get tears out of him. I cried the entire ending. Like, the scene with Wanda and Clint. Ugh. I can’t take this anymore. I didn’t stop crying, even as Thor was giving the throne over to Valkyrie (she deserves it, yaaaaaasssss kween), or as he had his moment with the Guardian’s of the Galaxy. I continued to cry when Steve and Bucky had their moment that parallelled “Captain America, The First Avenger”

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back” - Bucky, CATFA

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you” -Steve, CATFA

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back” -Steve, AE

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you” -Bucky, AE

I UGLY CRIED AGAIN BECAUSE I JUST FUCKING KNEW WHAT STEVE WAS GONNA DO. HE WAS GONNA USE THE FOURTH VIAL OF PYM PARTICLES TO DO WHAT HE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO. HE WAS GONNA GET THAT FUCKING DANCE! AND BUCKY KNEW EXACTLY WHAT WAS GOING ON!

That’s why this little shit wasn’t surprised to see that Steve hadn’t come back on time.

I was high-key hoping that Bucky would receive the title of Captain America. He’s held the shield in virtually every movie he had the chance to. Both him and Sam Wilson hold the title in the comics, and I felt like this could be a new arc for Bucky. Like, he needed this redemption. It was still gonna be bittersweet no matter what because Steve Rogers has always been the version of Captain America I love the most. When Bucky urged Sam to go see Steve, he knew that Sam was the man for the job.

Old man Steve is a silver fox. Change my mind.

I think it’s partially the voice, ngl.

So, I really don’t understand the time stuff, especially with an old man Steve in the future, so I don’t really get how it didn’t change everything with him being old af during the events of the Avengers, AOU, CATWS, CACW, IW, literally all of it. I just...don’t understand? But I don’t care because at least he got his happily ever after. Steve was a man out of time, and he did his time as a hero. He deserved happiness, and he found that with Peggy. I saw that some people were like “BUT HE ABANDONED HIS FRIENDS!” Steve did his time, and he deserved to have his happily ever after, just like Tony got to do for a while with Pepper and Morgan.

And he finally got his dance.

And the credits.

The fucking credits.

All of the original cast members signed their names.

And of course, RDJ was last.

Everyone cheered, yelled, screamed, and cried. It was another earthquake, Jupitergate, Supernova kind of moment.

And that little sound at the end. Tony making his first Iron Man suit. I have a glimmer of hope that it’s Harley building his own suit to become Iron Lad because why would they put him in this movie if they aren’t going to do anything with him in the future? Each of these movies has had a post-credit scene with a hint as to what will happen in the future of Marvel, and a piece of me is so content if this truly just ended with a callback to the past, to the man who started it all.

I didn’t stop crying until I got in the car with my friends, scream-sobbed, and then had to pull it together in order to drive and not die in a fiery car wreck even though that would’ve been better than going back to the theater again and again to have my heart shattered even more.

I’m never gonna be okay again, but this is it. This marks the end of my childhood, even though I’m in my 20’s now. The comics, the movies, the merch, it all symbolized my childlike wonder. I know that Marvel will continue making movies, but these were the heroes I fell in love with. Before the release of the first Iron Man, I had fallen in love with the comic book personas of these characters. Iron Man, Captain America, Spider-Man, Hulk, Thor, Hawkeye, Black Widow, FUCKING MOON KNIGHT (I need a Moon Knight movie, ngl) were all characters I fell in love with (there’s a lot more, but I’m too emotional to sit here and list every single one of them). Then, actors who felt like they were made for these roles brought my favorite characters to life. With this being the end of the superheroes I loved growing up, it’s essentially marking the end of my childhood. I grew up reading these comics, and I watched the movies as they came out in theaters with my dad. Now, I go with my dad, with friends, with my uncle, my brother. Sometimes I see them alone if it’s the fifth or sixth time seeing it. Still, this marks the end of an era, and I have so much appreciation in my heart for these actors who brought to life my heroes. I have so much love in my heart for Stan Lee, who made my life one filled with superheroes and childlike wonder. This journey has meant the world to me, but every journey has an end. I will continue to watch the movies that have come out and will watch the new movies as they are released, but there will always be a little something missing. Either way, I will continue to support this franchise for all the happiness it has given to me over the years and all the happiness it will continue to give.

RDJ, we love you 3000.

Excelsior!

[gwiiyeoweo]

Noctis, when he had been old enough to understand, was told of his fate — to trade his one life for the sake of all humanity. That didn't stop him from living his life, and he's determined to use what time he has until destiny calls his name.

Rating: G Pairing: Noctis & (almost) Everyone

When he is thirteen, Noctis truly learns the meaning behind his mysterious title — the Chosen King — and what his destiny entails. He's come back from a training session with Gladio, cut short by an hour as his "belated" birthday present but Noctis is convinced it's only because the older teen never figured out what to gift him, after a quick shower afforded by the locker rooms. 

He’s walking half-blind as he rubs a towel into his wet hair and almost collides into his own father, but Regis reaches out with steady hands before Noctis can fall backwards onto his already sore rump. 

“Noctis, finished training early today?” he asks, righting his son back up. 

His father sounds… strained, despite the casual question. Noctis slides the towel off his head and looks up to see Regis look as torn as his tone did. In response, Noctis’ own distress probably shows — he hasn’t had his governess or Ignis to teach him how to keep a poker face in the face of politics just yet — as Regis raises a hand to placate him when his son opened his mouth to ask frantic questions. 

“I’ve spent long nights and countless days on when to tell you. You deserve to know the truth, Noctis, no matter how much it pains me to say it; so forgive your father for holding this secret from you for so long.” 

Regis takes them to his office, locks the door and draws the curtains closed, and sits them both on the couch. He tries, as best as he can, to keep his voice steady and face dry as he explains the truth of Noctis’ destiny, that the boy must die according to a god’s prophecy and by the hands of his ancestors. Noctis nurses a mug of hot chocolate as he listens, often made by his father to coax out the nightmares that still plague him, quietly and without taking a sip. 

It’s only after a moment of silence that he takes his first drink and he licks his lips before finally looking up at his father. “Do you know when I’m supposed to… to die?”

“No. I wish I could tell —”

“So I could be fifty? Or sixty?” he says, daring a bit of hope into his voice. But then, “Or maybe twenty.”

Regis looks as well as a father delivering his beloved son’s death sentence. That is to say, he looks absolutely terrible. But he nods his assent, his throat gone dry. 

Noctis stares into his drink, seeing none of his reflection in the dark cream and foam. He tries again though, tries to be brave like his father when he appeared before Noctis and told him the truth. “Y’know, in school, we’re learning about statistics and probability and stuff. Who knows, maybe the odds will be on my side and this Accursed guy won’t show up until way later.”

He looks up, does his best attempt at a smile, but he doesn’t see his father’s face. Not when his eyes go blurry with tears, and Regis cradles the boy to his chest. The mug is forgotten between them, knocked over onto the floor, and the sweetness of the hot chocolate is turned to salt from their tears. 

(But Noctis won’t let that stop him. It lights a certain fire in his heart, breathes life into a determination to live and not just survive. If all it takes is one life to save an entire world, then the choice is easy: he’ll do it. He’ll be a good king, like his father, and make his ancestors proud. But that doesn’t mean he has to wallow in self pity and curse the little time he has left.)

When he is fourteen, Noctis seeks out the Kingsglaive. He waltzes through headquarters and barges into Drautos’ office, pointedly ignoring the small meeting in session, and crosses his arms to demand their finest Glaive. After waiting in the hallway — after Drautos grabbed him by the back of his collar, lifting his feet from the ground, and silently carried him out the door — he’s introduced to Nyx Ulric. Upon meeting him, Noctis has serious doubts he’s the best.

But he learns. 

“Don’t like training with your Shield, little prince?” Nyx asks through a grunt, pushing off Noctis’ sword with his kukris. “You’ll make him jealous.”

Without answering, Noctis goes in for an upward slash, using his smaller size to keep low to the ground and using the momentum to aim for Nyx’s neck. It doesn’t land, he didn’t expect it to, but it has the man skipping backwards and giving him a stretch of space for Noctis to gather back his bearings. He wipes the sweat off his cheek, and it only annoys him a little to see a single bead of sweat rolling down Nyx’s neck while knowing his own shirt is soaked through. 

“No, I like Gladio. He’s a jerk sometimes, but I still like him. Still train with him.” 

“Then why hang around me for the past few months?”

Noctis mutters something and phases out his practice sword for a set of daggers to shuck at Nyx. 

“Say that again?” The man parries both blades like he’s swatting a pair of flies.

“Because,” Noctis says, flashing behind him where a dagger was deflected to. “I don’t want to miss out on anything. Get to know you, the Kingsglaive, the Crownsguard.” He aims for a kick at the back of the knees, but Nyx warps away to safety before the attack even lands. 

Nyx hangs from a boulder, where he’s dug his kukri into, and cups his other hand around his mouth to yell across the distance. “You say it like we’ll disappear when you trade crowns with the King. Don’t worry, we’ll all still be around when it’s your turn to take the throne. Unless you decide to fire us!” 

The stone around his kukri crumbles, and he ends up eating dirt when the hold gives way. 

Noctis rolls his eyes and waits for the dust to settle, for Nyx to pop back up and pretend no one saw that. But if Crowe’s background snickering is anything to go by, he knows that’ll be a joke to save over kebabs and beer — root beer for Noctis. But while Nyx busies himself and shakes the dust off his uniform, whistling as if nothing’s amiss, Noctis watches on fondly and amused, muttering to the wind and no one else, “You’re not the ones disappearing, promise.”

(There was only so much he could learn through texts and lessons, cheap and watered down explanations of the nations and cultures beyond Insomnia’s walls. Nyx Ulric shared his traditions like he shared his smiles and jabs, easy and overflowing, teaching Noctis the meaning behind every braid, scar, and tattoo and going so far as to thread a carved bead into the prince’s hair. At the very least, Noctis could leave Nyx and his friends a proper memory of him, sitting around a shoddy restaurant and laughing over Noctis' intolerance for their tongue-burning cuisine. And he, a memory of loyal soldiers and even more loyal friends who look upon him as a brother rather than a prince.)

When he is fifteen, Noctis shows up at Ignis’ doorstep with an armful of groceries and his clothes soaked through with rain. Ignis nearly breaks the hinges off his door, and he quickly shuffles the drowned prince in and to the bathroom. 

It’s only when Noctis sits himself at the table, wearing old spares of Ignis’ clothes from his younger years, and he drinks from a cup of sweetened coffee that he spares an explanation. “Teach me how to cook.”

Ignis stares at Noctis’ easy grin and dripping hair, still wet from the quick shower, and it takes all his willpower to not throw his liege across the room. His Majesty approved of the apartment his son had picked to move into once high school started, and Ignis had made his own move to accommodate. He’s only lived in his new complex for a week, but he doesn’t remember telling Noctis the address. 

“I asked your uncle.”

He also didn’t realize he was talking out loud. 

“So,” Ignis sighs, emphasizing the disapproval in his huff, “you trekked through the rain, without Gladio or a guard, to arrive at my doorstep all to ask for a cooking lesson?”

“I brought groceries?” Noctis supplements, as if it changes anything. He nods his head over to the bags, the ones Ignis took from him before shoving him into the bathroom. 

Ignis leans his hip into the counter and slides his glasses off to pinch at his nose. He’s trying to think of the occasion, of the why and the what. Did he miss an anniversary, or some special day? Was this some wayward way of an apology? Noctis had been surly as of late, understandably. Teenage hormones — Ignis is still going through that himself — mixed with the looming shadow of his father’s mantle and the burden of a kingdom to inherit would do that. He recalls Noctis snapping at him the other day, when the prince had wanted to go into the city rather than spend a day studying over old history books. 

“What’s the point of reading dumb books when I can be out there, right now, seeing what and how my people are doing? How am I supposed to be a King if I don’t get actual experience in?”

Ignis had chalked it up to a cooped up teen itching for some freedom, so he had been surprised to hear there was a more practical reason. But before he could counter his argument, Noctis had swiped a stapler and followed it out the window, safely warping to the ground below. It had been night, with the first stars lighting the dark skies, when Nyx Ulric ended up dragging the prince back home, smelling of greasy kebabs and the barest hint of alcohol. “It was only a taste,” the man had defended. 

Ignis ends up going through the groceries and figuring what he could easily teach Noctis, but not without suspicion. His prince recognizes that look, the one Ignis puts on when he smells trouble, like he has some sixth sense dedicated to sniffing out what shenanigans Noctis has in mind. 

“I mean, can’t a guy hang out with his friend and bond over… ” Noctis checks the label on the can “… sweetened condensed milk?”  

“Perhaps. But coming from you? Pardon me when I say I have my doubts.” Ignis hands him a bowl and whisk anyway, as well as four eggs to crack and beat. “Separate the whites from the yolk please.” 

“It’s just,” he starts, cracking an egg in half. He tries to shift the yolk in between the halved shells, like all the cooking videos do, but whispers a curse when he pierces the yolk. “Well, am I seriously going to spend the rest of my life only knowing how to microwave noodles and mac ‘n’ cheese? Might as well learn while I have the time, and learn from the best while I’m at it.”

“While I’m pleased to know you’ve been taking your etiquette skills seriously, know that flattery will get you nowhere.” Ignis takes an egg and shows him how to properly separate them, letting the whites slip through while retaining the yolk. “Except for today. It will get you through the night, until I tell His Majesty you slipped out of the Citadel, first thing in the morning.” 

“ Speeeeecs. ”

(For all their time together, Noctis never sat down to properly watch and appreciate Ignis’ skills with a skillet and knife, despite how he absolutely devoured anything and everything his friend cooked up — and only with a little grumbling when it came to vegetables. The realization hit him in the middle of the night, when he had seen the little tart sitting in his mini fridge, covered in saran wrap and with a sticky note of Ignis’ penmanship scribbled on it. He didn’t know how long this would last, the quiet comforts of oil popping and the aroma of spices, but as he had scrambled to pull his raincoat on and climb through his window, he was determined to savor every last second like he savored every bite.)  

When he is sixteen, Noctis locks eyes with the blonde kid who’s been hiding in his shadows for all these years. He remembers the first time they exchanged words, their poor excuse of an interaction, but he remembers it still. He was still a child himself, a little thing with baby fat still clinging to his face but has now mostly receded; but the blonde had enough weight on him to make Noctis nearly tip over when he had helped him up. He only recognizes him because he’s kept half an eye on him, quietly watching the boy grow out of his extra pounds and into more self-confidence. 

Noctis didn’t reach out sooner only because the boy himself didn’t seem ready. Which was fine, he supposed, as long as the guy didn’t wait until Noctis’ calling came to take him away. 

So it comes as a relief when he finally trots up and drags out the courage to say hello to Noctis, introducing himself as Prompto Argentum and bouncing like the sunshine caught in his hair. Noctis pretends to barely recognize him, only mentioning he’s seen Prompto a few times here and there, and makes a joking comment that he should have said hi sooner, that the rumor about the Caelums being vampires is only half true and he doesn’t bite without permission. That earns a laugh from both sides, though Prompto pauses for a brief moment to lean in and whisper, “Are you like, serious, though?”

To which Noctis rolls his eyes and drags him along before they arrive to class late. 

It’s late on a weekend, having gone past their promised hours at the arcade, when Noctis looks at his phone to see they were both supposed to head home long ago. He pulls Prompto outside, after cashing in their tickets and trading them in for cheaply-made toys and sugar-loaded candy, and apologizes for letting the time slip by. “Sorry, your parents aren’t going to be too pissed, are they?”

“Oh! Don’t worry, dude. They’re not home,” Prompto says, waving off his concerns with a hand and a smile. “They never are.” 

It’s then, that Noctis realizes, Prompto is lonelier than he lets on. 

There was a time in his life, the dark years of his childhood when he almost let his fate consume him. He was still a child, a little boy whose life would be cut short, a child who could do nothing but accept it and obey. Though he made a goal to not let it ruin the happiness he could still grasp, it was like struggling with a terminal disease and not knowing when his countdown would begin. Where to begin? What to do first? Would he even get to? 

It did not help he felt estranged from his own father for a time, though it was by no fault of Regis. He was king first and foremost, a king before Noctis was born, who was and is responsible for a kingdom and his people. Noctis understood, and tried to keep his struggles and life crisis to himself, to not needlessly burden his father with even more worries. It was the loneliest and hardest year of his life. 

So it takes one to know one, and Noctis knows what Prompto keeps secret. He doesn’t mention it, sees no point in digging up both old and fresh wounds; he makes an offer. “Wanna spend the night over?”

He sees the way Prompto’s brain short circuits, but the boy catches himself and bounces on his heels with an enthusiastic, “Hell yeah!”

They order enough delivery to make Ignis cry, but that’s a mess for tomorrow’s Noctis to worry about. For now they boot up the console and mash their buttons with greasy fingers, huddled up together on the couch as they beat the living shit out of each other’s characters. Noctis lets him win a few rounds, and he just laughs along when Prompto jumps up to do his victory dance.

(Outside of the Citadel, Noctis had no friends. Though they became his brothers in every sense except for blood, both Ignis and Gladio were sworn to him out of duty. Everyone else either wanted to rub elbows with royalty or were too intimidated to speak to a living and breathing prince. All except for Prompto, a welcome warmth compared to the cold stone of the Citadel. Prompto may think himself a simple plebeian, but Noctis knows him as so much more. He only hopes he has enough time to express that.)

When he is seventeen, Noctis hunts down Gladiolus and orders a weekend of camping, adjusting the duffel bag stuffed with instant noodles on his shoulder as if it’s the only thing he needs in the wilderness, ready and raring to go at a moment’s notice. “Your dad cleared out your schedule and gave the OK,” he says with a thumbs up.

“Okay. First of all, you didn’t bother to ask me first? And second, you hate camping.” Gladio, in his defense, has every reason to be skeptical. Normally Noctis would run at the mere mention of a tent, the only way to placate him being the promise of a fishing trip. Sometimes, it’s like pulling teeth to get him out of bed for morning training, when both their schedules only allowed them an hour after dawn before either of them had to be whisked away to other responsibilities. “Third, who are you and when did Noct get a body double so where is the brat hiding —”

“One, you love camping anyway. Two, we’re gonna go fishing too. And three, you’re an ass.” Noctis counts off his fingers as he answers to the accusations, then shrugs off the bag to shove it into Gladio’s arms. He watches as Gladio sighs and unzips it, and smiles when he sees those eyebrows lift up in surprise. 

“Are you trying to bribe me?” 

They both know Gladio could buy all the cup noodles his heart and stomach could ever want, the perks of being in service to royalty and all that, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“Huh. I guess you are Noct, doubt a body double would know my favorite flavor," he says, picking out a styrofoam cup and reading the label. Shrimp, surprisingly. 

“Oh shut up and help me pack.”

They take a trip to the northern mountains of Lucis, one of the few lands outside of Insomnia that Niflheim hasn’t reached. They pitch the tent at a haven, its glowing runes and blessed magic strong enough to ward off any daemons and beasts looking for a snack. Gladio makes a show of starting up the fire, as he is apt to do, with a piece of flint and some kindling, coaxing the little flame into a strong blaze and feeding it wood. 

Noctis had once suggested to take advantage of the elemental deposits, to toss a weak fire spell at the fire pit rather than going through the hassle of rubbing twigs or scraping at firestarters, but they had both found out that even the weakest and tiniest little flask made for… explosive results. So Noctis lets Gladio do his thing, proudly displaying his fire-making skills and saying his little tidbit on self-reliance and whatever. 

It’s night when all is said and done, and despite his love for fishing, Noctis knows not to wander over to the river unless he wants to get munched on by something. So he drags both camping chairs over to the edge of the haven, the legs scraping against the stone and glowing engravings, and faces them out toward the dark wilderness. He sits and waits for Gladio to finish up their dinner, two hot steaming cups of instant noodles thanks to the kettle set over the campfire. Gladio comes over, hands a cup and fork over to Noctis, and takes the seat beside him. 

"So, what's up?" Gladio asks, after slurping down the crimped noodles. "Needed a breather from palace life?" 

Noctis shakes his head in favor of speaking with a mouth full of noodles and soup. "Just," he says, after swallowing his food down, "wanted to see the stars. Properly."

Insomnia, despite everything she had to offer, made for a poor city to view the night skies. Not because of her skylights and neon billboards or her thrumming streets always alive with gleaming cars and blinding headlamps. But because of the very magic that protected her walls, the King's barrier that blanketed the kingdom and shielded her from monsters and machines. It was beautiful in a way, how it shimmered with light and magic, but it drowned out the night's own brilliance. 

"Stargazing huh." Gladio placed his empty cup by the foot of his chair and leaned back to lift his eyes toward the same sky. "Remember any constellations?" 

"Yeah, a few." Noctis points his fork up, at a cluster of stars north of the waning moon. "Phoenix. There's a red star at the tip of its beak."

"I know that one. What about Kirin, ya see it?" 

"Next to Cait Sith." 

They trade constellation trivia for the better part of the night, Gladio pointing out the ones often used for navigation and Noctis the patterns he learned from his studies. 

(It's not entirely untrue, that he wished to go stargazing in the quiet night away from the city. But he'd be damned if he didn't get at least one simple night where they could both just sit back and enjoy a weekend for the sole purpose of sitting back and enjoying a weekend, even if it meant suffering through bug bites and lack of proper plumbing. Or Gladio’s snoring. But he’d trade a hundred nights — thousands, millions — spent in a plush bed and silk sheets if it granted him one night more throwing their arms and legs over each other in a cramped tent and tiny bedrolls.)

When he is eighteen, Noctis opens his door to let Umbra trot in, carrying the mystical notebook in his little pack. The dog patiently sits on his haunches while Noctis unzips the bag but follows him to the desk where Noctis trades the notebook for a few biscuits he keeps in the bottom drawer. Umbra gingerly takes the treats, minding his teeth and barely scraping Noctis’ fingers, and finds a corner of the room to nibble on his reward and to take his consequent nap. 

Noctis sits and leafs through the pages filled with stickers and glued photos until he finds the most recent entry, several paragraphs of Luna’s handwriting filling the page. There’s a few pressed petals of a sylleblossom as a footnote, marking the end of her writing. 

Dearest Noctis, as it always starts off. I'm afraid I can find little else of the Accursed, aside from what we've both gleaned. I pray to the gods and have asked Gentiana many times, but there is little they know. Or perhaps, little they're willing to share. 

Noctis expected as much. Both he and Luna have tried their research, Luna going to the gods and Noctis scouring the old texts and archives for this destined nemesis. All Noctis could learn was the name Adagium, and that he had to rip out of his father's lips. A man cursed of darkness, apparently, keen on seeking destruction and vengeance. But for why or for what, exactly? 

It would be nice to at least know what he looks like, for obvious practical reasons. His father couldn't even tell him that much, confessing that Adagium had used a sort of glamour to hide his true face during his rampage in the city. 

Figured , he writes on the next page. Don't sweat it though. You holding up over there? They're not working you too hard, are they? 

Not long after Regis told him the truth of his calling, Noctis had turned to Luna. She had known. And just like Regis, she had wanted to give him a mercy, hiding the guillotine of martyrdom from his eyes. He had been upset, having trusted her for so long, but he had also recognized her goodwill, for all intents and purposes; it hadn't taken long for him to forgive her, with his soft heart and her even softer words. 

And when both their lives would be cut short. Noctis isn't the only one whose time will be taken after all. They bond over that, over their sacrifices to be made. He finds a comfort knowing there is another experiencing his same pain, though there had been the slight ping of guilt from finding relief in another’s shared suffering. But Luna had comforted him — bless her heart of gold — and confessed she held the same sentiments.

He slaps a sticker at the end of his entry, a tiny white moogle flaunting his favorite soda. He packs that same soda in Umbra’s pack, along with the notebook, and feeds the dog one more treat before sending him on his way. Noctis watches him saunter down the hall and disappear around the corner, using whatever Messenger trick to return to Luna’s side. 

(He may never get to see her again, not until the gods call for them, or save her from her fate — especially not when he can't even save himself — but they could at least find comfort in each other. Spend what time they had left to salvage what was lost in the fires wreaked by Glauca. They’ll play their roles in the end, King and Oracle, their legacy to be written as a romantic sacrifice in the books to come. Or maybe the world will never realize the price that will be paid, letting their lives fall to obscurity in favor of flashier feats. And if the world does indeed forget them, they’ll remember each other.)

When he is nineteen, Noctis reaches his tipping point. He’s been a brat, an imp, a gremlin; but not a liar. He can only keep a secret for so long, perhaps a trait earned from his father, considering he’s nearly breaking at the seams when he decides the charade will kill him before the prophecy does. 

So he picks a holiday weekend, when there’s no school and no threat of homework, and when even the government runs on the bare minimum to keep anarchy off the streets. Noctis and Prompto have no projects to worry about, and Gladio and Ignis are relieved of their duties for a short while. 

They’re all sitting in the living room, Gladio and Prompto digging their hands into a bowl of fresh popcorn, Ignis ignoring the action movie they have playing in favor of scrolling through the local news. Noctis excuses himself to use the bathroom.

He stands in front of the sink, splashes cold water on his face, looks into the mirror and dips his head down to splash even more water. He wonders how his father managed to scrape up the guts to tell him all those years back, because his own guts threaten to upheave the linguini Ignis cooked for dinner. But he knows he has to tell them, that it’s almost criminal he’s kept it from them for so long, even if the idea has his heart in a knot and his brain in a storm of anxiety. Noctis would pray to the gods for courage, if they weren’t the very ones taking him from his friends and family. 

“We have to talk,” he says, after spending what seemed like hours in the bathroom trying to gather his nerves. 

“But it’s the good part!” Prompto whines through a stuffing of popcorn. “Can you — oh.”

Prompto sees it first, but Gladio and Ignis swivel their heads around to see what has the blonde’s tongue tied. One look from Noctis and they all understand. Gladio goes for the remote, clicking the TV off, Prompto puts away their popcorn, and Ignis even makes sure to put his phone on silent. 

They make room for him, but Noctis takes a cushion and goes to the floor instead, squeezing the pillow in between his hands as he tries for words. He wants to shut down, stop halfway and just plaster on a smile and laugh out a “Haha, kidding!” but that would only break their hearts even more.

They all sit in silence, trying to digest the news and gravity of their prince’s demise. Noctis tries to chisel away at it and give them an out. “If… If any of you don’t want to hang around with a dead man walking, that’s okay, I get it.”

But before he can say anymore, Gladio and Prompto dogpile him, the soft carpeting the only thing staving off a concussion. Prompto’s weight he could handle, Gladio’s too if it was only him, but their combined loads make breathing like sucking through a straw. It makes crying hard too, he guesses. 

Prompto’s bumbling through his snotty nose and sobs, saying something like “Dude, don’t say that” or “Rude, dawn say fat.” Probably the prior. Gladio’s no waterfall, but his cheeks have slick trail marks running down them; his throat’s probably too tight to say anything, so he’s making up for it with how tight he wraps his arms around Noctis. 

Ignis sits by Noctis’ head, having put away his glasses sometime ago to wipe his eyes, and simply brushes his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Fool,” is all he says. An insult in the nature of the word, but Noctis thinks it’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever heard from that smart-ass mouth of his. In that, he means to say Noctis is a fool for ever daring the idea of his greatest friends leaving him to save themselves the heartbreak. 

“We’re never leaving you, man. Got it? Never ever ever, ” Prompto manages to say through the congestion. 

(Noctis holds them to it, like the way they hold each other for the rest of their years.) 

When he is twenty, Noctis prepares for the road trip of a lifetime — Gladio, Prompto, and Ignis promised to his side.

[buckysforeverprincess]

What Do You Want From Me? Ch 16

Lance Tucker x Reader

Words: 1998

Warnings: Language

A/N: Lance gets with the program, but is it too late? Enjoy!

Lance watched as her car drove away down the driveway and make its way onto the main road. For some reason he was cemented to that spot; feet deciding not to move.

“Well, that shit show is finally over…shall we get back to us?”

 He heard the voice behind him say with a little too much confidence than necessary. She reached out and places her hand on his shoulder in a seductive touch, and he was immediately thrown back into the reality of what just transpired at his home.  

Lance turned around and met his PA���s eyes with an almost threatening look. “Remove your hand from me now!” Lance demands through clenched teeth.

The woman looks at him shocked at his response to her touch, but does as requested, “Lance? Did I do something wrong?”

Lance walks into the house, bypassing the woman, leaving her standing at the door. She begins to follow him, but the former playboy is not stupid and is having none of it.

“Don't take another step!” He yells at her, walking around the house collecting her things she has scattered around like she owns the place.

“I-I don't understand? Wh-what did I do?” The woman has panic written all over her face and Lance has no fucks left to give.

“I can't believe I listened to you!” Lance grabs her keys and looks for the ones to his house. “How could I have let you inside my head? Fuck!” He's fumbling as he locates the keys and removes them from her key ring.

“Listen to me?! Lance, you can't possibly think any of this is ok?! You're just going to stand here, excusing what she did?!”

The man stops and looks at her like she's just grown two heads. She's obviously still trying to portray him as the victim to gain favor. God, he can't believe how close he was to fucking her!

“Yeah… I am!”  

“B-but, she's nothing but a lying little whore!”

Lance stops dead in his tracks about a foot away from her and deadpans, “says the woman that just had my dick in her mouth! How'd that taste?!”

Her mouth drops wide open and she's shocked at his words.

“Oh, I see you've perfected how to open your mouth. Careful…wouldn't want everyone to get the impression you're a thirsty little slut that loves cock. What was it you said ‘oh Lance, I love to suck cock! I'll make you forget all about her!’ News flash…even Hope Gregory sucks dick better than you!”  

Lance places her things in her arms and ushers her out the door.

“You're fired!”

He's about to shut the door in her horrified looking face but has to make sure she knows who she's fucking with, “Oh, if you get any ideas about lawyering up...I had cameras installed before you even started working here. Every moment, every sound, every fuck you, has been recorded and downloaded. Think anyone will believe I forced myself on you? And I burned my sheets, by the way! I can't believe you fingered yourself on my bed! Didn't know I could make a girl cum without even being in the house! Should probably get you vag checked, they smelled like the fish ladder. Nobody like a dirty snatch!” And with that he slams the door, leaving his former PA standing on his doorstep stunned and devastated.

What the fuck has he done? He can't even begin to grasp how fucked he really is. Not only did he let that woman prey on his emotional state, which ended up in a lousy blow job and he didn't even come, she also somehow got into his head that he needed to go after Y/N for lying to him.

Now, he can admit part of him was upset for that. She should have told him right away, so they could deal with the pregnancy and how to go forward as parents and maybe even a couple. Jase wouldn't have been an issue, and Claire…Claire! How could he forget about her!  

“Fuck!” He yells out into his house. He just fed into Claire’s plan! Jase was right; he and Claire deserve each other. He’s always acting without thinking, and damn anyone that gets hurt in the process. “Shit!”

Speaking of hurt, Y/N was hurt! His mind was now moving on and racing at a hundred miles an hour.

The woman he loved stood on his doorstep, hurt by his words and she yelled at him. In doing so, something was happening with the babies, his babies, and now he felt like the biggest jackass in the world. Lance Tucker, former God of Gymnastics, shall now be known as the King of the Asshats! He may have to have that engraved on his tombstone.  

Grabbing his phone, he had to find her...make sure they were ok. He called her cellphone first, but it went straight to voicemail. That was expected. Y/N probably deleted his number or plans to anyway. She'll never want to speak to him again.

Maybe he could call the hospitals. Jase said he was going to take her there, but which one? Calling would do no good; privacy laws. What if he went to each one? He could do that, beg them, tell him he was a distraught father looking for his pregnant fiancé, they might take pity on him. It's worth a shot.

Two hours later he was standing in the waiting room of the labor and delivery unit. It was late and the young girl at the desk took pity on him and let him know what floor Y/N was on. Even though he knew he wasn't welcome, he had to come. He owed it to her and his babies. If anything, he just needed to know they were alright.  

A nurse came out and greeted him after he had explained he was the father and he just needed to know they were ok.

“I can't give you any information, but...if you promise not to upset her, I'll give you five minutes. I just came from there and she’s awake. She sent her fiancé home to sleep.” 

Lance nodded in understanding, “her boyfriend’s an attorney. Probably has a big case he's working on; and I promise...I won't upset her.”

The nurse gives him a reluctant smile and leads him through the halls to Y/N’s room. Lance passes the nurses station but doesn't look at any of the ladies staring at him. He feels as though he's doing the walk of shame, all eyes on him, and he can't look at them. He's had enough looks of disappointment and disgust this evening to last his entire life…he can't handle any more.  

“Ms. Y/L/N. You have a visitor?”

Lance walks in with the nurse and sees your eyes are almost closed. “I thought I told you to go ho-oh hell no!”

“I told him five minutes, but I can make him leave?” It was more of a question than a statement.

Lance swallow and looks at Y/N, face full of regret. “I promise, five minutes.”

Y/N nods to the nurse but is still seething with anger.

“Good luck?” She says as she walks out, shutting the door behind her.

Lance moves himself closer to the bed, never taking his eyes off the woman he still loves and sits in the chair next to her bed. “I'm sorry.”

Her eyes never soften at his words. “Wow! It only took you a minute. So glad you got that out because I was not prepared to sit here and listen to your bull shit for five agonizingly long minutes. Thanks for stopping…buh bye!” Nope, she's still angry.

Lance let's out a sigh and puts his face in hands. “Ugh, I fucked up!”

It comes out muffled, but he knows she heard it. He peeks out at her through his fingers, trying to hide his eyes like a child caught stealing a cookie before dinner. Y/N doesn't respond sitting there stone faced. The monitors she's hooked up to don't change, beeping staying the same. He knows he's lost her, there's no coming back from it this time.

“Seems to be a common conversation we have. I'm sorry. I fucked up. Your emotions seem to be a driving force for you. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were emotionally unstable.”

How she manages to stay calm is beyond him. He's been on the receiving end of one of her verbal lashings, trying to put him in place. This is very uncharacteristic for her.

“Clearly, you're a horrible judge of character, and you’re quite the man whore. Guess it was only a matter of time before you fell back into old behaviors.”

Lance’s mouth opens to counter but she's too quick, and she raises her hand at him. “I've been around you too long to know when a woman's gotten her way with you.”  

Y/N shakes her head and takes in a deep breath, “I thought you changed, but I was so wrong, and you know what? That's ok! I feel that with all your horrible life choices you continue to make, your way of life is just not conducive to a stable environment for the children. So tomorrow I'll be calling my lawyer and I'll counter your suit. The twins shouldn't be subjugated to the whorish ways of their biological father.” Her face void of all emotions. Lance nearly breaks at the sight. 

This was all his doing. How could he be such a fucking idiot? She was his world...his life! Lance wanted those twins to be his, wanted her to be his so they could be a family. He was nearly there until he went back to his house and let the she devil talk him out of everything he wanted. She made him believe Y/N was just toying with him, playing with his emotions. Why he was he so quick to believe it, he'll never know, but it cost him the most important things in his life. At this point he can only pray Y/N would have a change of heart and help him become the man that he lost only a few hours ago.

“Your time’s up. You need to go, and I need sleep.” Her face was still solemn, and her tone was dry.

Lance gets up from the chair and makes his way to the door.

“Lance…,” she says flatly, “I'll be marrying Jase in a couple of days. Whatever Claire's reasoning, she's almost completed her goal. You single handedly threw me in his arms. Hope she was worth it.”

Y/N turns her head away from the door and tries to get comfortable. There's nothing he can do but watch. Lance Tucker has just officially lost the love of his life.

Opening the door, he walks out of her room hearing nothing but the monitors beep behind him as he closes the door. He moves over to the wall, throwing his back up against it and begins to bang his head.

Lance had a single moment of weakness, and it cost him the woman he loves and the children he’s grown to love. She'll never let him come near her and knows for certain, Y/N won't let him be anywhere near where she delivers the twins. ‘Lance Tucker is incapable of love and I hope you die alone!’ her words filled his head. He’d lost and there wasn't anything he could do now, right. Or was there?

Leaving the hospital, he pulled out his phone and called the one person he despised the most.

Claire answers on the second ring like she was expecting his call. “Hello Lance…bout time you called.” She sounds so self-assured.

He has no interest in small talk. He only needs to say the words and be done.

“You want me, bitch?! Come get me!” he didn't even wait for a response. He hung up the phone and walked to his car. Game on bitch.

[thesickbcy]

💛

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

“What… what did you just say?”

Fae’s standing in the office of none other than the Reverend himself, face busted up and knuckles raw. He just got back from the job that was supposed to set in stone the hierarchy of his future. He spent months hunting down this high-end target, spent the past hour finally beating him to death for being stupid enough to show his face in a club, and now the Reverend has the audacity to call him up for a meeting and tell him…

It was staged?

“The fuck do you mean it was staged?”

The Reverend sits deep in the large office chair behind his large office desk in his large business office far, far away from his large church. Hands crossed, fingers knit together - he looks just about as holy as he does behind the podium, although this time it’s not his sheep he’s preaching to. Sharp shoulders (softened only slightly by the fancy drapes over his cassock) seem relaxed despite the aggression sent his way. Aesther has no intention of giving in, either: he’s used to Fae’s sharp tongue and mean attitude. It’s how he survives out there on the streets, dealing with lost souls and stray sheep. Nasty business, that. Not that the king pin would know exactly, but he was somewhere similar once (and never would be again). He understands.

“I needed to make sure you’d do anything I asked you too, no matter how long it took or how bloody it got.” Aesther’s voice is unrelenting, even when calm and gentle. “As my heir, you’re going to have to deal with things you won’t want to do, but you’ll have to do. No matter what your opinion on me or my orders are, you have to do as I say. You’ll also be leading a sophistocated group of smart individuals who won’t throw their loyalty to just anyone. I needed to make sure you’d be willing to go the extra mile for me and our men. To see if you could gain their trust enough to make this work out. And, as usual, you did not disappoint, Kairos.”

“Didn’t I already prove that with the, what, hundred or so years I’ve already served?”

“Well, let’s just say now it’s officially on record. It only took you a year to get everyone’s trust, yet you’ve been spending the years prior doing… whatever it was you do. Jumping off buildings, flipping my cops the bird, acting like a child. You’re not just a kid anymore though, are you? Now you’re an adult - one who can finally pull his own weight in this family. It’s about time.”

The smug look on his superior’s face is enough to get Fae’s blood boiling. He clenches his fists tight, angry that this man had the audacity to once more lead him on and string him out like some kind of cat, but the pain in his split magic causes his fingers to relax. Of course he would. Of course it was fake. The Reverend just needed more reason to make a fool of him, as if waiting until his dying breath to force a deal wasn’t humiliating enough.

For once, Fae has no words.

“Congratulations, my boy! You’ve successfully proven yourself capable of growing a pair and running a business like mine. You’ve led my men through a year-long stake out and not lost a single soldier. This is even better than I could have imagined. You’re really quite the leader, Fae, whether or not you think you are.”

There’s no paper making it official, no celebration or ceremony to congratulate him on straining his mind and resources to the brink. Just him, the guards at each of the doors behind and to the right of Fae, and the Reverend. Fae has half a mind to throw himself out of the windows behind his father just to stick it to him, but there’s no point. He’s finally worked himself hard enough to get the recognition he deserved. He’s not going to waste it.

But there’s something in Aesther’s eyes that tells him there’s something on his mind he has yet to say. What, does he want Fae to call him on it? The Reverend pulls out a bag of dust and a pipe from his desk and takes his time lighting it, focused momentarily on the glass in front of him before inhaling deep. The smell from the smoke’s rich and pungent; that must’ve been the purest Dust Fae had ever seen. He didn’t even know it came that pure, especially given the way magic sparked and glittered as the powder in the pipe burned. God damn.

“There’ll be a more official ceremony later. You’ll get your just desserts then. The whole flock will attend just to pay their respects. Should be quite a good haul; several of our boys would give their right leg if we asked for it. Feel free to ask for anything you want. Daughters, sons, dust, life savings. They’ll do anything for you now, or they’ll die. That’s how it’ll be from here on.”

But that wasn’t what Aesther was thinking, was it? God, Fae hated this stupid game he played. Make your son ask you directly, just to see him on his knees. Make him beg like the rest of your dogs since it’s sooo funny seeing him get his designer jeans dirty. Fucking unbelievable. Fae crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the ground before deciding to finally speak up. (It never got easier talking strong to his father, even if he was supposed to be family).

“What is it.”

“Hmm?”

There lapses a silence between them before he tries again.

“I know that look. There’s somethin’ else on your mind. What is it?”

A mumbled exhale is all the response he gets for a moment. The air’s so thick he could cut it if he pulled his knife out. The guards remained completely stoic, as if they were statues glued to the wall. Fae can’t see their thoughts on their faces, or read their bodies for any emotion. It’s completely eerie how good they are at remaining composed no matter what. At least the Reverend knew how to train them well. Must be real trusted to be in this office, hearing everything that went on. Including what the bishop was about to say, given how he adjusted in his big office throne.

“You remember the day we met a second time, Fae? The day your mother died.”

Fae’s quiet at this. His voice is low, cold, as if he’s trying not to let emotions flood his already aching body, “clearly.”

“Then you should remember the men who came after your family, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Oh, he did not like that smile on the bishop’s face. A terrified knot coiled within Fae’s stomach, turning his magic cold. Where was this going… no where good, that’s for sure.

“And yet here we all are, with you completely unfazed by standing in the presence of your parents’ murderers.” An exhale of glittering smoke left the bony lips of the boss as he grinned wider, needle-like teeth bore in absolute delight. “I’m surprised, Fae. Normally you’d kill people who threatened the ones you love in a heartbeat… but you’ve been working for them for a full-on century now.”

The news falls on closed ears at first. Fae’s too busy trying not to heave out of dread while his brain processes the meaning behind everything his so-called father just said. He’d say it came in waves, but it didn’t. The fury wasn’t cold like the ocean, but instead a meat freezer. He could feel it on his bones the second he walked into the Reverend’s office. It’s finally to the point where he’s shaking where he stands, eye lights completely black and knuckles bleeding fresh due to scabs popping open at the tight grip he holds. His head’s lowered, eyes locked on the man sitting before him until the guards nearby remove their sunglasses and expose their faces.

The same faces printed on the back of his skull the day he was supposed to die.

“W h a t   d i d   y o u   s a y.”

Aesther laughs, which forces Fae to suck in a breath.  “There’s the temper I’ve been waiting for! There it is! That’s what I expected the very first day I brought you up to this office. Yet here we are, years later, only just sharing the good news with each other.”

“Oldest trick in the Fae book, my boy. If there’s a deal you just can’t pass up… you make it happen any way you can. And you… you held such potential, such magical prowess that I haven’t seen since I first showed up on this ugly dead planet. See, I simply had to have you down here with me, as one of my own, since you’re the only likely candidate to become an Original when my time here is up. But your mom…

“See, your mom? Was wise beyond her years. She was one of the only mortals I knew who outsmarted every Fallen she encountered, just like her mother, and her grandmother, and so on so forth. Her entire family went up in flames around her, yet there she stood, tall and proud, with her husband and her three kids who-. Well, two, since one was stolen from her by us, too. Regardless, there she was… and there you were. A byproduct of centuries of wise women who could outsmart the Fae and even cheat death. A witch more powerful than any I’ve ever seen.

“And guess who inherited all of that magical byproduct? Of course… witches are smart to our tricks. So I had to act accordingly… to keep you on my radar before she could pass on the secret knowledge she possessed that would eventually make you immune to even an Elder Fae’s charms.“

Aesther leans forward onto his desk, giving Fae a small frown beneath laughing eyes, “you really should’ve burned that seeing eye stone you took when you had the chance, huh?”

There’s a phantom throbbing in Fae’s right eye. It’s the place where, at the beginning of this mission, Aesther had carved the paisley and floral patterns right into his skull. He told Fae it was just precautions, that he, as the Reverend’s son, needed a Mark to show the rest of the flock he was high ranking. Then came the Eye… a surgical proceedure also performed by Aesther himself. Something about cursing his eye, combining their magic so that he could pop up any time Fae needed him. But now Fae realizes the truth behind the Mark and the Eye.

They’re tracking devices. They let the Reverend see what he sees, know where he goes, they Mark him so that everyone in the entire underground and the entire surface knows who he is…

No.

Who he belongs to.

He had not only made a deal with the most powerful Fae in the underground thinking it was the only thing that could save his younger brother, but he had just about sold his soul to him as well. He had given literally everything to Aesther and he had no idea. Fae thought he had the upper hand, had the Original under his thumb by making him merge SOULs with Papyrus in order to save him. In reality, it was Fae who was the fool.

His mother was right. She’d be so disgusted with him if she knew… And to think, she would have taught him how to truly outsmart the Fae… if he had just. 

Just.

“Fuck. YOU. YOU FUCKING MONSTER! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FUCKING UNDERGROUND, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU-”

“Put him in the cell. He’ll be unreasonable when he wakes, so he’ll stay there until he can learn to behave like a proper son again.”

Arms grab the younger Fallen before he can leap over the desk and grab the fixation of his ire. He’s screaming, spitting, thrashing, doing as much as he can to get all these pent-up emotions out of his system. The Reverend Bishop is ever calm as he watches his protege curse his name, smiling and inhaling a deep hit of Dust before exhaling that sweet rich smoke through his needle-sharp teeth. All it takes is a gesture of his holy hand to get a Guard to hit the butt of their weapon into the back of Fae’s skull, ‘curing’ him of that unholy rage of his enough to drag him off with ease.

He tries not to remember the rest of what happened. The cell remains one of his most unpleasant memories, right after this one.

[worrentigre]

Rhuli’a’s Trial pt.6 Conviction (RP Scene)

*Rhuli’a has survived this grueling trial, but he still not finished yet.  He may be near the end, but this will be his toughest challenge yet.  With already being battered and tired, this will require every ounce of his will to overcome.  Will his dream finally be realized?  He will soon find out as he enters the final area, approaching a figure in the darkness.*

"Congratulations on making it this far," A familiar voice comes from the shadowy figure. "Rhuli'a Kanjun. He who wishes to be a Fist of Rhalgr. However..." The ambient lighting in the room flickers a bit, and suddenly a burst of aether can be felt coming from the figure. The light brightens slightly, and the figure turns out to be Worren Tigre himself.

He paces to the side while speaking. "Do you know what you are getting yourself into?" Another burst, and another. Two, three. "The path of the Fist is one to obtain physical, mental, and spiritual perfection. To be one with Rhalgr and all that he stands for." Four. "It is much greater than being a prize fighter. You may be a champion. And then what?" Five. Six. "Great power requires the utmost control and responsibility to use it properly, and the mental facilities to command it." Seven. This burst of aether is a lot stronger than the previous six. "You came to me seeking the means to gain absolute power, that the strong govern the weak. To be strong and be a champion of Ala Mhigo. Know this, that absolute power corrupts the mind. Just ask your mad king." Eight!

This final burst came out with an air of finality. "Gylbarde did not succeed in the Autumn war on his own martial prowess. He possessed the mind necessary to secure the victory. We are not just spiritual warriors. We are not barbarians. We are war priests. The second campaign was lost due to hubris in the search for power."

Worren then stops pacing, as his full power flows all around him, and the room is bright. "You still have one last test, Furious One." He puts his fists up to fight, his expression and demeanor showing that he means no mercy, the menace oozing from him. "Come show me your conviction." Rhuli'a's posture didn't change throughout the whole ordeal. Studying every small thing about his master, his current opponent, who stood before him. Lessons of the past and lectures of today wrapped themselves around his sensitive ears, studying intently as to how the aether gathered around the dark-skinned Highlander.

However, at the mention of the Mad King, and a jab at his rage, Rhuli'a balked. That trait was rising, threatening to overtake his entire being. His eyes narrowed, his skin tightened, a light sweat was clinging to his skin.

And ever so, did the sense of red, of blood, of absolute conviction and desperation continued to rise.

((https://youtu.be/GUVGSri3YQU <----Fight BGM))

Breaking his stance, Rhuli'a clenched his fists, grit his teeth and concentrated. From his chest, this sensation flew, surrounding every ilm of his body. Sparks of power and aether flared up, twice in total throughout him. He knew it wasn't a fair contest. His body and mind was screaming that he would be slain if he took a step forward.

So Rhuli'a sprinted.

Taking a leap 3 yalms from his master, his newest opponent, and feinting a leaping kick, instead falling to the ground in a sweep at his legs instead. Every tactic, every way he had fought before was running through his mind.(edited) He had to purposefully mislead his master with his intent, to even stand a chance.

With all of the time Worren has been observing and appraising Rhuli'a, he knew full well that the man valued hand to hand singles combat and technique. Watching and reading opponents, figuring out weaknesses.  With this in mind, he fully expected a feint, seeing that opening with a lunging attack like that would leave Rhuli'a too open, something he knows he would not risk early on. Still, instead of dodging or blocking, he uses his chakra to harden his flesh like stone, as well as put up a thin aethyreal barrier to help him defend whatever may come, and to be able to retaliate as well.

Worren never took his eyes off of his opponent, and while bracing his body for the jump kick, he saw the sweep coming instead.  He hops over the sweeping leg before sliding forward a step push his empowered right fist out waist high.  Where Rhuli'a as tall as him and standing, the fist would hit his stomach.  But, since he is shorter and recovering from a crouching sweep, the fist would likely hit him in the head if it lands. Rhuli'a's strike went wide, throwing him off-balance, though, to his favor.

Sprawling on the floor, completely on his back, Worren's fist puffed at the air above him, urging a fresh chorus of survival instincts screaming at him to run, to use his feet like never before.

Coiling the limbs in question, Rhuli'a sprang towards the man! Leaping off the ground to try and smash both feet square into the Hyur's chest. Whether or not his strength would be able to overcome the defenses the man had erected, was one thing, but it was better than laying prone in front of someone who could potentially cave in his chest with a stomp.

One of Worren's main strengths in combat is his idea of always learning from every fight.  Always watching, and emulating certain aspects of opponents into his own arsenal.  His very first chakra was unlocked while fighting to survive against an onslaught of golems in the old Nymian ruins.  And unfortunately for Rhuli'a, this is an aspect he greatly emulates into his already defensive style.  The prospect's feet hitting Worren's chest would be like hitting a stone wall, what with his aether barrier, chainmail linked under his cyclas, and his flesh hardened to act like stone.

He doesn't stop coming, and continues moving forward. His right arm comes up high in the air and then curves downward.  With a mighty roar, his aether would move to his fist, leaving a faint purple trail in it's wake as the fist come crashing down with a great might.  It is unseen to the naked eye, but if one were to sense aether, they would see it moving around Worren's body, concentrating on certain parts at will as he moves, augmenting each and every movement in some way for maximum efficiency.  This would include the periodic erection of his barriers. Rhuli'a's feet did not seem to make the Hyur budge at all. Springboarding off of him, he deftly returned to his feet, wisps of lightning beginning to travel over his body. They elicited both shocks of pain and pleasure as they flowed through his body, causing his anger to resurface and multiply. Within his breast? Desire. Upon his face? Defiance.

Both guided his left fist as he swung up in a levin-wreathed uppercut. With a roar, he sprung up, putting his full weight behind the blow and trying to overpower his master.

Of course, he didn't.

Arm shooting back down from the terrible force brought against it, the Miqo'te yelped, never before facing such an unwavering defense. Rivers of pain were going through his arm, as though the limb would burst apart if he moved it. Gritting his teeth, Rhuli'a dashed backward, stomping a heel into the stone to throw up a spray of debris that would mask further actions for only a moment.

Fading back, he waited for Worren to come to him.

Worren almost smirked at Rhuli'a's display. Almost. He slowly stalks forward two steps, but then suddenly stops. In an instant, his movements, intent, and aether all shift as he remains in place. He takes on a wide stance with his right side forward and right arm out, similar to that of a ninja. However, his left hand is behind his back. With his right palm facing upwards, he tilts his body back and raises his right foot, while his hand simultaniously closes into a fist and pulls up. And then he stamps that same foot down HARD.

This all happens in less than a second, with his left hand gripping an earth core hidden on his belt under his cyclas behind his back. It's power strengthens his attunement to the earth, allowing him some measure of control over aether with earth elemental properties. And so, his right hand is snatching up and ripping away the dusty veil the prospect has created, dissipating the cover he hid inside. Worren's aether then shifts to his foot as it comes down. This is a move he has done many times before; the stomp sents a purplish shockwave of unauspected aether along the ground at high velocity in Rhuli'a's direction. This wave is concussive in nature, rather than energy, with the intent of bowling him over, if now out right knocking him out. Rhuli'a's eyes were narrowed as Worren adopted a stance so unfamiliar to him. However, they soon widened in shock as the blast of his master's strength knocked him off his feet and sent him skidding backward, head ringing and teeth chittering. The noise of the action alone had his sensitive ears ringing, and as he stumbled to his feet, head in hands, he realized he might need to fight with some sort of hearing protection in the future.

Distracted as he was in the future, he suddenly snapped back to the now.

Rushing toward's Worren again, Rhuli'a was intent on finding out the patterns of his opponent's attacks. With such a stalwart defense, the only way to land a telling blow would be to strike with a counter-attack. Something that would rattle the skull. All he had to do was find a rhythm and interrupt it.

Though, this was easier said than done.

Dashing within the taller monk's reach, Rhuli'a acted aggressively, but safe, landing only small strikes here and there while keeping his guard up at all times. Mentally counting how many the Hyur would take before reacting.

Coiling up like a viper.

Worren meets him head on. Aggressive, just like he likes it. He switches back to his boxing stance, keeping his fists by his chin while moving in. He answers each of Rhuli'a's strikes with his own. Though, while the Miqo'te is testing the waters, the Hyur is using his punches to try and crush the smaller man. His punches were hard, all of them aiming at Rhuli'a's face, trying to break through his blocking arms if he has to.

All the while, the wheels in his head are turning. "He's too smart to match me blow for blow. He has something up his sleeve," He thinks to himself, before switching up to throwing his non dominant hand, the left, low to bury the fist into his stomach and liver, and incapacitate him. That was the plan, anyway. A calculated risk, as he is opening his face to counter attack. Rhuli'a was able to block the worst of the blows. Always retreating into a more solid defense as Worren harried him, dodging back to not meet the full force of the blows. Though his forearms shook with every strike, the Keeper was resolute, his flashing eyes staring daggers and hate at his opponent.

Again and again, the peppering came, Rhuli'a only offering quick ducking kicks to slip under the blows the Hyur would throw at him. And then fortune shone!

Leaping at the opportunity, Rhuli'a swung to the side, sidestepping far to the left and throwing an open palm, fingers extended and rigorous, directly towards the side of the man's neck! Lightning laced the tips, and the force would be akin to striking him with a flat mattock, compressed all within a thin line no wider than half an ilm no longer than four.

Sparks flew and Worren was sent reeling back several steps.  With his barrier down, he actually felt that.  His flesh were still hard like stone, but it hurt.  Good.  This is what he wanted.  Immediately his defenses shoot back up.  Worren shakes his head a few times before glancing over his shoulder, as the blow caused him to turn.  The look in his eyes were unreadable, but that quickly changed when he pulls the earth core from behind him.  The unreadable look on his face turns into one of mirth as he stands up straight and clasps both hands around the crystal to his chest.

Very quickly the aether barrier around him emits a faint yellow glow, and dirt, dust, and loose rocks laid around the temple from years of disuse raise up and begin to swirl around him.  They move in closer and closer until they encase him into a stone cocoon, looking not unlike a stone coffin for a mummy.  "Come and get me," He taunts. Rhuli'a followed through as the Hyur stumbled back several paces, dashing after to try and strike a finishing blow. Smelling blood, figuratively perhaps, he stopped mid-rush as he saw his master withdraw something from his back.

A contorted face of confusion soon turned to one of fury.

"Feckless parlour tricks will not avail you, master!"

Completely unfamiliar with how Worren was actually using the object, Rhuli'a sped forward, gracefully springing atop the man and striking at the head of this monstrosity, his levin-encased limbs taking on a softer nature, wind becoming more apparent than the lightning. Encased in stone as Worren was, the sight recalled memories of Salt Dharas commonly found in the Lochs. The beasts were too slow to handle hit and run strikes and slowly, but surely would crumble after enough pinpoint blows.

Would Worren be the same?

The stone cocoon was reinforced by Worren's aether, and sparking flashes seemed to burst with each of Rhuli'a's strikes. He used this same test with Kodaro; it would take a lot to undo this.

Worren begins to speak again while inside, "You can hit harder than that, can't you? You won't get anywhere under-utilizing your power like that. Use it, feel it, give it all to me. Or you will fail." He then pauses before adding, "What would your mother think, hitting this weak?" He purposefully pokes at him, urging him to push himself to the absolute limit. If his pride won't take him, then maybe his anger will. A grunt of frustration rose within Rhuli'a's throat at Worren's taunts.

Caution soon gave way to a burning need to see this armor shattered across the stone. To strike down the encased monk utterly and have that awesome, cloying emotion of victory wash over him if only for the briefest of moments. Winning was everything, he could see it, stricken across his future like an oil painting.

And, so he began to strike with reckless abandon, forgoing any sense of defense or caution. Only impulses.

Starting with a flurry of jabs to begin his rhythm, to once again urge levin to wrap around his limbs, Rhuli'a's strikes were almost like a dance, akin to a leaf being blown through a storm. Punctuating the combo with a high kick, the Keeper snapped it down, his heel coming down with a terrible force before a quick windmill of low kicks were brought to bear against the cocoon next. Rising with a vicious hook, electricity flying this way and that, Rhuli'a spun, following through with the force by spinning around and leaping up into an uppercut!

The room flashes with each strike, the ambient light still playing off of Worren's own power.  Sparks fly and the attacks are loud.  But still, the stone holds tight.  "Focus!" He shouts to Rhuli’a from inside the stone cocoon. He holds it as long as he can, but the power of his core is starting to wane.  The yellowish earthen aura around the stones begins to slowly flutter about. Sensing weakness, Rhuli'a pulled back his left fist. Among his knuckles were scars of the past, as well as abrasions of the present. Bearing all his anger and hatred for this trial, for his master and for more that nestled within his bosom, Rhuli'a brought it squarely against Worren's chest.

Yelling as loudly as he could all the while. There is a loud crash and bright flash, and a small crack could be seen formed in the middle of the stone cocoon.  The aether around it starts whisping around and ebbing away, showing that it is weakening.  However, from within the crack there's a small glow, that grows brighter as the crack enlarges.  Then all at once there's a large burst, and a large concussive force of aether explodes all around, blowing chunks of rock and aether everywhere with enough force to knock anything within five fulms away.

When the dust settles, Worren stands there with his arms raised outward, with a now depleted and clear crystal in his right hand that he unceremoniously drops to the ground.  "Nicely done.  Now you know 'somewhat' what it's like to go the distance and push your powers to it's limit.  However, there's still the matter of control..." He places his hands behind his back disarmingly and stands straight, as if about to go into another one of his lectures. Rhuli'a found himself flat upon his back, blinking and rubbing away the dust that had gotten in his eyes. Scrabbling to his feet, he paused, waiting to see what Worren would do.

While he didn't drop his guard, he made no move to attack. Worren simply stands there, watching Rhuli'a, studying his action.  This went on for some time; the silent standoff.  He stares directly into Rhuli'a's eyes, trying to discern their intent.  When he feels he will no longer be blindly attacked out of anger, his entire demeanor suddenly shift, and the stern look on his face softens to a simple blank face.  His hands come from behind his back, and there is a second earth elemental crystal in his hand.  A backup, for just in case.  He does not outwardly show it, but he is proud and relieved that he did not have to use it.  Instead, he tosses it with an underhand motion to Rhuli'a.  "Catch.  Hold on to that."

Rhuli'a caught the crystal, studying it before soon coming to the realization it was the selfsame thing Worren had utilized.

"Why should I? Is there ought else I need to do?" Worren begins to walk away in a now open doorway.  When did it open?  Most likely while they were busy.  He starts closing his gates one by one, as evidenced by the ambient light in the room getting more and more dim, until it's back to it's previous illumination.  "It'll be important for your first official lesson.  You'll see when the time comes."  He calls this over his shoulder, but does not stop walking.  Once he's in the doorway, he disappears into the shadows. "Wh-?"

Rhuli'a followed, trying to catch up after the Hyur. With a leap, he passed the threshold daringly, almost recklessly.

Where would he end up? In the hallway he'd find nothing but a pathway to back outside.  A light at the end of the tunnel, that shows a silhouette of a chest sitting next to the wall halfway down the hall. Was this it?

Rhuli'a gingerly stepped towards the chest, looking to the light once more before going back to the trove.

Kneeling, he threw it open, peering inside at the contents... Inside the chest there is a uniform top.  It is neatly folded with the shoulder pauldrons resting on top.  It's color is red, like the other treasures that were found.  That's all there was to it.  No traps.  No tricks.  No drawing.  Just the chest, and the light at the end of the tunnel. Taking it, Rhuli'a narrowed his eyes. The light at the end was much too bright for his tastes.

Folding his newfound cyclas over his arm, he nonetheless strode out of the temple. As reluctant as he was to leave the shadows, his chest swelled with a pride that threatened to burst.

@the-original-rel @moralistcyclops@syelirakaisuri@thornedblossom @flamesonhammersmith@crooked-tarot-rp@astralagency @valentinoix@interdimensionalpeacekeeping@florihilda @dynamitecowboy@chiyohoshi@thetaleofoldmanmaruud @supermeganick@grandmastream@jancisstuff @berrodarmstrong @nhara-tia @cfs-melkire 

[lady-of-starlight]

Let The Star Lead The Way - Chapter 13 - Precious beyond measure

With the pendant stuck between the cold stone and the flesh of his palm, Thranduil closes his eyes, biting back the tears, not allowing them to emerge. He has been avoiding these feelings for years, he would not allow them to overwhelm him now. No.

But, this time, it proves to be more difficult than ever. He has been escaping his feelings for too long, and they demand to be felt.

He cannot remain in this room, but feels the need to withdraw into the peace of his own quarters. With every step, his restlessness grows, and by the time he reaches the doors to his chambers he is more than ready to rip his heart out with his bare hands, in order to prevent himself from feeling anything.

Shutting the doors, he leans against them. He raises his hand and eyes the star-shaped jewel, the broken chain entwined through his fingers.

“Why? Why now? And why this?!”

With the anger spreading through him once more, Thranduil casts the pendant away, hearing it clinking against the stone floor. Without glancing back, he heads to the shelves and pulls out a bottle of wine, downing it faster than what might be deemed possible. It does little to intoxicate him, but it might offer him the peace of mind he so desperately seeks, quieting the unwanted turmoil.

After placing the empty bottle on the table, he walks to his bed, sitting on the edge of it and throwing himself over the bedspread. Thranduil’s hand covers his face as he lies there, without thinking, absent of feelings, as he tries to find rest. His mind refuses it at first, with the feeling of a constant pressure nagging in the back of his head.

He feels himself drifting closer to sleep, wavering at the edges of his consciousness, and it is at this state that his mind suddenly lets go of its long-guarded control, allowing the pain to return, with flashes from the past: Memories he has so desperately tried to forget. But there isn’t a single device nor solution that would allow Thranduil to rid those memories from his mind. They have been carved into his very being, relentlessly bringing back all the images, the sensations...

The feel of her body as she had collapsed into his arms, her blood spilling over his armor as he had leaned over her.

The feel of cold steel against his fingers as he had pulled out the dagger that had pierced her heart.

The echo of the last words shared between them, before life had left her body: “I am sorry...”

Tears run down Thranduil’s cheeks.

“Silevreneth...”

And, as if her name was a summon, he feels the world shift - with her words, not made from any of his distant memories, reverberating through his head:

“My love.”

✽ ✽ ✽

It isn’t the first time this happens. Long, long time ago, on the nights they hadn’t been able to be with each other, they had passed thoughts and images between them. Even feelings, often lined with longing for the other person, far away from them.

But after her death, there had been nothing... Until now.

A feeling of curiosity that has nothing to do with the feelings of his own sweeps through Thranduil, both foreign and familiar at the same time. ”...You?”

“It has been such a long time.”

“But... How?”

“It is by your surrender that I am finally able to speak with you. So much time has passed, and yet you have avoided even the mere thought of me, or the connection we once shared.” a slight trace of her dissatisfaction curls around the edges of the words.

“It is the mere thought of you that is still close of tearing my soul apart... Can you really blame me for avoiding all of it?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, yet her presence circles him, wondering, searching.

“I cannot linger for long. I am not strong enough to hold the connection for more than a little while.”

Thranduil shivers. “There was a time when I thought about the words I would speak to you, the apologies I would give, if I had the chance to meet you once more...”

 Her compassion meets his senses, comforting him. “You have nothing to apologize for, my love. And there are no words that could change the things that happened that day, you know it just as well as I do.”  Then, her words turn sad. “You know I cannot return. The past, our past, has wounded  me too deeply, possibly beyond healing. But you...” A slight touch, almost like a ghost of a hand, passes over his cheek. “...you have the chance to move on.”

Thranduil is filled with agony, his words breaking as he answers: “How am I supposed to do such a thing? Perhaps I, too, am beyond healing?”

“You know that it is not true.” Her tender feelings caress Thranduil’s whole being, filling him with a tiny sparkle of hope. “I feel the change in you. New emotions, rising from a place in your soul you never thought to be able to get in touch with again.”

Realizing what she means, Thranduil freezes. “Do not talk to me of her!”

“Oh, but why wouldn’t I? You do feel for her, am I not right? Why not start over, with a whole new life?”

“She is but a thief, not only attempting to steal the gems of the realm but also my heart!”

“Careful, darling,” sadness floods over her words, “not everything is what it seems.”

“Why are we even speaking about this? There are so many other things we should be talking about--”

“I offer you the chance to move on, to free yourself from the darkness of your past. ”

Tears stain his cheeks. “And what if I find myself unable to do so?”

“You need to let go of me, my darling King. You need to let go of all that guilt you have kept inside your heart for all these years.”

Her presence begins to fade, her voice growing weaker. “I have found my peace, it is time for you to find yours...”

Thranduil tries to desperately hold on to the traces of her, not wanting her to leave. “Silevreneth, please...”

There is a last touch on his lips, the ghost of love long gone, doomed to disappear once more. “Farewell, my love...”

Then, she is gone, and Thranduil is left alone, accompanied only by his own aching heart.

✽ ✽ ✽

There is a loud sound that snaps Thranduil right awake. One of the guards has entered the room, looking astonished to find the King still sleeping.

“Apologies, my lord. One of the servants is asking for an audience.”

Thranduil brings his fingers over his eyes, finding them moist and quickly trying to clean them as he does his best to ignore how shaky his fingers are. How long has he been sleeping? “What time is it?”

“Almost noon, my lord.” The guard looks restless. “I wouldn’t want to hurry you, but the servant says that her matter is an urgent one.”

Thranduil sighs impatiently. “Very well, bring her in.” He rises from his bed and adjusts his clothes, before the guard returns with another elf. She curtsies before speaking:

“I am very sorry to disturb you like this, my lord, but I’m afraid something might have happened..”

“What?” Thranduil feels the unease growing within him. “What is this about?”

“Your guest from Lothlórien, my lord. She has not been seen since yesterday, and no one seems to know where she is.”

That’s when he recognizes her: it is the servant that the girl had befriended - Emlineth, wasn’t that her name?

“Have you searched everywhere? You are absolutely sure she is not just merely hiding somewhere?”

The servant looks confused. “Hiding? Why would she be in hiding, my lord?”

Thranduil closes his eyes, cursing himself for letting that slip. No one except him and the girl knew what had happened last night, and he would make sure no one would ever find out. “It matters not. Have you searched every possible place? The cellars? High chambers? The river caves?”

“Yes, my lord. There is no sign of her.” She looks deeply worried. “I found her gown from the floor of her chambers, but nothing else.”

At the mention of the floor, Thranduil’s gaze shifts towards the ground, searching for the tiny object he had thrown there earlier.

Which is nowhere to be found.

“Where is it!?” His voice booms through the room as he rises on his feet, searching the floor with his eyes.

“What, my lord?!”

“There was a necklace on the floor, who has taken it?!”

“We-we cannot tell, my lord, we have not been able to keep proper track of the visitors because of the feast...”

Both the guard and the servant shrink back at the sight of their King, now furious, with a fire blazing in his eyes as he turns towards them. “Arrest and bring me the two companions of our guest, at once! Someone in this realm knows where she is, and I will find it out, one way or another. My patience has been tested long enough. No more!“

Then, Thranduil takes one of his swords from where they lay, placed next to his armor, and strides out of the doors, his fury rising with every step he takes.

Someone would be held responsible for all this, and they would not escape without consequences.

- End of chapter 13 -

Silevreneth = One Who Glitters Like a White Crystal

Author’s notes:

A quick word, in case some of you aren’t familiar with Tolkien’s less famous texts - There has been some general discussion about the possible use of “telepathy” between elves (and the other beings of Middle-earth), in the form of ósanwë. I can’t recall all of it, but it was argued that all elves would have had the ability to use ósanwë up to a certain degree. It was said to be quite difficult and rarely used, but the ability was amplified if the two communicators shared some kind of an emotional link. Even then, it could be used only when both parties were “open” and willing to communicate. Which, in this case, Thranduil certainly wasn’t until he “opened” his mind to his memories and his late wife, thus permitting Silevreneth to enter his thoughts from the other side.

It was also said that ósanwë did not use any actual words and was, in fact, the opposite of spoken languages (as it was a direct way to pass emotions, memories and whatnot), but as this is my fictional story, I let that slip a bit.

As usual, feedback is always welcome! And thank you for your numerous messages!

Tagged persons: @shady-teenagers @danidac7 @bellastellaluna @blackcat995 @the-ship-amitiel @evyiione @tenduelimagines @raindancer2004 @bunnysneverdie (If you wish to be tagged in the future posts of this story, please leave a comment under the newest chapter. Those that have already been tagged once will remain tagged for the rest of the chapters.)