#Truly he is just going to try and prevent pain in his own way. Azure and LBD had different yet similar methods

[imminent-danger-came]

What kind of harbinger of chaos do you think MK is?

Chaos as in destruction, disorder, pain and mayhem?

Or Chaos as in Nothing? The end of all things.

Maybe one after the other

(also random thought I dunno what to do with and is probably just coincidence, but maybe you want to put it in your backpocket: small broken monkey statue with half it‘s face missing, Azure disintegrating with half his face missing)

Based off of the lines:

Curse MK: "We’re just like Wukong. A fraud! A trickster! Destructive! Why would our legacy be any different? Actually, no no- the chaos and destruction we’ll bring upon the world will make Wukong’s past look like nothing." (4x07 Pitiful Creatures)

and

Peng: "Oh, I don't know! A little bit of chaos might be good for the world!" (4x12 The Plan Man)

and

Hooded Figure: "There will of course be an inquiry into how the scroll of memory was stolen in the first place, and what is to be done now that the Jade Emperor has been dethroned. The universe is perilously close to tipping into chaos. If it comes to light that any of this party were involved, you can believe the consequences will be dire—but only a fraction of the price compared to what shall come to pass should you succeed." (4x14 Better Than We Found It)

My guess is the full blown chaos route. Destruction and disorder and mayhem baby! Chaos for chaos' sake! There's no pain or stakes if you just don't care, do whatever! Let whatever happen! Do whatever you want! Embrace it! ("Wukong does whatever he wants!" ; "Wukong was on a path of self-destruction, we all were." ; "No, this isn't what I wanted!")

And you might be onto something anon! The destruction of one eye/half of the face does tend to show up from time to time:

Bonus one-eye MK shot that frightens me every time I look at it:

[wistfulcynic]

The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

-

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

-

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Click.

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

-

[godofglitter]

Hey there :) if you’re still taking fic prompts, I’d love a lamen au where Laurent is coming home wretchedly drunk for the first time after his uncle has again found a way to control and keep him from his heritage, and because drunk Laurent doesn’t want to return home that vulnerable, he wanders around outside where he meets his hot college boy neighbor Damen who just comes home from a party. He ends up taking Laurent home who thinks he’ll have to “pay” for it, and of course Damen is shocked af

Hi!

As always, thank you for sending me this prompt, I really enjoyed writing drunk flirty Laurent haha. 

Hope you like it!

Oxytocin- GodOfGlitter

*

Damen did not sign up for this shit.

He blamed Jokaste.

It all started when she’d walked into the party hanging on to Kastor’s arm like she belonged there, and Damen had almost spat out the beer in his mouth at the all-too-familiar sight. Something about it made his blood boil- not that he still cared about Jokaste, or the fact that she’d cheated on him with his freaking brother- and before he knew it, he was pushing away a clearly concerned Nikandros and walking out of the other end of the frat house.

He’d decided to take a walk around the local park before heading home, wanting to cool his head a little- and then he’d stumbled upon him.

Damen did not like Laurent de Vere. He loved hated him. He really did. Their very public quarrels were famous all over Arles University, as were their meaningless yet undeniably charged competitions in the multitude of sports they both played. They never seemed to be able to stay in the same room for too long, and Damen refused to listen to Nik’s completely shameless jibes about unresolved sexual tension.

Clearly, that was not the case. Obviously.

The point was- Laurent was here. In the park. Sitting on a bench at three o clock in the morning, hair shining golden bright despite the near complete darkness surrounding them- and he was reciting fucking poetry and he looked beautiful and Damen just-

-he couldn’t.

“So is this what you do when you’re not thinking up ways to torture me?” he said, taking a step towards Laurent even as his brain screamed at him to turn the other way and run.

Laurent whipped his head back quickly, eyes going a little unfocussed- and it was then that Damen noticed how flushed his cheeks were, how bright his eyes looked- Laurent was wretchedly, unmistakably drunk.

“Fuck the universe. I do not need you here right now.” Said Laurent, slurring his words only slightly- and Damen valiantly ignored the twinge of hurt that passed through his chest at that.

You look prince-like in the moonlight, he thought, but the words that came out of his mouth were “I should’ve known you were such a nerd. Let me guess- you’re reciting the Iliad so you can sober up? That is really fucking hilarious- why don’t you just go home and take a nap or something?”

Wrongwrongwrong he thought, as Laurent’s lips turned into a bitter smile that made Damen’s heart yearn to wrap him up in his arms and never let go. “I couldn’t do that,” said Laurent, sounding pained in a way Damen knew he’d never reveal when sober- “It’d just give Uncle Dearest another excuse to keep the damn estate.”

It took a second for Damen to understand the implications of those words- that Laurent’s uncle, the Dean of Arles University, whom everyone actually really liked- was trying to keep Laurent from the estate his parent had left for him when they’d died. And that Laurent- fearless, sharp witted, fierce Laurent- was actually scared of his uncle’s plots.

Damen decided he hated Dean de Vere.

“Come on.” Said Damen, stepping closer to the bench and ignoring Laurent’s shocked intake of breath in favor of wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hoisting him up against his chest. Adjusting his position to make Laurent more comfortable, Damen started walking home, careful to take the route he’d taken countless times himself- the one that prevented him from passing by Vere Manor.

“What are you doing?” said Laurent- and this close, Damen could see the flecks of gray running through pure azure and half his wits decided to desert him completely.

“I’m taking you back to my apartment. So you can rest and sober up properly.” Said Damen, grateful for the first time that Laurent was drunk- at least this way, he couldn’t notice the note of breathlessness in his voice.

Laurent blinked rapidly, and Damen almost lost his balance at the sight of his boyish, long lashes- and how prettily they fanned over the flushed expanse of his cheeks. He was beautiful, heart- wrenchingly so, and Damen found himself drawn to every curve, every inch of him- powerless to resist.

“…okay.” Said Laurent, before nuzzling into Damen’s chest and letting out a contented sigh that made his heart jump through hula-hoops and perform elaborate summersaults in his chest.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love your biceps?”

-fuck, thought Damen, before he actually tripped- regaining his balance quickly and narrowly avoiding crashing them both into the curb.

This is going to be a long night.

*

Damen knew the exact moment when Laurent woke up.

Of course, that was only because he’d been awake since he’d deposited a very drunk and very frank Laurent on his bed and retreated to the couch- he couldn’t deal with that much flirting. And groping.

Not like this.

Sleep had eluded him, and he’d spent the night- morning, really- listening to Laurent’s quiet, calm breathing and trying not to replay every compliment, every drunk confession a hundred times in his mind. Finally, tired of his own brain’s hyperactivity, he’d decided to abandon pretending to sleep and entered his room so he could take a shower.

Big mistake.

Laurent was beautiful when he slept- all calmness and innocence he usually kept hidden behind a steel strong mask during the day. His hair- slightly long, Damen noticed pathetically-fanned on his pillow, looking like fine threads of the purest gold in the faint sunlight. The pale blue of his irises was just visible from under porcelain skin; eyes dashing rapidly about, clearly caught up in a dream.

One look and Damen forgot basic human functions. One look, and suddenly he wanted so much more.

He was coaxing his legs to move for the fifth time when Laurent woke up- slowly, at first, just a small blinking of his eyes and a slight nuzzling into the pillow that hit Damen right in the chest- and then all at once. Within a second, Laurent was sitting upright on the bed, clearly nauseated by the movement yet unwilling to acknowledge it. Damen was fascinated by the quickness of his mind- it only took him that second to realize that the room wasn’t his, and that something had happened last night that he did not remember.

And then he turned to Damen.

“I was drunk.” He said, sounding fetchingly hoarse. “You brought me home and let me sleep here.” He continued, as if stating simple facts and not events that had robbed Damen’s heart from his chest- and all he could do was nod dumbly. “And now I need to pay you and leave.”

Wait, what? Thought Damen, shaking his head to remove the cobwebs from the logical part of his brain and praying to God that he’d misheard Laurent.

“I didn’t help you for money.” Said Damen, letting some of the indignation he felt seep into his voice. “I know how we are outside, but I’d never use your vulnerability against you. I’m not your uncle, Laurent.”

Shocked blue eyes rose up to meet his, and Damen was momentarily floored by the raw intensity in them- such as he’d never seen before. “What did I tell you yesterday?” said Laurent, advancing slowly towards Damen, who tried not to feel cornered and embarrassed and failed miserably.

“Look, I’m not going to tell anyone, okay? The feud between you and your uncle is yours to resolve- I won’t do anything to jeopardize the image you’ve created. I’m not that immoral, Laurent- have some faith in me.”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.” said Laurent, in lieu of an acquiescence- and all of Damen’s indignation melted away in the face of his awe.

“Laurent.” He breathed again, aching to close the distance between them and touch.

“Damen.” He replied- and just like that a year of pointless fighting vanished into thin air, and all that was left was this charge.

“How about I pay you back with breakfast instead?”

Pink lips, pink cheeks- and Damen decided that he really didn’t care- and then he kissed Laurent.

It was gross, and they both knew it- and yet despite being his worst, it was also the best kiss of his life. Laurent was warm- and soft and plaint and really not as uptight as he projected himself to be. Sparks made their way through every inch of his body, and Damen cursed oxygen and respiration and anything that forced them to part for even a second.

“Sounds like a date.” Breathed Damen, already realizing how cheesy he sounded yet unable to truly care about it.

Besides, Laurent’s laughter made it worth it.

[evocaition]

🚨 WoD and Crystal Exarch :3

🚨   //   push  my  muse  to  the  ground   &   straddle  them . 

You Know Where to Find Me.

In which the WoL/D finds out just how much teasing the poor Exarch can handle.

Requested by: @boku-no-miko

Wordcount: 1304

It started very simply with you returning to The Ocular to show him a cute and well made little doll of himself that Tataru had so lovingly crafted in her free time. His cheeks flared a dark red as his hands crossed in front of his hips to wring them out together as he tries to find words to truly approach and unpack the fact that you had such a minion to follow you around. You watch as his gaze flickers down over it once and then looks at you, face twisted over so slightly as he clears his throat.

“What in the Heavens is that…” He says voice barely strong enough to have conviction behind it as his fine furred tail swishes out behind him in some mix of agitation and consideration. Your head tilts to the side as you hum once in your throat, “Well you did say you wanted to go on adventures with me, did you not?” You prod once, biting back the urge to grin at him with your good intentioned tease.

A certain amount of glee fills you as you watch his arms cross over his chest, his chin lifting as lips purse into something of a pout. Those puckered lips part to speak, a bit of a scoff escaping past them before he does, “My friend, do not take this the wrong way - but it would not be the same. There’s a certain level of excitement of being by your side as we explore, fell beasts, even when we make a friendly competition out of a hunt.” He chastises lightly, glancing back to the mini-him that struck an odd pose, “So if you’d not mind putting that… thing away when you visit me? That’d be much appreciated.”

Your gaze stays locked on that familiar expression, admiring that he held on to such traits in his older age. “Sure,” You go to desummon the wind-up G’raha, “But he’s terribly cute, isn't he? I’ll probably adventure with him just to admire the adorable expressions he strikes when I’m successful.”

There’s a sputter as he tries to find words to contest it, ears going straight up as his tail lashes a bit more behind him. An array of feelings flash over his quickly reddening features; flattery, annoyance, and eventually fading away to some manner of melancholy. “If.. ahem, if that is what you wish to do, my friend, then I suppose I could not stop you.” His heavy arm lifts in a shrug as he moves to carefully set aside his staff and look back towards the portal that separated the Source from the First.

“Of course, nothing compares to the real thing running along my side. What is it that was said about us? That it looked like we’ve been doing this together for years?” You prod, lips pulling into a wider grin as you take an audacious step towards him. It was terribly amusing how easy he was to rile after all these years, and you couldn’t help but test and see his limits and every little reaction he had to it; after all, you had missed him perhaps as much as he missed you.

Though nothing could have prepared you nor him for his reaction. He flips on his heel and places his crystalline hand to your shoulder to shove you back, but the combination of your rock forwards and the slight high ground the small man had causes you to fall back rather suddenly. Your hands reach out to grip on to something to prevent the fall, but all you manage to do is latch on to G’raha and yank him down with you - on top of you.

A low silence falls between you two save for the sound of his staff clattering to the azure crystal floor, vibrating a few times as it begins to settle into place. There was a dull pain from where your back had taken the forefront of the blow, the additional weight of the Exarch having made your landing less than neat. You go to shift to push yourself up, intending to stand and offer your friend a hand and an apology for jerking him to the ground.

However, you never get a chance to put that plan into action as he finds his rebound before even you do. He shifts himself upwards, legs falling on either side of your hips as his robe gathers up and pools in a clump of fabric on your stomach. He stares down at you with narrowed red eyes as he holds you there, a bit of a heavy breath leaving him as he holds this confident expression waiting for your words. Your lips part, unsure how to react as you feel your own cheeks begin to warm and color a pale shade of pink. At first you only exhale, listening to his breathing, and the sound of your own heart beginning to race and pound in your ears.

“Raha…” You speak between the deafening beats of your heart, the familiarity of his name rolling off your lips as if you were pleading him. The passionate way you spoke for him causes that thin veil of confidence to quickly shatter, red eyes widening as pupils expand and conceal some of his iris. He leans back a bit, flustering a bit as ears twitch, wiggle, and quickly splay to the side trying to find a direction to settle in. He seemed unsure where to place his hands, moving them from your shoulders to your arms, before trying to move off of you in a feigned attempt to save both of you from embarrassment.

“Forgive me, Hero, I had not ah… I’m not really, uhm..” Oh how his stutters and faint little squeaks in his words were simply magic to your ears. You gaze upon him fondly, letting him find his words as your hand moves to slowly pull him back into place, making him falter more as his face nigh matches his graying hair in color. “I didn’t ah… I didn’t expect to fall atop you, I don’t know what came over me.” He explains finally, crystalline hand falling to touch to the floor and keep from intruding further on your space.

“Am I complaining?” You quickly interject, canting your head to the side as your hair muses and messies against the floor - flattening it and causing it to tangle in your position. His tail ticks and twists behind him, shifting his robes as he sputters and lifts his hand up to cover his cheeks. He mumbles something faintly into it, only audible to the most trained ears - which you admit you didn’t always have. You strain once, pushing yourself up into a seated position so that you were ever closer to the miqo’te that sat straddling your lap still, adjusting him so that he was sitting comfortably as he could be in this situation.

“What was that?” You prod again, your smile turning teasing as it had been moments before. Hands move to gently stroke down over his sides, falling to his hips to keep him flush to you as you keen your ears to listen to his next mumbled words. “No.” He manages again, letting his hand fall from his face as he stares ever so slightly down at you from his seated position. He looked bewildered as he takes a few deep breaths, moving to wind his left arm around your neck to keep himself close to you - leaning forwards so that his forehead pressed to yours gently, and so that he could breathe in your familiar scent that so often put him at ease.

“...Can we stay like this for a little bit?” He whispers, the request gentle and innocent as his fingers press into your shoulder softly.

“Of course, Raha.”

[flyswhumpcenter]

Found You in the Woods - Chapter 1

NEXT CHAPTER

Summary: Even if Manon was searching for Alan near some woods yet again, she truly didn't expect to find him lying on the ground in the middle of the leaves fallen from the trees. (or: Manon proves she's so much more than some potential burden and Alan is a stubborn idiot, but that's why we love them)

Fandom: Pokemon (Anime, post Kalos arc) Ships: Marissonshipping (Alan/Manon)

Wordcount: 3K words

Notes: I can't believe I got dragged into Pokemon again, but I especially can't believe I got dragged into another ship too. Thanks, Azure. Jokes aside, I got this idea as soon as I watched the second part of the Mega-Evo special?? It was quick and painless, but impressive nonetheless.

AO3 version available here.

           They’re used to travelling alone together. Manon and her fellow Chespie, she means: she wishes they’d be three, but Alan has this terrible tendency to refuse travelling with her for a reason she cannot quite put her finger on. It’s frustrating, but that’s how things are.

Now, that doesn’t mean she isn’t trying to get back to him… She’s gone in the same direction than him and asked people where he had gone, so she can’t be that far from him. She’s going to find him again, and this time, he won’t be able to refuse!

 They’re walking by the side of a cliff, whose side she hopes not to slip on and roll over, when she notices something peculiar in the sky. While they’ve been distracted by the chirping of some Pokemons flying around, they were all native to the region and logically found near woods and cliffs to feed. These are mostly small creatures flying around to steal Trainers’ food and defy each other in aerial battles with no referee, nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it’s nice to see such a show when they’ve mostly been journeying through forest after forest.

And that’s why she can’t really reasonably expect a Charizard to show up from literally nowhere near them, its orange scales fiercely soaring through the blue, sunny sky of warmish early summer days.

 At first, Manon stops in her tracks, faces the cliff and wonders why a Charizard could possibly have ventured near them. Perhaps its Trainer is somewhere nearby, and that they’re taking a break? It could be the case: after all, she isn’t the only one to be travelling across the Kalos region, so she shouldn’t be that surprised to see the dragon-type prevent itself from getting too cramped up in a tight space where it can’t fly.

But here’s the catch: that Charizard has a familiar-looking necklace, a piece of jewellery she has already seen somewhere else before and truly rings something to her mind. The lack of a shiny Mega Stone makes her doubt her theory at first, but in the end, the collar is too unique for her to pass up: this is none other than Alan’s Charizard, and she gets excited the moment she realizes that Alan must be nearby for his most trusted companion to be here, almost face-to-face with her.

 “Chespie”, she addresses the Chespin now on her shoulder, “it’s Alan’s Charizard! Let’s follow it, I’m sure it knows where he is!”

Her own companion nods his head positively, so her heart gets even more ecstatic. This is a great day! Beautiful weather, comfortable silence, gentle breeze, and a chance to find her best friend again. If she does, he’ll have to admit she can completely find her way on her own just fine and is entirely ready to travel with him and improve herself as a Trainer.

 Chespie climbs back onto her shoulder as she runs after the Charizard flying nearby. While she follows it, she starts realizing it is much slower than she originally thought: is it its break from training with Alan, or is there something else to it? Maybe it’s just tired, even if it’s just the morning… Perhaps these two have been training together all night, or very late into the night, and it wants to prove a point by disobeying and taking a nap elsewhere? Wait, no, that doesn’t make much sense… Charizard has always been very obedient and loyal to Alan no matter their hardships, while would it just leave him for something as minor as a nap? That’s one more reason to follow it: maybe she’ll know what’s wrong if she tracks Alan’s trace and asks him.

Charizard keeps getting slower, as if getting fatigued. She can finally look at its face: it has worried eyes, its otherwise fierce glaze stuck in either daydreaming or foggy concern, nothing like what she’s seen from it before, ever. Worry starts rooting into her own chest: she has an awful presentiment about it all, she can just feel it, and it pesters her into running faster and faster, until she’s out of breath and has to stop in dead in her tracks, pained at the idea of having to give up on following the dragon to its Trainer because she doesn’t have enough stamina to go through with the idea. Goshdarnit!

 Manon lets herself lean against a tree, back gliding down it until she’s sitting on the ground, frustrated with herself and frustrated with how much she can’t run at her full speed to the end of the world would she need to. Crossing her arms around her knees and pulling her legs towards her torso, she sulks in frustration at how nature is.

That is, until Charizard lands right in front of them.

 Saying she’s kind of confused is an understatement. The Pokemon seems to have recognized it: its eyes are staring directly at hers, without any curiosity or hostility. Chespie doesn’t seem fazed either, poking at her arm. It’s obviously an invitation to climb on its back, but that doesn’t feel quite right, doesn’t it? Why would Alan’s Charizard be looking for her in any way, shape or form? Overthinking has never been her specialty, so she jumps on the dragon’s back, Chespie on its head, and they fly away, far away from there maybe. There’s only one real explanation as to why she got suddenly so eager to jump on some Pokemon’s back: the quickest way to Alan was through his own trusted companion who could, as opposed to her pained feet, carry itself and others easily to places she would have never been able to access on her own anyway.

 Charizard flies in the opposite direction Manon has seen it fly in previously, as if going back to where it originally came from. So the Pokemon has been near Alan recently enough to easily come back to him: this really seems to be the quickest way to find her friend again! What a lucky gal she’s been on this one, her nose truly never mistakes her ever (except when it does)!

“Here I come, Alan!” she finds herself screaming, wishing she could rise her hands in the air to show her happiness and success, but instead Chespie tries to do it for her, and it’s great.

 After a few minutes (or so she thinks? It’s unclear, and she’s always been fairly impatient) of flying around, Charizard lands on a bit of land in contact with the canyon, right in front of some woods she’s never seen before. They look rather thick, but Manon’s been known and famed for her good sense of orientation and capacity to find her way out of impossibly tangled situations. She isn’t afraid by the idea of going into those woods, it’s been her daily life for a while now. Glancing at Chespie to judge by his reaction, he seems to agree with her as he nods to her silent question.

 It’s a good coincidence, considering Charizard starts entering the little forest, tail encouraging them to follow it through the range of trees. She can’t even fathom why Alan would get himself lost in the woods like that: she very much doubts he’d ever be able to find any Mega Evolution-related stones in the soil rooted with hundreds of different trees. They usually visited caves and mines because of that, before he tried dumping her again for some reason she’s forgotten the details of since then, aside that it made her angry yet again. She was responsible enough to travel with him, get better as they went along, but… he kept saying she wasn’t ready. Why? He never even explained her why he thought that…

 The woods are calm, serene, with a few bug Pokemons glancing at their little impromptu group, no big deal made out of anything. Manon’s never been scared of bugs: they’ve always been a part of her life, since trekking in the forest usually involves finding “pesky nasties”. Instead, she enjoys walking around, following the large, orange dragon with an odd necklace, certain to find her friend again at the end of the path. Surely nothing can go wrong on such a sunny day, right?

 Manon glances at Charizard’s face from time to time, as she’s faster than it. She’s not the best at reading Pokemons’ faces, but she can tell there’s something wrong with it. She’s always seen it so confident, so proud by Alan’s side, so she cannot bring herself to think there can’t be something at least a tiny bit wrong. Perhaps it did get lost and hopes it can bring it back to its Trainer? That’d mean she has an Alan-radar in her head, and she really isn’t certain about that; otherwise, she’d have found him in a much shorter span of time. Chespie doesn’t seem as perturbed as she is by the other Pokemon’s expression, but still climbs on her shoulder.

 “Chespie,” she tells her fellow companion, “I think there may be something wrong with Charizard. I wonder what it is…”

The Chespin, as if he understood her, immediately looks at the dragon’s face behind them. He shakes his arms and nods.

“So it ain’t just me, then…”

She’s worried, all of a sudden.

 And just as quickly as she got excited to follow this Charizard around, Manon gets worried about what can possibly be up with Alan. Maybe they got split in the woods, and Charizard was looking for someone to help him out of some hole or trap? It’d only be retribution for her to help him out when he’s helped her before… After all, doesn’t she just want him safe, out of any danger life could be throwing at him in arduous times like this? Perhaps she’s needed. That could be the perfect opportunity to prove to him she’s dependable and not a… weight on his feet he needs to drag around everywhere he goes…

 The little group eventually finds themselves in a… Actually, it’s not any specific part of the woods. It’s still trees upon trees in disorganized rows, but aside from the fact there is very little activity around the place, it’s ordinary and Manon really can’t tell why Charizard has brought her there. No, really, there’s nothing coming to her mind that makes her emit any hypothesis as to why they’re here and not in any other part of the woods. Perhaps Charizard just got lost and doesn’t dare tell Chespie and her that it got them lost? She wouldn’t be too angry at it, not everybody has her instinct in forests. It’s not like Alan brings them often in woods anyway.

But then she looks at its face again, and it hasn’t changed. In fact, the dragon still looks concerned, and that’s when the reddest of flags is risen for her.

 Speaking of which, it’s only now that she realizes this: if Charizard isn’t lost and did bring them where it wanted them to be, where’s Alan? He’s nowhere to be found. She’d hear his footsteps in the cracking leaves if he was walking around, which she’d assume he’d do. Maybe he’s brooding sitting on a rock like a statue? That’s totally an Alan thing to do, right? Well then, too bad there isn’t a single rock that’s standing out in this place, because it’d have made things much easier. Chespie and she then look up: maybe he’s in the trees. But alas, there’s also very much no Alan to be spotted amongst the green leaves and few bug Pokemons hanging around the place. This is starting to look like a joke, a joke Manon really doesn’t want to take a part in. She’s worried and nothing is here to relieve her, it seems.

 And then she spots some kind of informal black form somewhere amongst the leaves.

 Curious and slightly reminded of Alan’s very emo way of dressing (that’s what they call “emo”, right?), she walks up towards it, intrigued. It’s quite the unusual sigh in a forest like, all greens and browns and then you see a black thing on the ground, barely rising from the leaves… There’s another odd thing about this shapeless thing: the closer she gets to it, the louder a breathing noise is to her ears. That’s… that’s pretty terrifying to think about. Maybe it’s her own breathing, though, even if it sounds somewhat familiar yet estranged from her own self. It’s not Chespie’s, and Charizard has barely moved… And it sounds human. Oddly, eerily human.

 The realization hits her like Charizard’s Thunder Punch right in the face.

This form… is Alan.

 She runs as if she has never been fatigued from running before to it (him?) just to verify her hypothesis, just to prove herself wrong, that she’s simply paranoid and wanting to find her friend again very much. She’s trying to reassure herself, that it’s just a hunch, that she’s just hearing her own breathing and gets panicked because she’s already concerned. Alan wouldn’t be there in the middle of the woods, right? Perhaps Charizard brought her to someone else while he’s gone to get some rescue and help. It’s just her, it’s just her mind, it’s just her thoughts racing at uncountable miles per hour, it’s all her, it’s all in her head…

 And then Manon’s foot arrives right before the form, and she recognizes Alan’s body face down against the ground, surrounded by dead and drying leaves.

 She drops to her knees, both in shock and inhumane reflexes she never knew she had until now. She rolls him on his back, a mere wish not to see him eat the dirt. Her hand is trembling on his shoulder, her mouth can’t close anymore, and she wants to cry in concern; but she cannot because she’s promised him to be strong, to be strong enough to be with him without being his burden, so she shakes her head and keeps on doing what she thinks she should be doing right now.

 Alan looks like he’s fast asleep, at first. She’s relieved to know he’s still breathing, even if she should have expected him to survive the toughest challenges in life. However, she quickly notices there has to be something more to it than mere sudden sleep syndrome: he’s always been a strong guy, he wouldn’t fall asleep suddenly and in such a weird place. His eyes are closed, sure, but they look more shut than closed, and she realizes it’s because he’s not asleep: he’s unconscious.

 That’s bad. He has a deep frown on his face, similar to when he hurt his shoulder when sheltering her from debris a while back. No, no, that’s terrible…

“Alan? Alan, what’s wrong?!” She calls to him, in vain, in a hope he wakes up and explains her what’s not right with him. He obviously doesn’t reply, doesn’t wake up, and her stomach churns.

 Manon shakes her head again. She needs to keep her calm and see what’s truly wrong: if he won’t or can’t tell her, then she’ll guess herself. She takes off her hat and puts it under his head as an improvised pillow (it’s probably not comfortable, but it’ll do for now); then studies his face in more details. If he looks this pained, something must be hurting him, right? However, when she checks his different limbs, she can’t find any injury or even a stain of dirt: there’s simply no sign he injured himself, and while that’s a good thing for him, but it’s not for her, since it doesn’t give her any answer, she can base herself off.

 While she does so, as she inspects his hands by looking to see if his palms got bruised or wounded, she realizes something bizarre: usually, Alan’s skin is naturally cool, perhaps because he isn’t very hot-blooded like she tends to be. This can’t be a good sign, especially when she sees sweat pearling on his face and dripping down his temples to the ground. It dawns on her again, as she lets out a tiny gasp, and she puts her hand on his forehead to get a feel for his temperature.

Sure enough, she turns out to be right: he is feverish.

 Manon finally understands why Charizard has brought her here, just as it gets closer to her and stays by its Trainer’s side. There settles panic in her head: what’s she supposed to do, now?! She isn’t a doctor, she isn’t a nurse, there’s no Pokemon Centre nearby, they’re in the middle of the woods, Charizard can’t carry the three of them and she sure cannot carry Alan by herself… As she scrambles for shards of what ideas as to what to do, she realizes she can just ask Charizard why Alan may have asked it to do before she arrived there.

 “Charizard,” she glances up at her friend’s partner with earnest eyes, and it looks back at her with similar irises, “can you try reaching the nearest Pokemon Centre and get some help from there? It may be a while away, but… that’s the one way I know how to help your Trainer!”

The dragon nods, seemingly in agreement, and takes off through the trees. She doesn’t have much time to wonder about why it now decided to do so (perhaps because it wasn’t sure of the way to come back to Alan otherwise?), since her eyes instantly dart back to Alan’s rising-and-downing chest.

 She takes off her scarf with the intention of dumping it in some water and attempt bringing comfort to her ill friend, but instead, she realizes she has no way to freshen it for him. There’s no river nearby she could send Chespie to, and she has no Pokemon on her that have any Water-type move. As far as she knows, not even Alan has one on him at the moment, so she’s stuck waiting here, wondering what she could do for him.

As it stands, Manon has no real answer to the problem, so she retains her tears and hopes for him to wake up soon as she puts his head on her lap instead.

[the-desolated-quill]

Mass Effect 2: Lair Of The Shadow Broker - Video Game (DLC) blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t played this DLC yet and wish to remain spoiler free, stop reading now)

I usually gag whenever somebody describes a video game as ‘cinematic’ or when a developer or studio exec wants to make a video game ‘more cinematic’. Apart from the fact that video games and movies are two completely different mediums with their own strengths and weaknesses, I can’t help but find that sentiment incredibly pretentious and a bit patronising. As though the only way a video game can tell a good story or make you feel anything resembling an emotion is by making it cinematic.

Well Lair Of The Shadow Broker does look and feel very cinematic and, as much as it pains me to say this, that’s partly what makes it so good. The way this DLC plays out, it’s very much like its own mini-movie. A tightly written sci-fi thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat the whole way through. The fact that you get to play it is just an added bonus.

In the main game, we learn that Liara T’Soni was the one to recover Shepard’s body for Cerberus after the Collector attack. Trouble was the Shadow Broker was after Shepard’s body as well, as part of a deal with the Collectors. In response to him abducting her friend Feron,  Liara vows to track down the Shadow Broker and kill him. And guess which lucky galactic hero just so happens to have information concerning where he is. What follows is a gripping story involving explosions, car chases, betrayal, lightning storms, murky morals and an extremely pissed off alien monster.

Let’s just get this out of the way. Lair Of The Shadow Broker is phenomenally good. It’s exciting and engaging throughout, with tons of cool moments. Fighting the Shadow Broker’s forces on Illium, battling Vasir in Azure, storming the Shadow Broker’s ship and that final boss fight with there Shadow Broker himself. It’s extremely gripping. The boss fights in particular deserve praise as they’re both challenging and memorable. Something else that deserves praise is the soundtrack. The Mass Effect franchise has a great score, but Lair Of The Shadow Broker stands out to me because the music really plays a key part in driving the narrative forward and it enhances the atmosphere and tension of the story and gameplay.

The big draw of course is that we finally get to learn the identity of the Shadow Broker and...

Yikes!

I knew we were in for something different when I saw how cool his spaceship was (kudos to the development team for that). Designing unique alien looks can be extremely challenging, but BioWare really outdid themselves with the yahg. It’s truly a thing of beauty. I honestly can’t think of another alien race in sci-fi like it. The reveal of the horns, the flippers and the triangle mouth really catch you off guard, and then when it stands up and reveals just how tall it is, you know you’re going to be in for a tough time. It’s a striking image that sticks with you long after you complete the mission. The voice too is utterly menacing. Cold and calculating, the yahg is clearly not a mindless monster. It has brains to go with brawn, which is what makes it such a terrifying threat.

I really love the role the Shadow Broker plays in this DLC. For one thing, it gives you added incentive to defeat the Reapers. Each Reaper cycle wipes out all space faring races, which means that, should the Reapers succeed, the yahg will inherit the galaxy. That’s quite a bone chilling prospect, wouldn’t you say? But also it really highlights the morally ambiguous nature of Mass Effect 2. The Shadow Broker may be a cold, barbaric monster with a penchant for murder and violence, but it’s his illicit operations that keep the galaxy from falling apart. Hell, let us not forget that it was information provided by the Shadow Broker that helped Shepard defeat Saren in the first Mass Effect. It’s something we’ve seen time and again in this game with the likes of Aria T’Loak, Mordin Solus, Cerberus and Donovan Hock. Nothing is ever in sharp black and white. As morally reprehensible as the Shadow Broker is, the entire galaxy would fall apart without him due to how imbedded he has become within the information network. So when that very nearly happens, Liara makes the extremely bold decision of taking over from the Shadow Broker to prevent chaos.

Yes. Lair Of The Shadow Broker is very much Liara’s story as we explore just how much she has changed in the two year interim. Shepard is very much taken aback by her transformation. Initially a naive and innocent soul full of wonder, she has now become incredibly cynical. Without Shepard, she was forced to grow up fast, fully immersing herself in this morally grey environment. This is a very emotional and powerful story for Liara as we take a look into what makes a decent person like her commit very dark acts. For Liara, it’s very much based on her love for Shepard (platonic or romantic depending on your choices). She couldn’t bear to be without him/her, hence her decision to give Shepard’s body to Cerberus, and she chooses to become the Shadow Broker in the hopes that she can help Shepard further in the fight against the Reapers. So in a way, Liara is still the same as she’s always been. What’s changed is how far she’s prepared to go. She’s grown and matured a lot since Mass Effect 1, and she’s all the better for it, I think.

As much as I love Lair Of The Shadow Broker, I do have a few issues with it. The car chase on Illium came a bit out of the blue. The controls for the hovercar are extremely limited, its sluggish speed kind of juxtaposes with the intensity of the scene and it all felt kind of pointless. They could easily have just made it a quick time event or something. Then there’s Tela Vasir. While her boss fight is really good, her character leaves a lot to be desired. For starters they do a very bad job disguising the fact that she’s the one that tried to kill Liara. It’s not just the over the top voice acting that gave it away, but also the use of camera angles and the ominous music. They might as well have just put a neon sign over her head saying ‘I’m a traitor’. But then it gets even weirder when they try to establish some kind of moral equivalence between her and Shepard, which I would have bought had they portrayed Vasir as an actual person rather than as Little Miss Evil McBitchFace, but they ladle on the pantomime villainy so heavily that it all becomes a bit smirksome. Finally there’s the Shadow Broker’s ship. A fun prospect upon mission completion, but sadly squandered. You can read some dossiers on the characters or watch secret videos of their antics, but they don’t really provide anything other than a cheap novelty. You can also invest credits in certain operations, but the rewards are minor and they don’t really make an impact. It just feels like a missed opportunity.

But these really are just nitpicks. I still love Lair Of The Shadow Broker to death. Both powerful and exhilarating, it’s by far the best DLC of Mass Effect 2.