#but i need to create better boundaries around the ship and my emotional well being | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keilemlucent · 4 years ago

Text

lavender latte: iv

(T (for now!))

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3 || chapter 5 ||

word count: 7.7k

sucks when things go south, huh.

warnings: description of bodily injury, blood, mild? gore (it’s just describing injury), description of overstimulation, capital h and c hurt/comfort

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chapter 4 :’^) thank u for all of the love so far. i appreciate. every. single. one of. u. bottom of my lil rat heart.

this chapter was nearly split, but giving y’all a cliffhanger seemed mean

this the turning point and set up for the rest of the story so buckle up and enjoy ;^)

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Things between you and Hawks didn’t change too much, not externally anyways. Both of you still continued to indulge your feelings, even if you desperately tried to ignore them.

You continued to honestly spoil Hawks in lavish drinks of many sensations. Truthfully, you loved nothing more than seeing his face as he sipped at your new creations, watching the curiosity and pleasure spread over his features made your heart soar in your chest.

And Keigo continued to bask in your company. The drinks were always amazing, but the chatter and discourse between the two of you was what he loved most. Or, maybe it was his learning of you through watching your small gestures and cues. His analytical, interpersonal skills were, for once, being put to a use that didn’t involve espionage or deception.

It felt cleansing.

Despite these quietly greedy interactions, there was a great deal of repression between the two of you. Aimless flirting aside, squishing any growing feelings caused you both a great deal of strain. It worked, avoidance, for a while anyway. It wasn’t without consequences, but they wouldn’t get nasty until later.

One of the most apparent tolls was Keigo’s physical state. Having to actively ignore and quash his feelings for you caused such a deep amount of emotional turmoil. It made him ache all over. This was in addition to an asinine amount of extra hours he was spending staking out the villain syndicate that was indeed in the neighborhood of the tea shop.

(He wouldn’t admit it, but he was being overly diligent in scouting out the organization's doings. They were very close to you and your home, and the thought of you getting caught up in anything to do with his profession fucked him up on-premise alone.)

The combination of both physical and mental exertion made him messier than ever. It physically clouded him a lot of the time. Exhaustion had well and truly seized nipping at his ankles and proceeded to fully rip a chunk from his skull.

Keigo had yet another long day, dawn until at least midnight, no matter his aching body.

He’d be listening in on out some sort of meeting between the villain syndicate and one of its allies, some more reclusive group of villains from the far-off mountains. Neither organization was particularly noteworthy, but they did have some nasty criminal connection that needed to be monitored. That meant a late night for Keigo and an even greater need for caffeine.

He paid you a visit in the early morning.

The moment Hawks came through the door, you lit up, beaming from behind the counter.

The shop was empty, just having opened a few minutes before he appeared. The only sounds were the hum coffee machines, quiet music, and the tapping of your own tinkerings. Normally, there’d be more bustle, but you were alone in the din of the shop.

“Hey, angel,” He flashed you a winning smile, sliding down into his usual stool and propping his elbows on the counter. “Where’s the calvary?”

“Oh, the other openers?” You jerked your thumb to the door. “Running late. They all stayed up late working on a project for school, so I took one for the team and am manning the ship alone for this first bit.”

You sighed, looking quite tired yourself.

There was mutual recognition of your twin state, though it wasn’t verbally regarded in any way.

Hawks was far better at hiding his poor health from you, but that didn’t stop you from seeing the pinholes in his facade. You’d gotten better at it with time.

“What can I get you today, Hawks? Inspire me.” You set the glass on the counter between the two of you, gesturing to the expanse of the coffeeshop. “It’s just you and me today, so I can go all out.”

“You don’t already?” Hawks chuckled, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.

“I try,” You shrugged. “I really do my best work for you, whether you’re a glorified guinea pig or not. Gotta serve up the best for my best customer.”

On any normal, Hawks would’ve bantered right back at you, keeping you on your toes with quick words and wit.

That day?

He just laughed, something weirdly neutral, almost off-putting because you knew it was manufactured.

You opened your mouth, brows furrowing. You wanted nothing more than to ask ‘hey, are you alright?’.

But, that would’ve broken some of your own, mentally-imposed boundaries. It hurt, to just laugh with him, but it was all you would let yourself do.

“So,” You broke the air with words as opposed to giggles. “What would you like?”

Hawks hummed, “Surprise me.”

“... Like, fully?”

Hawks nodded, slowly.

Keigo, in a movement of full vulnerability, (he told himself it would just be for a few minutes), laid his head on his folded arms, “Go wild, angel. I trust you. Make me anything you’re feeling. Wing it, no pun intended.”

You blinked at him, nodding. His sudden, almost submissive action surprised you. Something in you ached, seeing him so worn down.

You channeled this feeling into a desire to make him top-tier drink.

Reaching into your apron, you fished out your idea notebook. Many had been crossed off over the many weeks (months now?) that Hawks had been visiting the tea shop. You fairly consistently wrote down new ones, so there were always options, but on that day, none appealed to you.

Your gaze flickered back to Hawks, watching the soft movements of his breath through the tight fabric of the back of his shirt.

You needed to make it extra good, help shake Hawks from his stupor.

You’re gonna wing it.

You’ll make a feel-good drink.

It was your only self-imposed criteria.

You hadn’t ever made Hawks a drink without a concept and feeling beforehand, so the concept of not having one seemed novel.

You activated your quirk and began.

“How’s your day been?” Hawks called from behind you, words muffled.

Keigo still didn’t look at you; resting on his arms allowed him a little bit of a reprieve before his grueling day. He’d take it. Hearing your voice would make it that much better.

You described your day with a decent amount of detail for how much it hadn’t gotten started yet. Hamming up the detail meant more time for you to craft the drink. Your mind spun, grasping onto pre-existing, mental abstracts in your oddly calm headspace to create something tangible.

Though your quirk was activated, you weren’t really identifying a feeling specifically, rather just letting your quirk draw from whatever material you had laying around in your brainscape at 6 AM on a weekday morning.

You pulled as many espresso shots as Hawks usually liked (maximum, five, you refused to give him more than that in a single drink), pouring them into some steamed oatmilk and several other ingredients you had mixed into a cup. You tapped some cinnamon on top of the foam, polishing everything off with a dash of sweet cream.

Carefully, you set it between the two of you. Hawks hadn’t spoken since you had begun to make the drink, so oddly silent.

It almost made your skin itch, his lack of response. You reminded yourself with quick glances that Hawks was very obviously out of it and exhausted. You were sure that without the concealer he wore under his eyes (a secret he revealed to only you), he’d have purple circles punched from how overworked he was.

You hoped your drink would be enough to brighten up his day.

You bit your lip as Hawks raised his head, blonde waves more unruly than normal. A small, lopsided smile stretched across his face as he sat up, grabbing the drink and bringing it closer. He had learned long ago to allow them to cool.

“Sorry for not being as peppy as I normally am!” It was almost imperceptible, the off-kilter tone in his voice.

You caught it but said nothing.

He sheepishly rubbed at the back of his head. “Been running on empty it seems, angel.”

“Then take some fuel, bird boy.” You nodded to the foamy drink. “When are you supposed to be done today?”

“Late, like late. Early morning, probably.” Hawks sighed, taking a sip.

...

As the liquid coated his mouth, Keigo’s mind seized.

What.

What the fuck.

Any and all thoughts he had disappeared. They were incinerated from his mind by the drink’s heat.

A sun-scorching sensation like he’d never even known tore through his body.

It was so different from the other ‘warm’-toned drinks you’d made him in the past. The flavor and feeling filling him up was nothing like the hearth-like drinks you had made prior. You had treated him to plenty of beverages that felt akin to open flame, warm blankets, a cat purring over your chest, a candle on a cold night—

But, nothing even close to this.

This was such a strong feeling that if he was a less trained man, his eyes would’ve rolled back in his head. If he’d been standing, he was sure his legs would’ve been visibly shaking, probably given out.

Sure, the feeling was abstract, not as concrete as your other drinks but it was ineffably strong.

It felt like the flutter you caused in his stomach, but somehow all over and inside of him.

It was the heat in his cheeks when he saw you, but reaching from his toes to the skin of his scalp.

It was the shock in his throat when you smiled so honestly at him, now forcing his hands to twitch around the cup.

The consuming sensation was all of that goodness and more, magnified and exponentially deeper and marvelously burning.

It was hot, fiery as it ripped through him, completely unignorable. But, it was also soft, colored with the earnestness that he admired about you so much—

Oh.

It clicked as the sensation stirred in his stomach, fluttering to a point of near nausea.

It was you.

The moment he realized it, that all of that sensation was you feeling, as you had made the drink, something began to broil in the apex of his chest, rolling and all-consuming.

His mind stalled as he took it all in, taking another sip.

The feeling washed over him again, equally as wonderfully crushing.

“Soooo,” You drawled, setting a jar next to you on the counter, beaming him a smile. “What do you think? Gimme your judgment, bird boy.”

Keigo struggled to keep his face neutral as he quickly searched yours.

Even in his state, it was clear that there was no deception or riddle laced into the creaminess of the drink. The expectancy in your face was derived from admiration, not waiting for the punchline of an unfinished joke.

“It’s warm! Like, in your stomach.” Hawks looked down before taking another sip, the even smile on his face not wavering for even a moment. “What is it?”

“It’s a miel,” You tapped the jar next to you, pointing at the amber goo inside. “This is some wildflower honey from the owner’s sister’s farm, right outside the city. We have a bunch of extra stuff, so there’s no better time to make a honey-based drink.”

Hawks eyed the steam, “What goes into a ‘miel’?”

Watching Hawks’ shoulder go slack with the next chug he took, you hummed, “It’s a latte, so espresso and milk, then it has the honey in it which is what makes it a ‘miel’. Topped it with some special sweet cream, a bit of cinnamon. My extra touches in it as well, just based on my quirk.”

Hawks met your gaze, his eyes softening with what you could’ve sworn was desperation, but was quickly swallowed up but stoicism, “And what was this drink’s inspiration?”

You laughed, shoving your hands in your apron from the typical anxiety, though the feeling itself was somewhat normal and thereby dulled, “It didn’t have one! I just winged it, like you said. My quirk was activated though, so it was just sort of the concept of what I was perceiving and feeling, I suppose.”

There was a pause as you waited for Hawks to speak.

He didn’t.

Keigo stared down at the drink, then you.

Holy fuck.

This was ambient?

The sensation that made his toes curl and every part of him yearn to reach out to touch you and give all of himself to you—

It was unintentional?

The feeling was familiar, one that he had organically all the time when thinking of you, being with you at the teashop. It was the one that he shoved down over and over again around you, yet craved more than anything.

And here you were, unknowingly returning it to him.

You hadn’t intended it to be shared and you had no idea you even did.

Keigo was one of the most perceptive people on the planet— he knew that many of the feelings between the two of you were mutual. As much flirting as there was, a lot of it was real from both of you.

He just didn't think it ran this far deep.

(Mutually.)

“What... What do you think it tastes like?” You asked, that nasty rot in your gut rearing itself as Hawk’s lack of response ate at you. You turned fully to him, actually taking him in.

Keigo did what he was so skilled at doing—

Lying.

Hawks waved his hands in front of him like he was trying to put out small flames, “Nothing bad! Promise, it’s really good! It tastes like how the coffee shop feels. Warm, comfortable. It makes sense that your quirk would reflect that.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, “Oh, good. I’m glad it's good.”

“Very good. I might have to put miels on my list of favorite drinks you’ve made me,” Hawks gave you a relaxed grin, standing and passing a wad of cash to you.

You didn’t expect him to be leaving so quickly, but he did say he was busy.

“Oh, hey, Hawks?” He perked up when you said his name, blinking at you. “I’ve got a project I’m working that I’m doing for the owner, so I’ll be here late. If you’re around, you’re welcome to come by after close if you want another drink? For your long night.”

Hawks softened for you like he so often had come to do. He fluffed up the collar of his jacket, wings ruffling up behind him, “I think I’ll take you up on that. I’ll have some ideas for you then too, how about that?”

“Sounds lovely,” Your voice was like the honey of the drink, warm, sweet, and vibrant. “I’ll see you then, Hawks.”

“See you then, angel,” Hawks practically glowed as he walked from the door, the chime of the bell sounding with his exit. “I’ll text you when I’m close!”

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Over the course of the day, an odd feeling grew in the pitch of your stomach. You did your best to ignore it.

You alternated between serving customers and working on the ‘project’ the owner had saddled you with. Making centerpieces for his sister’s bridal shower was not something you should’ve been doing on company time, but they were giving you a handsome sum of cash under the table for it.

You couldn’t complain too much, other than that it was laborious. Masons jars stuffed with wired lights and frosted glasses, tied with twine and ribbons were all to be prettily arranged by your hand.

During the middle of the day, you went back home, spending your time between shifts catching up on sleep and making some decent food.

The odd gnawing only grew in your stomach.

Keigo’s long day was wearing on, though somewhat uneventfully. Most of his patrolling time was the effortless thwarting of petty crime and easy rescuing.

He even had the time to go back to his agency and snoop.

Because, for how lame his day was, the drink you made him (which he had greedily chugged all of shortly upon leaving the tea shop) caused him to think particularly hard about your quirk.

(As opposed to the asphyxiating awareness of your shared feelings.)

He didn’t get it.

You’d managed to perfectly create a drink that communicated complex feelings. You’d told him in the past that it could be used for any sort of feeling as well, but you were so vague beyond that. You were abstract in the same way you quirk was.

So, he decided to abuse his power a little.

He decided to actually take a lunch at the agency, munching on takeout while clicking through the HPSC’s databases.

Civilian quirks, especially those that had never attempted to pursue any sort of career with them, weren’t documented incredibly well. Maybe a few details that were used in public research projects, but not much beyond that. He had hoped he could dig and find something that would assuage his curiosity and confusion.

He tapped your name into the HPSC’s hero-accessible database, scrolling and pulling up your file.

There was a picture of you, one from an ID that must’ve been a few years old. There were personal details Keigo wasn’t all that interested in, though it was neat to finally know your birthday.

He clicked on the tab for your quirk.

Quirk: Synesthetic Manifestation

Description: Allows the user to materially manifest abstract, synesthetically-created feelings into reality.

This quirk does not allow the user to alter reality, only tangibly create abstracts through the means at their disposal.

Drawback: This quirk causes severe synesthetic overstimulation and appears to be activated unintentionally in instances that expose them to high amounts of stimuli.

Quirk potential:

Keigo knew the concept of ‘quirk potential’ well. Most of the time, this portion on files was only filled out if the individual had ever trained to use their quirk in a profession.

Oddly, your’s contained a few details.

The user showed high potential in initial assessments, but due to the nature of the quirk, its drawbacks, and its recorded usage, this user’s quirk is now classified as lowest potential.

Keigo frowned.

All this just made him more confused.

The file didn’t get into much more detail than you did. The only thing that was new information to him was that at some point you had tried to use your quirk in a training setting and that somehow got you demoted from high potential to lowest potential.

Keigo’s own quirk in the database was regarded as highest potential; you, at some point, were only a step down from him. Something knocked you down from pursuing quirk-based work, and based on your current employment at the tea shop, you never got up. Keigo figured it was the intricacies of your quirk that he didn’t fully understand.

He’d have to be a bit more careful getting any more information out of you, considering how much you disliked talking about it.

Keigo continued to stew, finishing off his lunch while thoughts of you and your feelings danced across his mind.

Though it was clear his adoration was obviously returned, it was much easier for him to muse over the nature of your quirk than the way he wanted to pull you over the teashop’s counter and kiss you breathless.

You went back to work, a few chalky tablets of stomachache medicine in your tummy. They were all you could do to try and quell the twisting in your gut.

By the time you arrived back to start your ‘night shift’, it was late evening, the sun already having fallen into the horizon.

Most of your time prior to closing was spent in the front, helping make drinks and clean up as you could. Part of you was actually excited to throw on some good music and grind after the tea shop was shut down for the night.

Also, seeing Hawks twice in the same day? Absolutely fantastic.

You wanted to try and make him a knockout drink, to make up for the lackluster one you’d prepared him earlier. Seeing his eyes get all gooey with happiness would more than push you through your night of work.

Your phone chimed a bit before close.

[birdboy]: hey ;^) mind if I come by in like a half an hour?

[you]: yeah!! just call me and i’ll unlock the door for you

Your closing coworkers giggled at you. They all knew that that big smile stretched across your face meant you were texting Hawks. You used to get a bit shy about it, but now you just gave them shit. He was your friend, right?

[birdboy]: what if i like, hit the glass, like fly into it like birds do into windows

[you]: okay one- no, that would definitely shatter the windows and idk if i wanna deal with that AND you tonight ;^)

[you]: and TWO- are you speaking. from experience. about hitting windows.

[birdboy]: please dont @ me like this

You snorted.

[birdboy]: i had to pay off a tabloid who got it on camera bc it would ruin my brand

[you]: do u still have those photos

[birdboy]: ... maybe

[you]: hawks

[you]: gimme

[birdboy]: idk if i can my publicist will kill me

[you]: u hear what i hear?? a coward

[you]: how does ‘your brand’ feel about that

[birdboy]: ...

[birdboy]: gimme one of those honey sticks u have at the register and the pics are yours once i get there ;^)))

[you]: DEAL!!!

You pocketed your phone in your apron, unable to stop the almost ridiculous smile that you wore.

Hawks made you uncomfortably happy. You knew that he didn’t feel the same, but he was still there. Even if you were just entertainment to him, you were happy to perform on any stage he was watching.

As closing crept up, you shooed your other coworkers off. Most of the closing tasks were done, they could leave a few minutes early.

As they began to pack up, chatting about some party that night, your insides twisted.

You squeezed the counter, rubbing your forehead while wishing your coworkers a good evening.

Weird.

It was about then that things went to shit for both you and Hawks.

Keigo’s was supposed to be in for a hellishly long shift of surveillance based on the intel he’d received about the syndicate and its impending meeting.

Apparently, that meeting was happening earlier, rather than later.

The chaos started quickly, the meetup going from a strategic talk to an all-out fight between two groups.

It spilled into the nearby streets, both sides unabashed in their destruction.

Perhaps, if Keigo had been faster (what a tall order, for the fastest man in all of Japan), things wouldn't have gotten so out of hand.

But quickly, things erupted and the streets dissolved in mayhem as he dove and sent feathers flying.

You stood by the front entrance, waiting for Hawks, idly sweeping. The cleaning tasks were almost done, the world outside was dark with the late evening.

You froze when the ground beneath your feet rumbled with revving engines, the air splitting with the sound of car horns and alarms.

Everything that happened next moved so quickly, it was difficult to follow.

Windows began to shatter all across the street, near and far.

They cracked, spraying glass as a figure cloaked in black flew down the asphalt outside. A red barrage followed after it, nearly subduing it as it raced past the tea shop.

The massive glass panels at the front of the tea shop filled with frosty lines, just feet in front of you.

It clicked for you a few moments too late.

Adrenaline shot through you, but it wasn’t enough.

...

You weren’t Hawks, you weren’t fast enough to outrun much of anything, let alone quirk-shattered glass.

You were just barely able to turn around before the spray of shards reached you.

You would later be incredibly thankful that you wore denim jeans and a wool sweater that day. Without the thick fabrics, you were sure that you would’ve been shredded. The problem was your low-top shoes and thin socks.

Just as you turned, searing pain shot from the back of your left ankle. You urged yourself to forget the specifics, flesh-tearing, mind beginning to buzz.

You just had to keep moving.

Except, you couldn’t. Your left leg gave out with your next step.

You shrieked as you fell to the floor, barely catching yourself. Your palms smacked against the ground, pieces of sharpened glass driving into the flesh.

You couldn’t help screaming, your voice mingling with the sound of alarms, cries for help, and the war cries of a nearby fight.

Oh.

You were in the middle of a fairly nasty villain attack.

...

So much for giving Hawks a better drink.

The mental joke seemed macabre, especially in your state.

You willed with all of your might, for your quirk to not activate. Overstimulation was just inches away from your current state, the sounds outside the teashop boring through your skull like diamond drill bits.

The pain that was radiating from your left leg was nearly unbearable, but you knew that getting out of the front room was imperative.

How you managed to keep your injured leg straight, you’ll never know.

You locked your jaw and pulled yourself along the floor, hoping that Hawks had this all under control. More people were bound to be hurt by the same sort of attack you got caught in, right? How many more folks had been sliced up like you? Worse than you?

Keigo wasn’t having much trouble subduing the villains. They, of course, had no idea that he had been watching the syndicate for three-odd months. He knew their quirks, their tactics, their escape routes, everything. What he didn’t know as well was the other group’s specifics.

From what he had understood before the fight, the two had somewhat friendly relations. Still, Keigo mentally kicked himself for not being more diligent in his gathering of intel.

His mistakes aside, the much more pressing issue was the two-kilometer stretch of shops that were now collateral damage in what was essentially a mobile mob war.

This damage included the tea shop.

When he’d flown past the shop, he’d only caught a glimpse of your face through the glass before it shattered.

You’d looked terrified.

Every part of him wanted to stop, dead in the air, rush in, and make sure you were okay, but he had to at least get things under control until more heroes showed up. Then, he’d be able to get to you.

By the time Keigo subdued several villains of either group, more Pros had arrived on the scene. He sped off to the teashop far too quickly when he saw others gathering. It was an ill-advised move, but he was clouded by a different set of instincts than those cultivated in his hero training.

The flight did allow him to fully take in the damage of the district, though.

It was about as bad as it could be.

Whatever the villain’s quirk was must’ve shattered glass within a certain radius from his body, Keigo observed.

Thankfully, the villain’s quirk didn’t appear to affect anything past two stories of height, sparing all above it. Those panes and pieces that did shatter had sprayed businesses, restaurants, shops, and the street with shards of glass. Not to mention that they flew at the speed of projectiles.

(At the full-minded revelation that there was no way you weren’t hurt, Keigo felt his stomach flip and eyes burn.)

Keigo shuddered to think how bad the damage would’ve been if the encounter happened during broad daylight.

Keigo curled in his wings, dropping onto the floor at the front of the teashop through the broken window.

He kept his expression somewhat neutral, though the scene before him tore at his heart in a way he wasn’t expecting.

The tea shop was destroyed.

The pretty, warm lighting fixtures had shattered, fine filaments exposed, and a few sparking. The glass jars on your wall of tea blends were broken, spilling leaves and dried herbs across the back counter. That wasn’t even to mention the layer of shards from all of the glassware stored around the coffee machines.

Seeing the destruction of one of the only places he had ever found real comfort in was awful, and it tore something hidden and vulnerable in his heart.

But far, far worse was the absolute horror that bloomed in his chest when he saw the sizeable spot of blood in the middle of the floor, smearing to the back doorway.

“(Y/N)!” Keigo shouted, ignoring any stealthy elements and hurriedly following the trail.

“B-back here,” Oh, your voice was so weak.

Keigo couldn’t make himself move fast enough.

You’d managed to get yourself to the back, biting your lip so hard you were scared you’d break the skin. Part of you was lucid enough to know that making too much noise could be bad. Then again, the shop was supposed to be closed. Did anyone even know that you were there?

Hawks did.

You gripped at one of the edges of the stainless steel countertops, using all the strength you could muster to pull yourself upright. As careful as you were not to jostle your injured leg (that you still hadn’t looked at properly because you were terrified), the moment you bent it, you had to suppress a scream, turning it into a slow, nasty exhale. You let yourself sink to the floor again.

Something was seriously fucked up.

Then Hawks called your name.

You were sprawled out on the floor, injured leg awkwardly turned and extended to prevent the pain from being made worse.

The moment he saw you from the doorway, the remnants of his wings flapped, practically throwing him to the ground next to you.

The moment you saw him enter the back room, any and all fronts you had put on for yourself fell apart.

“H-Hawks,” You hated how small your voice sounded as you pushed yourself closer to him.

The details of him, how ruffled his remaining feathers were, how wide and scared his eyes were, how different he looked from the times you’d seen him on the news confidently saving the day, were lost on you.

Though, Keigo noticed your poor state easily. It was more obvious.

He scanned your form with the trained precision he was known for. He took in the shattered piece of glass sticking from your leg, bleeding lightly. Your palms weren’t bloody, but they were dotted with shards of glass.

He also noticed your panicked shaking and your unnaturally dilated pupils, beyond anything he’d seen while you’d made drinks for him.

“Is your quirk active?” Keigo asked, pulling off his gloves and grabbing one of your wrists. He turned your palm, using two of his smallest feathers like tweezers to pick at the shards pieces of glass.

“Y-yeah,” You replied, using the back of your other hand to wipe at your eyes. “It does this when I’m under extreme stress. I can’t turn it off.”

Keigo managed to laugh, relieved that the cuts in your hands weren’t that severe, “You just focus on me, okay, angel? That’s all you gotta do.”

You nod, trying to hold your overstimulated mind back. It’s fruitless, truly, because the moment Hawks reminds you that he is, in fact, there, and that you are safe, you quirk-addled mind spasms.

The awful mix of sensations whirled in your skull as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead into Hawks’ shoulder. In other circumstances, it would be a romantic gesture. But, the only purpose you had in the contact was hoping, praying, that the heat of his body would distract you from the swirling of sensations you couldn’t stop.

In that mental soup, within the fear, intense pain, and loss, oddly enough, was the unignorable, pleasant feeling of being so close to him. It made your heart squeeze. But, it was a single spice of sensation in a foul-tasting stew though, and it was hard to isolate the good in the muck of your mind.

You shook against him as sounds and pain blended inside your skull, thoughts becoming murkier and harder to understand.

Keigo finished tweezing your other hand, that one worse off, and wrapping it in some gauze he had stuffed in his jacket.

His mind screamed for him to wrap you in his arms, to pull you close and keep you safe. It was all he could fathom doing, just nearly moving to do so—

That was until the popping rumble of a nearby explosion interrupted his thoughts.

You jumped against him, muffling a scream in his shoulder.

His heart ached.

“(Y/N), I know this is all scary,” Hawks’s voice came through your sensational slurry. “But, I need to be back out there right now.”

“No.” Your mouth spewed with no discernable thoughts behind it. “Don’t leave. Please, don’t. Please.”

You caught Hawks’ wince, but barely.

He was already repositioning you, scooting you under one of the countertops, “Angel, I’m sorry. I need to go, but I’ll be back. I promise.”

Your eyes screwed shut, vibrating in your skull as pulling your uninjured leg to your chest.

Hawks looked equally as torn up about having to leave, brows creased with his lip worried between his teeth.

Despite how messy your brain felt, you knew that you were beyond defenseless. Even if your mind could easily conjure up an infinite number of ways to bring a person non-lethal (and lethal) pain, you were turning to mush mentally and you had glass sticking out of your leg. You had no fucking way to create it with your body.

Your back hit the wall under the counter and you managed to wrench your eyes open, taking in Hawks and his visage while you spun.

He looked so sad.

The feeling of mourning and fear spat so hotly in your mind, it was like you’d been intangibly burned by his expression.

You choked on your own stored tears, reaching out for him.

He caught one of your hands, the wrapped one, and squeezed it lightly.

Even with so few feathers left, Hawks plucked one, about the size of your forearm. He replaced his hand with the plumage.

“(Y/N), I will be back. I promise,” Hawks (so weakly) smiled, trying to reassure you. “You snap that feather if anything changes, okay? If anyone comes into the shop who isn’t another pro, or if you start to feel faint. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” You gritted out, somehow laughing. Your vocal cords rubbing together sends a wave of agony up the back of your neck, burying behind your eyes. You press your forehead in your bent knee.

With one last, fleeting look, eyeing your wound and remembering slate-colored eyes, Keigo took flight into the fray once more.

Keigo hated leaving you. He hated it so fucking much. It burned him, felt wrong in every way. You were so vulnerable in your state. Both of you knew that without him there, you were entirely exposed and fairly defenseless.

It perked up that protective instinct he’d repeatedly had towards you for months. It was probably something related to his avian mutation, but it was just blood-boiling need to keep you safe.

Yet, he just left you, wounded and mentally spiraling, in the middle of a destroyed building.

If he wasn’t trained so well, he would have acted differently. But, it had been burned into him time and time again what his needs were in disaster situations.

Neutralize, stabilize, clear out.

Through his exhaustion, he fought and soared with all he had, fatigue forgotten and replaced by hot cortisol. He forced himself faster, zipping down alleyways and across rooftops at some of his top speeds.

While Keigo tracked down all of the villains (he managed to miss the first time), he trusted that the other Pros could deal with the heavy collateral damage. He was number two, he could catch some organized criminals.

Beyond his training, Keigo had an even bigger motivation.

He could feel you.

The feather he left with you must’ve been pressed right up to your chest, maybe under your neck with the way Keigo could so intensely feel your breath and heartbeat. He could sense it gradually speeding up to the point of what had to be panic. If Keigo focused, he could make out your terror-stricken babbling.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“This is fine.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Hawks is okay.”

“He’ll come back.”

“He won’t leave.”

...

“Everything's gonna be okay.”

With that last one, your words gave out and it turned in gasping breaths.

Keigo worked himself harder, striking down the last of villains with absolute precision, all distractions forgotten in the most pivotal moments of combat.

The instant the villains were in custody, restrained, he was flying back towards the tea shop.

You don’t remember any of this well. Your mind was liquified, your body throbbing in pain.

It had been an incredibly long time, years since you’d been in any situation resembling a villain attack. There was no way to stop the synesthetic storm that was choking your mind. Every sensation was magnified, mixed with another, and shoved down your throat without any ability to change it.

A few minutes after Hawks left, giving you time to stew and roll, you spiraled more harshly.

When you realized how pitifully helpless you were, you fell away, pressing your wet face into the Hawks’s feather. Your vision muddled between black and red.

You felt the cold of the blood wetting your pant leg.

Your wound is bad.

You hadn’t fully looked at it in awhile.

Opening your eyes, you suppressed a wave of nausea at the small puddle of blood growing under the bottom half of your useless leg.

The way the denim of your jeans stuck to your skin mixed with the smell heady smell of blood made you gag.

You couldn’t keep it up anymore.

Letting your eyes shut, you sank down to the floor, cheek pressed into the dirty cement.

You don’t know how long you idled, drowning in your mind’s colors and vibrantly violent sensations.

You were only half-conscious when the feather pressed to your neck twitches.

“(Y/N)!” Keigo shouted as he landed in the teashop, flying straight to the backroom, bypassing the mess of broken glass.

His breath caught, seeing you slumped over.

“Fuck,” Keigo couldn’t stop the tremble in his voice as he noticed how much blood had pooled beneath your injured ankle. “Hey, hey, (Y/N)—”

He sure fucking sucked at admitting his faults, and recognizing the severity of wounds was indeed one of them. He didn’t usually stick around long enough to deal with casualties so closely.

Keigo threw off his gloves, tossing them behind him without looking.

“‘M fine,” You started to push yourself up, hissing at the pain that surged from cuts in your hands. “Brain’s mushy.”

“That all?” Thank god Hawks still managed to joke. The humor dashed across your vision like little sparks. You stifle a weak snort.

“There’s my angel.” Keigo was so relieved to see you conscious that he didn’t notice his own possessive slipup. “Are you lightheaded?”

Gingerly, he helped stabilize your body upright as you wrenched your eyes open.

“A little, it’s okay, this is what happens,” Your voice was so loud in your own skull, it hurt. Though, the pain of your words was only a prick in the wet dough of your overworked mind. Sensation was pain, rolling over you and making it harder and harder to stay lucid.

Keigo swallowed thickly at the sight of your fully-blackened irises.

He needed to get you out as fast as possible, but that required assessing the gash in your leg.

His gaze flickered to your ankle, “Can you move your toes?”

“I don’t want to.”

Keigo frowned, weakly, pushing you as upright as possible as you began to slip to the side.

“Please, you have to try, okay?” Keigo begged, not noticing his own voice wobble.

You shook your head, grabbing it in within its own motion. The dizziness made your insides knot and stick together.

“(Y/N), please.”

You shifted your gaze to him, vision tilting as you did.

The frown on your face split as you just barely moved your toes within your blood-soaked shoe.

The fresh pain, vibrant and boiling, cut through the fog like a heat-blackened knife.

Your own fist flew into your mouth to mouth to suppress the cry that bubbled from your throat. You half-recognized it was the one holding Hawks’s feather.

You couldn’t see the way Keigo flinched at the sound, immediatly trying to soothe the two of you.

“Alright, good, okay, you can still feel them,” Hawks managed to laugh, cutting into the miasma of your psyche. It was something light and airy, tasting like packet sugar on the sides of your tongue.

Chasing the goodness of Hawks’s voice, you mustered up as much clarity as you could grasp, willing yourself into full sentences, “Hawks. I swear to fucking God, if you do not get me out of here right now, I will never make you a drink ever again.”

Keigo blinked at you, nodding, watching your attempt to focus on him, though the fully inked irises seemed to refuse to stay put.

So, this is what the file meant about the cost of your quirk.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, dove.” Hawks scooped you up before you could manage to put more thoughts together. A few of his feathers flew to stabilize your injured leg.

His touch felt good, like incredibly good. Even as the crunch of his boots on the broken glass of the tea shop scratched at your inner ears and burned your sinuses, the heat and texture of his jacket caressed over your cheeks. His warmth tasted like honey and cream.

Your head lolled onto his chest, idly playing with the filaments of his feathers that you refused to let go of.

(Keigo didn’t want you to, anyway.)

He couldn’t fly well, not in his mostly-featherless state, so he took to walking instead. He sidestepped as much glass he could, mostly watching your half-lidded eyes fixate on the feather you had pressed up to your face.

It was a weird circle, Keigo feeling your heat and breath so close, both on his body and on the sensitive plumage. Technically, he was doing his job, so he let himself indulge just the smallest bit in being so close to you. When Keigo squeezed you, nearly at the medic’s area, you tucked your face into his collarbones, breaths slowing from panic. You were even slack in his grip.

A paramedic rushed up to the two of you, guiding you to a setup stretcher and a waiting line of ambulances.

“We can take it from here, Hawks, no need to stick around,” The paramedic’s voice cut through the air, dripping bitterness on your tonsils and iron nails in your lungs.

Hawks set you half-down onto the lip of the vehicle, “Nah, it’s okay, I’ll hang out with them for a sec. They’re a friend of mine.”

He’d never said it before. That you were friends.

Heat rushed up to your fingertips, sweetness washing over your wounded leg, topped off silken air settling around your ears.

You’d drown in the sensation, a million times over.

The paramedic ran off quickly, a man with a nasty head wound taking precedence over your leg (which seemed to have clotted somewhat with your somewhat more relaxed state).

Hawks still didn’t leave.

Rather, he moved closer.

So did you.

From your spot sitting on the edge of the ambulance, your injured leg was twisted and propped up while the other dangled off the edge of the vehicle.

Keigo was right up against the metal, allowing you to lean on his side.

“You good?” You asked him, bumping your leg into his lower back.

Keigo couldn’t help jumping. You’d never casually touched him.

(He really liked it.)

Though the setting and circumstances were fucked, he figured it was okay.

You were friends, right?

Hawks wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you into his side.

You took it a step further, wanting to simply soak in the amber, milky feeling of his touch.

You squish your cheek low against his collarbone, drinking in the smell of his sweat, stale, spiced cologne, and rich, expensive smelling hair oil.

The scents washed over your skin, rolling over your burning wounds like aloe and clean water.

“Thank you.” Your voice is small and soft, kept gentle by your last sparks of lucidity.

You heard Hawks chuckle, your vision swimming in honey and yellow with the sound, “Just doing my job, you know.”

“I mean, yeah,” You laughed too, pressing your nose harder into him. “But, it’s you, and I’m just glad you’re here.”

“You better stop being so sweet,” The hand around your shoulder rubbed slowly, up and down your spine, sweet spices and sugars dancing on the roof of your mouth. “Gonna give me ideas.”

The touch, something you craved and denied yourself, pushed you over the edge as his touch dissolved across your overstimulated mind in cresting waves of rushing, blessed heat.

Finally succumbing to the flood of your quirk, drowning your mind in both agony and absolute calm, you muttered out the last clear thing you said that evening, “We always give each other ideas, silly.”

God, the many meanings behind your words spun and stuck in Keigo’s mind like the taste of the miel he drank that morning. They relentlessly clung to his psyche, wanting to know more.

He stayed close while you were assessed and strapped into the ambulance. He sent a few of his last feathers to retrieve your jacket and purse from the wrecked shop.

All the while you clutched his bare hand, irises black while the whites turned bloodshot.

As the ambulance drove off towards that public hospital, he could feel the steady beat of your heart through the crimson feather he made sure was tucked in your hand the moment he had to let it go.

He felt you squeeze it, and he wanted nothing more than to return the gesture a thousand times over.

#salem writes #lavender latte #hawks x y/n #hawks x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x y/n #takami keigo x you #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo reader insert #hawks reader insert #hawks fanfiction #reader insert #mha x reader #tw blood #keigo x reader #keigo x you #keigo x y/n

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thechangeling · 4 years ago

Text

Enough.

So a while ago I made a headcannon post about Ty's sexuality and the autistic exploration of sex and sexual desire. I have now written a fic about it. This ones for Alex @bedspells my very own Alyssa. Also side note I want to make it clear that yes, I still ship kitty 100%. But I've seen plenty of people write fics and headcannons about Kit exploring things with other people. There's no reason why Ty can't do the same.

Edit: Ok a long time ago this fic actually got a hate comment on Ao3 saying that I was erasing Ty's sexuality by having him hook up with a girl because he was cannonly gay due to a tweet CC made in 2013. Now I don't even have twitter and I wasn't a part of the fandom back then. Despite all of that I actually don't really consider that to be the basis of canon? And in the books he doesn't really express interest in anyone except for Kit. So as far as I'm concerned this was fair game. Not to mention gay people sometimes experiment before they realize they're gay. Especially autistic people!! And that was actually kind of the point of this fic. So maybe just keep that in mind going forward. Thanks!

Tw for mentions and discussions of sex.

Ty could count the instances he hadn't been bothered by another person's touch on one hand. This was certainly one of them. It was so late into the night it could certainly be considered the next morning. Anush, Ty and Alyssa had been doing research on Livvy and the effect she seemed to be having on a serge of demonic activity in the area.

Ty was fairly stressed about the possibility to say the least. It felt like everything was spilling away from him. Livvy, his family, his career.

Kit.

He really didn't want to think about Kit but it was difficult. It was like trying to ignore a bleeding wound that everyone kept referring to as a paper cut.

The shining lights in all of this were Anush and Alyssa. Befriending both of them had been the best part of coming to the scholomance.

Especially Alyssa.

Meeting someone who shared some of his thoughts, feelings and experiences was more then refreshing. It was liberating. Talking, laughing and crying with Alyssa about the things that no one else would understand was like a balm for Ty's soul.

At a certain point Anush had announced that he was retiring to bed and they should both probably do the same. Livvy was still floating around the room observing their work. But as time went on Ty had stopped paying as much attention to her. Now he was resting against Alyssa with his head in her lap. She was sitting on the couch in the library, carefully running her fingers through his hair and rambling on about something, Ty wasn't exactly sure what.

Ty reached up to wrap a lock of her long dark hair around his finger, then watched it spring back into place again. Alyssa's hair was wavy but not curly like- like some peoples. So it didn't spring and bounce very well. That was the interesting thing about Ali in general. So many parts of her dress and appearance were so neat and polished and well put together that Ty almost wondered what it would be like to see her more disheveled. What would it be like to grab and twist and pull until she was left with something that wasn't glossy perfect waves.

Ty panicked a little at that thought. Where exactly had that come from? He was now more then ever painfully aware of the fact that he was lying in an attractive person's lap. And his sister was still in the same room.

Ty looked up to search for Livvy but realized that she was gone. Guiltily he realized she could have been gone for awhile now. But he hadn't noticed. Lately he had been feeling further and further away from his twin and he hated it.

"Do you think stars have feelings?" Alyssa asked wistfully. Ty laughed joyfully, feeling so light and and so far away from every bad thing that had happened three years ago.

"Because I was just thinking," she continued. "Like, what if they're lonley you know?" Ty had to smile at the Alyssa charm of it all. Also the autistic perspective might have had something to do with it.

"I don't know," Ty said, sitting up. "Maybe they're like us. Maybe they like being alone." Alyssa pondered this for awhile.

"Well no one can be alone forever," she pointed out, then laughed, rolling her eyes. "God how did we get here? Remember when we were supposed to be doing actual work Ty?"

"Well we were stupid to think that would last," Ty announced matter of factly. Alyssa shrugged and leaned back against the sofa.

"Probably. Once the neurotypical left it was all downhill from there."

"I disagree, Ty said softly, meeting her gaze. "I enjoy spending time with you." Alyssa instantly smiled, the kind of beautiful, honest, heartfelt smile that allistic people wrote poetry about.

Instantly Ty was reminded of someone else, another brilliant smile.

He shook it off.

"Me too," Alyssa finally answered. Then she shook her head. "Ugh feelings. Gross."

Ty rolled his eyes at her and laughed.

Then Alyssa sat up again as she seemed to remember something. "Oh yeah I meant to ask you about Anush. Do you like him?"

Ty shrugged. "Yeah he's really nice. He's become a good friend."

Alyssa shook her head. "No, no Ty, I mean-" She paused. "I mean do you like him like you wanna date him? Or do you have romantic feelings for him?" She asked.

Ty paused. He honestly wasn't sure. He had been trying to avoid thoughts of those types of feelings for a very specific reason. A Herondale reason. But the truth was he did like really like Anush. He enjoyed being around him. Ty just wasn't sure what that meant.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "Maybe." Alyssa fiddled with her hair, rubbing it between her fingers.

"Hmm. Well do you even like boys?" She asked. "I just realised I've known you for five months now and I dont really know what your deal is," she said contemplating. "Like sexual orientation wise. I mean not that it matters, it totally doesn't," she stammered.

Ty shrugged. "It was never really relevant before. But I'm not really sure. I guess I'm fine with whatever." Alyssa beamed.

"So I guess that means you're kinda like me huh? She said happily. "I'm pansexual. Women are so beautiful and angelic and soft and squishy and awesome, but men can be good too," she mused. "I mean men are......men, but some of them aren't so bad. I mean look at you!" Alyssa tossed her hair back over her shoulder.

"Thanks," Ty responded dryly.

"Anyways you know what I mean," Alyssa waved her hand. "So are you attracted to him at least?" Ty sighed.

"Yeah I am," he admitted. "But I don't- I don't want a relationship Ali. I just can't."

Alyssa studied him for a moment. "Does this have anything to do with the Herondale pendent you wear that you always tell me never to ask questions about?"

Ty scowled. "Yes, but I don't want to talk about it." Alyssa rolled her eyes and put her hands up in surrender.

"Fucking shit fuck! Fine!" She complained. "Anyways, my point is you dont need to date him neccesarily. Just have sex with him and see how you feel?"

Ty sat up and faced her. "What?"

Alyssa laughed. "You heard me. There's nothing wrong with causal sex between consenting adults. I mean, if you want to."

Ty felt the urge to stand up to try and aliviate some of the anxiety he was feeling, but he stayed sitting.

"I've never done it before," he admitted. Ty was 19, he knew most of the people his age had already had some sort of sexual experience. But he had always been too afraid. Too afraid of people touching him and demanding things from him with harsh vague bullshit. In Ty's mind it was just another social interaction that he could screw up and then pay the price for it.

Alyssa shrugged. "It's no big deal. Virginity is just a social construct anyways." Alyssa was playing with her hair casually and biting her lip slightly, to indicate that she was mulling something over.

Ty shook his head trying to explain it. "No, it's- I mean see, you say that, but, one of the things I've learned about this world is that social constructs kind of matter to a lot of people." Ty was taping his fingers against his leg and trying to stop himself from shaking. Alyssa noticed this.

"Because people tell you that's it's no big deal and not to worry, and then other people make it into a big deal like it means something, and then everyone's telling you to do something different," Ty explained with a panicked, rushed voice. "I don't know who you listen to, or what to do!" He was moving his hands frantically while he spoke to emphasize his points.

"Hey it's ok," she cooed, inching towards him. "Trust yourself. Or if you feel like you can't, then trust me." Ty felt a pang in his chest. A cacophony of conflicting emotions erupted within him. But mostly he found that despite his better judgement he actually believed her.

They had created something different between the two of them. Something that almost transcended labels or rules or traditional allistic boundaries. Alyssa was like the armor he put on every morning, with the strength and confidence that he wasn't alone in this world. In the midst of all of their jokes and late night heartbreaking conversations. In the midst of this fragile peace they had created, there was something there. Something indescribable.

Something like the sound of the page being turned in one of his Sherlock novels, or the sound of their favourite songs. A connection. A lifeline.

Ty looked over at Alyssa's concerned face and smiled softly. "I trust you," he promised. "I don't really trust many people, but I've always trusted you," he admitted. Alyssa inhaled sharply. She made an interesting facial expression that might have been a facial stim and then gaped for awhile before finally closing her mouth and avoiding Ty's gaze.

"Yeah that's cool. I trust you too," she said casually. She had gone back to pulling at her poor hair which was shedding everywhere. Anush always joked that he could always tell where Alyssa was by following the trail of hair.

"So, about the whole sex thing," she continued rather unceremoniously. Ty had to laugh a little. "Do you think it's something you're actually interested in? Or do you just feel like you have to?" She asked.

Ty pondered this for a moment. "I think I might want to. I just want to be with someone that I trust. Someone who will be considerate of my boundries, you know?" Ty did a quick glance around the room to make sure Livvy was still gone.

"Wait she's not here right?" Alyssa asked anxiously, catching on. Ty shook his head.

Alyssa paused for a moment, looking lost in thought. She was flicking her fingernails against each other and continuing to murder her bottom lip by chewing on it. Finally she looked up at him, looking rather amused.

"Ok. This might just be the exhaustion talking, or the autism, or a combination of both. So if you feel uncomfortable with what I'm about to say, then afterwards we can just forget it ok?" Alyssa sounded serious. Ty just nodded, trying not to be concerned.

Alyssa gave him an interesting look, one that he was pretty sure he had never recieved before. Her eyes scanned him up and down, then she smirked.

"I could potentially offer my services," she said innocently. Ty blinked a few times, then continued to stare at her. She stared back unflinching.

Wait. What?

Ty shook his head in confusion. "Hold on. Wait. You mean-?" He cut himself off. Alyssa nodded with that same smirk. "Yeah I mean why not right?" She shrugged, relaxing back against the sofa. "But if you dont want to then that's totally fine."

"Wait." Ty attempted to clear his head and stay focused. He stayed frozen for awhile, thinking. Then he folded his arms around himself, applying pressure. "Why exactly?"

Alyssa shrugged again. "Well why not? You're hot. I'm hot, and besides you know me," she pointed out. She paused, and then giggled.

"Four hours into investigating the paranormal phenomenon of his dead twin sister and chill, then she offers to take his virginity," she cackled. "I so enjoy our quality time together."

"The way your mind works really concerns me sometimes, you know that?" He asked playfully. Alyssa rolled her eyes at him and shoved him gently.

"Hey you don't have to, it was just an idea," she said, raising her hands in defense. Ty was silent. He was still thinking about it.

"Most people don't really do stuff like this right?" He asked warily. "Like most friends don't just randomly hook up and then laugh it off later."

Alyssa shook her head slowly. "Honey do you see me laughing?"

Ty was conflicted. There was something in him, a new, complicated feeling. A burning desire that nagged at the back of his mind everytime Alyssa bit her lip or pouted.

If he was really honest with himself. Ty could remember another time when he felt this way. But that was different, that was-.

He shook his head. No. Ty wasn't thinking about that anymore. He needed a distraction.

"God I can practically hear you thinking over here Ty," Alyssa teased. "Listen. If it freaks you out to much then we can forget about it. But-." She paused and reached towards him. Their fingertips met and she slowly dragged her fingertips down the top of Ty's hand.

"I want to do this for you because I care about you," she said solemnly. "I want make you feel good. Because you're special, and I dont mean that in the bullshit ableist way. I mean I think that you're special because you have such a big heart and you care so much," she said with a laugh.

Ty felt like he was about to cry. He was taking in long deep breaths trying not to get overwhelmed. He didnt know how to respond to this, this kind of attention and praise. His heart felt warm and tight absorbed in so much fondness and melancholy and regret all at once.

He knew this wasn't anything like what had happened that day on the beach. This wasn't that kind of love that he was feeling for Alyssa and that was a good thing. Romantic love, he decided, was too complicated.

"You deserve good things and good experiences. You deserve to have your first time be somewhere familiar. Somewhere you feel safe, and with someone who loves you." Alyssa wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

"God sorry for getting all emotional like that," she joked.

Ty couldn't speak, so he just squeezed her hand. He hoped she would understand.

I love you too.

Ty took a breath, then nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah I want that. I want you."

Alyssa exhaled, then grinned. "Ok then. Great. I'll see if I can pencil you in sometime this week," she joked. Ty cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"Oh," he murmered, suprised with how disappointed he felt. "You mean later?" Alyssa laughed.

"Well yeah, I mean aren't you tired?"

"Are you?" Ty countered.

Alyssa shrugged. "Hey you know how it is, autistic sleep cycle. I'm gonna be up for awhile. I just figured you might want some time to think."

Ty shook his head. "No I don't want to think anymore. I'm tired of thinking Ali. I'm tired of worrying and overanalyzing everything." His eyes met hers, she seemed a little worried.

She moved closer to him so that she was practically in his lap. "You need a distraction," she said matter of factly. "It's ok." She moved her hands from his arms to grasp his waist.

"Is this good?"

Ty flinched. "More pressure," he replied in a tone that was hopefully not too demanding. Alyssa pressed her fingertips down harder into his skin. A soothing feeling washed over him.

"Good?" She asked, scratching his skin with her fingernails. Ty just nodded, feeling slightly dazed.

Alyssa smiled, lowering herself gracefully into his lap. Everything she did was with precision and grace. Alyssa was a dancer. It was one of her special interests. She had stopped taking lessons a long time ago though because she found it challenging to dance in a group.

She could never copy what everyone else was doing exactly on count when she was supposed to. She was always going off and improvising on her own. There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

Alyssa's weight against him was comforting. She was moving her hands up and down his back underneath his shirt while still applying pressure. Ty felt heat beginning to pool in the base of his stomach. He stared at her curiously, taking in her soft curves and her smooth golden skin.

"Can I touch you?" Ty asked, feeling his fingers twitch.

Alyssa moved her hands to his chest. "Sure." She said softly. "Just be careful. Remember pressure and all of that, and try to avoid my stomach area. For some reason it's really sensitive." Ty nodded, instantly reaching for her long wavy dark hair and twisting his fingers around it, pulling slightly. She laughed.

This drew Ty's attention to her mouth. Her lips were cracked and rough looking from Alyssa constantly biting them, but Ty still wanted to kiss her. He had never kissed anyone before. He needed to know what it felt like.

He moved his hands to her shoulders and then to her sides, pulling Alyssa even closer. "Can you teach me how to kiss?" He asked looking her in the eye briefly. She snorted.

"I don't think you'll like it very much," she murmered. "It's not really a good sensory experience. At least not for me. Allistic people seem to like it though."

Ty nodded. "Exactly that's my point," he said, using one hand to cradle the side of her neck. "I need to learn for other people later on." He absentmindedly pressed his thumb into one of the divots in her neck, just to fill the space. Alyssa sighed and dug her fingernails into his chest.

"Ok fine but you're gonna hate the tounge thing," she breathed. She leaned down very slowly and then carefully pressed her lips to Ty's, kissing him softly.

It was a weird sensation but not entirely unpleasant. Ty happily slid his hands back into her hair and began to fiddle with a few thick pieces. Alyssa moved her own hands up his chest to cradle her face, applying pressure with thumbs against his cheekbones.

Alyssa deepened the kiss and slid her tounge into his mouth. Instantly Ty winced and felt every cell in his body seize up. But he didn't stop. He was determined to figure this out. If he wanted to kiss someone who wasn't autistic in the future then he would need to. Ty relaxed his body and kissed her back forcefully, making out with Alyssa until the uncomfortable noise in his head was too much and he broke the kiss.

Ty shook his head and Ali laughed, stroking his hair. "I fucking told you so," she exclaimed. Ty shut his eyes and allowed his breathing to return to normal.

"Ok so that's something we can forget about for now, thank god. The beauty of this whole situation is that we dont have to follow any allistic script for this sort of thing." Ty opened his eyes. Alyssa was watching him carefully, still only centimeters away from his face.

"So is there anything you want to do?" She asked him. "Just tell me and I'll see if we can make it happen."

Ty saw no need to maintain any sort of filter. "Well there are a lot of things actually, but for some reason I really want to bite you," he said pointedly, glancing down at her neck. Alyssa burst out laughing, nearly falling over.

Ty glared at her. "I'm sorry," she gasped breathlessly. "I'm sorry it's just,-," she regained her composure, shaking her head. "I just love how we all used to be the weird kids who growled and hissed at people on the playground if they bothered us and now as adults we're just super kinky. Like it's kind of poetic in a way," she laughed.

Ty rolled his eyes. There was no need to ask what she meant by we. When Alyssa said we, it only referred to one thing.

"I'm sure it's not absolutely every autistic person," he protested. "Also we should move, on account of the fact that this is still a public setting." Alysza's eyes widened as if she had just remembered that.

"Oh right. Shit, as if these people needed any more reasons to hate me. Let's go!" She rolled off of Ty and stood in front if him, holding out her hand. "We can use my room." Ty stayed sitting, taking a moment to fully absorb it all.

He couldn't help but feel the weight of the Herondale pendent against his chest as a heavy reminder. He willed himself not to get distracted. Alyssa smiled at him slightly, almost as if she knew.

"Enough," she said softly.

Ty didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't even sure if their was anything he wanted say. Then finally he understood.

"Enough," he echoed back.

He took her outstretched hand and let her take him away.

@ti-bae-rius @eutony-in-whisper @dianasarrow @dianasarrow @stxr-thxif @talia-lightwood @doitforthecarstairs @thelandunderthehilll @zfoxdraws @waterlillies

#tda #the dark artifices #tsc #twp #the wicked powers #ty blackthorn #Alyssa Reyes #autistic representation #Fae's oc

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dirty-holy-things · 4 years ago

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The Space Between (your heart & mine)

Chapter 18 has been posted to Ao3, and below to Tumblr.

Catch up on chapters 1-17 on Ao3.

Notes: This fic is 18+ and explicit. This chapter includes canon-typical violence and description of injuries. This is a very heavy and emotional chapter that explores feelings of grief, and while the ending of this chapter is positive (trying to avoid spoilers), please exercise caution if this is a sensitive subject. I will say though, that for all of the pain I may put y'all and these characters through, we will have a happy ending.

Words: 5.9k update, 86.8 total.

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Din nodded wordlessly at the man before moving to exit the shop; his business here was completed, and now it was time to go home. To go back to you, to hold and kiss you, and to try and keep this exciting new secret to himself. As his footsteps landed on the volcanic gravel of the city street, his attention was abruptly drawn to a loud crack and crumbling sound that echoed off of the buildings around him. The intrusive and unexpected sound snapped him right into high alert, needing to know the source of the sound — and needing to know where you were, if you were safe.

His feet couldn’t seem to move fast enough as he rushed through the streets, sidestepping merchant carts, droids, and young children that played without concern for the unexpected noise. His mind raced with ideas of all of the horrible things that could’ve happened to you — what if you got stuck in the middle of a shootout? What if something collapsed and you were crushed by it? What if someone had attacked you? He tried to recall if you had told him where you were going, before you had exited the cantina earlier; but despite wracking his brain, he couldn’t remember anything that offered any consolation or comfort. He wished that his feet would move as quickly as his mind was; his breathing grew more labored as he drew closer and closer to where he believed the sound to have come from.

“He looks through the wound of my life like it’s light. So I let him.” — Omotara James, Pier 52

Din’s fingers drummed ceaselessly on the sticky tabletop in the cantina, just wanting this exchange of pleasantries with Karga to be over so he could return home to you. What should have been a fifteen minute meeting turned into an hours-long event; at this point, having worked for the guild for countless years, Din knew he should expect this, but it still didn’t stop him from wishing for something better. These meetings were admittedly much more enjoyable when you accompanied him, as you were able to draw much of Karga’s attention and conversation, allowing Din to withdraw from the exchange; at least, until Karga made a comment out of turn, or a tasteless joke and Din had to remind him of the concept of boundaries. These meetings were a necessary evil, and yet you had somehow made even the more frustrating and mundane parts of his life into something exciting and enjoyable. You had brightened every aspect of his existence through your presence alone; your radiance was never lost on him.

Din was finally able to wrap things up with Karga, having successfully negotiated the next round of bounties after the man had been loosened up by a few drinks. Din was excited to share the upcoming destinations with you — he loved seeing the way that you lit up when you were exploring, learning, flourishing. He had feared before that he was holding you back, by keeping you to himself, but you were incredibly strong and fiercely independent, and you pursued your own interests and ideas with a determination that continually impressed him.

Din excused himself from Karga’s presence, having one more matter to attend to before returning to the ship to wait for you to rejoin him. He exited the cantina with a sigh of relief, happy to be freed of the space that was somehow both empty and all too full at the same time. The ground he walked on here was familiar, but his steps felt lighter now than they ever had before. It felt as though something had lifted the weight that resided on his shoulders, a weight that he hadn’t known existed until he met you.

Din had loved seeing the way that you had grown throughout your shared travels; you were like a sponge, soaking up everything the universe had to offer you. He loved seeing the way you lit up when you talked to him about the historical texts you had picked up, loved seeing you get excited by all of this new and undiscovered information. He was also somewhat secretly relieved that you were no longer thrusting yourself into unsafe situations simply in the name of profit; and once you had seen his somewhat disorganized but impressive financial records, you had come to the understanding that the bounty profit resulting from your assistance was... not entirely necessary. Being a man of few interests and slim personal expenses, he had been taking in almost purely profit from every job he had for nearly twenty years. He regularly supported the covert, ensuring that the foundlings could be cared for, but the money he had retained for himself had continued to grow over the years with very little to deplete it. He had never felt the need to spend exorbitant amounts of money on himself before; he hadn’t needed anything other than the Razor Crest and his beskar.

And now, all he truly needed was you and the kid. The ship, as significant as it was, was simply a vessel for the memories the three of you created there. It certainly held value and was special in its own right, but at the end of the day it was a mechanized hunk of metal and fuel. The memories created there would not continue to exist exclusively within the walls of the cabin — they would live on within the three of you. The ship wasn’t home — you and the kid were home, whether you were on Nevarro or Naboo. Steel was only ever steel; spirit was not as confined.

And that was precisely why he was meeting with a merchant to discuss the procurement of a new ship. Something nicer, newer, with better accommodations and more comforts than the Razor Crest could ever hope to offer. Din felt as though he couldn’t give you much in this lifetime, aside from love; he couldn’t turn back time to erase your past, couldn’t give you the tools needed to connect with the Force, couldn’t truly even give you the sight of his face. But he could do this; he could give you this.

He felt confident walking into the office of the local Bureau of Ships and Services liaison. Din knew that coordinating a purchase and acquisition of this magnitude would likely be more business and commission than this man had ever received in his lifetime; and while he knew that there would be a delay as he was not going through the primary office on Coruscant, he was quite relieved to be operating without their greedy and slick influences.

He made his needs clear to the nervous man that met with him; the small, thin man avoided eye contact with the narrow visor of Din’s helmet, and the thermal sensor indicated to Din that the man was sweating profusely throughout their entire interaction. Reviewing necessary requirements and components of this future ship, Din stated that he certainly needed something functional for work as a bounty hunter — hyperdrive, room for an armory and carbonite cargo — but he also wanted something with a galley, private quarters, something that would be nice for you. The man’s hands shook as he searched to find something that would meet these specifications, before eventually suggesting a S-161 yacht that would offer Din “both domestic and business spaces,” to quote the nervous man.

Din looked at the image of the ship that was projected onto the screen in front of him. The sleek shape and structure of the ship was certainly a departure from the bulkiness of the Razor Crest, but when he saw the interior cabin space, he could clearly picture you and Grogu playing in the lounge area; he could see both of your bodies occupying the larger bed space; he could see all of the memories that were yet to come.

Din paid the full amount for the ship upfront, and the man’s face went a bit green at the sight of so many credits. The man’s voice wavered as he informed Din that it would be about three or four weeks before the ship was available and accessible on Nevarro; and this was perfect as it would allow him time to complete the next round of newly-negotiated jobs, before bringing you back here for a surprise. He tried to picture the look on your face when he revealed the new ship to you; he was excited to see how you would react to the lounge area with a couch, a bed bigger than a data pad, everything shiny and new... and waiting for you and Din to christen all the untouched surfaces.

Before leaving, Din informed the man of one additional and seemingly superficial request. “I would like for something to be installed, that would allow one to... grow flowers. An artificial light of some sort.”

He recalled an off-handed comment that you had made about you can’t grow flowers in space, and how you had shared with him that your mother had taught you about floristry — it seemed to be one of the few positive connections you had to your past, and Din wanted to give you the ability to reconnect with this piece of your history, in a new and healthier way.

“S-sure, I’m sure something can be added to allow for that.” Din could hear the confusion and curiosity in the man’s voice, but luckily he knew well enough to keep his nose out of Din’s personal business. Didn’t need to know why a Mandalorian wanted to grow daisies.

Din came to a halt in front of a crumbling building, the entire west-facing wall having collapsed into itself; the dust from the destruction filled the air around him and he searched the scene with a furious desperation, needing to know what had happened, needing to know if you were here. Through the ash and dust that choked out the fading light of the sunset, Din saw a familiar frame that he would have recognized anywhere — and his heart leapt into his throat as he screamed out your name in fear and all-encompassing terror.

He tried to run towards you, needing to have his hands on you, needing to know that you were alright — but as he drew closer, the air around him felt heavier; it was as if he was trying to run through quicksand, his movements slowed, and requiring more force and exertion than they should have. It was as if there was some sort of barrier around you, preventing Din from getting any closer; and eventually, his ability to move towards you stopped entirely, an unseen and impenetrable wall keeping you apart from him.

But from this vantage point, being about five feet away from you, he could see that you were not alone in this crumbling alleyway. There was a hulking, almost-human looking man with gnarled and rough grey skin, with an evil-looking axe clutched in his massive fist; but something about this scene was... off. The man was large, but there was no discernible reason why his form should be elevated so far above yours.

The pieces finally came together when Din saw that you were standing in front of the man, feet planted firmly on the ground while your arm extended in front of you, muscles straining as your hand was balled into a tight fist...

The man was a marionette on strings, and you were the one puppeting him.

Din felt a sense of horror radiate through him with this realization, but in addition to the churning mix of fear and horror, there was also a tidal wave of relief that hit him as he realized that you were at least not the one in danger. He continued to scream your name, modulator cracking, but even as his vocal cords became hoarse and raw with the strain you never turned to face him; your gaze remained trained on the man who was levitating within your unseen grasp.

The man was desperately dragging his hands across his throat, as if he was trying to remove an invisible noose that had wrapped around it; Din saw the man’s eyes continue to bulge within his awful looking face, blood vessels popping with strain, before Din turned his gaze back to you and watched a rivulet of blood run through your fingers and down your twitching arm, spattering onto the ground below you.

He had never seen anything like this from you before; it was terrifying but he felt as though he couldn’t look away. Din realized that he had really only ever known you as an incredibly kind and gentle person, and that previous image of you now stood out in stark contrast to this indulgently violent, vengeful storm of a woman who held her ground before him. Every image he had of you was turned on its head, taking on additional depth and dimension, as he began to understand that there was much more to your personhood than just your affection and sweetness.

While he had never rushed to dismiss the past abuse you had suffered, he rarely had to confront the knowledge that you had lived a life of extreme and unyielding violence in the twenty-some years before you met him. Of course you would be capable of these things when under duress; he recalled that he had watched you stab the leader of a drug cartel within the his first few hours of knowing you. At the time he had written it off as self defense, and it certainly still was; but he may have been a bit naive to assume that would be the only episode of violence in your life. Maybe there was a piece of him that didn’t want to acknowledge that this facet of you existed; but whether he wanted it or not, it was a part of you... and yet he loved it all just the same.

He felt entirely helpless and useless as he looked on at the scene before him; he couldn’t breach the Force barrier that you had thrown up around yourself and the Delphidian man, but fuck, he couldn’t walk away from you either. In his peripheral, he could see that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, curious and fearful eyes watching the dramatic scene play out in the town. Mind racing, Din needed to decide what to do — try and fend off the crowd, shield you from prying and intrusive eyes? Or would he continue to fight against this barrier in front of him, never abandoning his original mission of reaching you?

As Din was debating the options at hand, the tension of the moment came to a head and crashed like a tsunami throughout the demolished alley and its crowd of onlookers. And yet despite the deafening, instantaneous crash, it was as if the galaxy was simultaneously moving in slow motion; Din could almost feel the muscles in your forearm and hand constrict, as your wrist brought your bleeding fist into your chest; and the distinct and undeniable crack of bone made his skin crawl. He was no stranger to the sounds of death, but hearing it come from your actions made his stomach turn. His eyes were glued onto you, glued onto the scene that was rapidly unfolding in the wake of his inaction; he saw the hateful and fiery light behind the man’s eyes snuff out as the life left him. Din was familiar with death; he had brought about more bloodshed than was worth weighing, but seeing a life extinguished at your bidding was...

He couldn’t find the words, despite his best efforts. A torrent of emotions was tearing through him, ravaging every previously-held notion and shaking him to his foundations.

The barrier that had separated Din from you finally gave way, same as the Delphidian’s spine had. The invisible Force wall collapsed to the bloodied ground just as the man’s body did, and the sudden disappearance of resistance in the air caused Din to lurch forward into you, his arms extending outwards as he saw you sway precariously. Your full weight landed against his chest as you collapsed into his arms, and then two of you tumbled to the ground, the metallic sound of beskar clanging within the crumbled stone that surrounded you while he tried to cradle your broken-looking body gently.

Din recovered quickly from the fall, shifting to rest on his knees as he brought your limp form closer to him, your head coming to rest on his lap. He cursed the layers of armor and clothing that kept you separate, needing to feel the heat of the blood rushing through your body, needing to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each inhale and exhale. The way that your head lolled and rolled across him brought about a wave of terror and nausea as he worried that maybe he had been too late, maybe you were gone.

But he could still feel a faint and desperately-sought pulse beneath his gloved fingertips; he held onto this flickering bit of hope and pulled your body in closer to his chest, turning the two of you away from the observing crowd and the crumpled, distorted form of the man you had killed. He continued to hold you against his chest for an unknown amount of time, being paralyzed by the fear that any movement may disrupt the tenuous connection you held to this life; he was not sure how long he had stayed like this, cradling you against him, but it felt as though the moment stretched into eternity.

Din knew he couldn’t face the prospect of life in this galaxy without you. You had fundamentally altered and rewritten every piece of his existence, and he refused to go back to the life he had lived before he had met you. That previous life now seemed dull, almost as if it had existed in black and white, before that fateful day he had arrived in your shop — and since that chance meeting, you had brought all of the colors of life rushing to him, pinks and oranges and yellows and blues and greens and purples, a brightness that he had never felt before and worried he would never experience again without you. A life in black and white is an excruciating exercise in deprivation, after having experienced the beauty of technicolor.

And he couldn’t even begin to fathom the devastation that Grogu would experience, if you never returned home. The kid had taken to you as though you were his mother, and the thought of having to tell him that you were never coming back threatened to break Din’s heart just as irreparably as the Delphidian’s neck. Din knew that neither himself or Grogu would ever recover from this sort of loss, and it only made him cling to you even more desperately, praying to every god in existence that you would come back to him. He recalled how he had previously come to the conclusion that he would certainly lay down his life to save yours; and he now feared that he would never have the opportunity to save you as you had once saved him. He couldn’t use the Force to bring you back, he had no medical training to speak of, he felt entirely paralyzed by his lack of knowledge — and paralyzed by the idea that both he and Grogu, having been brought back to life by your hands, would now be the only living vessels for your spirit, the only proof that you had existed and had loved them wholly.

Din was anchoring every ounce of his hope to the faintly beating pulse of your heart when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, the unexpected weight of it pulling him out of his reverie. His body turned to face this sudden intrusion, ready to fight whatever had disturbed his connection to you; until he saw the familiar face of Cara Dune, a concerned and saddened look on her face as she surveyed the state that you and Din had found yourselves in.

“We need to get her out of here.” Her deep and gentle voice somehow managed to cut through to Din, bringing him back into the present moment. She was right — he needed to get you out of here, needed to get you home, just as he had intended hours ago. You needed to recover at home, in the small bunk that now reflected the shape of your two bodies; needed to recover in the comfort of your own sleep clothes; needed to move away from the destruction you were now resting in.

Although Cara’s assessment was correct, Din’s shoulders cowed into yours, hunched by the overwhelming fear that any disturbance might be the thing to take you away from him. His head shook in response, the fear overtaking any sense of logic or reason; as Cara’s hands moved to your shallowly breathing chest, he growled and pulled you closer to him, feeling the limp structure of your body clashing with the unyielding beskar that covered him.

“Let us help you,” Cara enunciated softly, the concern evident in her voice. “She needs to recover at home, not here in an alleyway.”

Cara had always been good at finding the words that rubbed Din just the wrong way. She was right in her assessment that continuing to stay here, in the mess of blood and rubble, would not help you; but he also couldn’t stop the pressure that leapt into his throat as fear flooded his body, being terrified of hurting you further. She stepped in closer, her hands coming to rest at the bend of your knees, a subtle offering to assist with carrying you back to the Razor Crest, back home. Din pushed away his fear and shifted his focus to what you needed, not what his feelings needed. You needed Din to bring you home.

He felt broken, stuttered sobs wrench free from his chest as he stood up, gently cradling your upper body against him; the tears flowed freely behind the beskar, and he knew that nobody could see his blatant and unashamed display of emotions; but truthfully, he wouldn’t have cared, his concern for you outweighing any sense of self preservation or dedication to reservation. He was grateful that Cara kept her eyes to the ground, however, not trying to force a visual connection when he was clearly already distraught.

Din and Cara carried your body ever so gently into the cabin of the Razor Crest, being conscious of every bump and every step, before settling you softly into the comfort of the small bunk. The very same bunk that you had transformed from a place of functionality, to a place of love and sensuality. Din couldn’t imagine sleeping here, without you next to him.

Your body instinctively curled in on itself, recognizing the comfort of the bunk; your limbs drew closer as if you were retracting inwards to form a shield against the outside world. This innate and insistent need to protect yourself, that continued to present itself in even the most dire circumstances, broke a piece of Din’s heart that he hadn’t even known had existed. Watching your broken body fight for every breath, Din felt the need to do something to feel as though he was helping; he lifted your head up to allow you to rest you more comfortably on the singular and previously shared pillow, positioning you in the same way that he had seen you rest countless times before. Din cautiously and carefully tucked away the strands of hair that had fallen across your face, before pulling the woolen blanket tightly around your slowly breathing form; he tucked the corners of the blanket in around your body, knowing how you preferred to be wrapped snugly within.

Din had remained crouched next to the bunk, staying close to you so he could continue to watch your shallow but steady breaths, the rise and fall of your chest being the only solace he received during this whole ordeal. He waited for the color to return to your cheeks, watched for any fluttering of your eyelids that would indicate an awakening. He timed the breaths that you took, each shortened interval causing him to panic that something had gone horribly wrong.

Cara and Karga had been his saving grace throughout this entire ordeal as the days passed. The combined efforts of the duo had convinced Din to move from your side for long enough to shower, to use the restroom, to eat something and drink some water. Their coaxing reminded him that he couldn’t do much to help you if he was suffering as well. You seemed to rest in the bunk for an eternity, never tossing and turning as you usually would.

Din’s muscles had settled into the tragically familiar position of sitting next to you in the bunk, when Cara and Karga finally approached him to discuss the event that had occurred, unable to avoid it any further after countless hours had passed. Cara was the first to speak, her voice echoing softly throughout the cabin of the ship. “Bragant was a wanted target. She didn’t do anything wrong, by killing him, but I have a duty to report his death to the registers of the New Republic.”

Karga nodded at Cara’s statement. “He was wanted by many, and had a bounty on his head. I will pay you both for the body and its recovery.”

Din nodded wordlessly; he was not concerned about the man in the alleyway, was not concerned about any payment, was not concerned about anything except when you may come back to him. Your breaths had been even and steady for hours, and yet you had not woken up. He feared that you had suffered an irreparable, soul-shattering crisis and would never recover from this; and if that were the case, he still knew that he would never leave your side, preferring to waste away next to you rather than try and live a horrifically shallow life without you.

As several uncounted and painful hours had passed, Din waiting impatiently by your side, Din felt a shift within the steel walls of the Razor Crest, a gentle hum spreading throughout the ship and its inhabitants. Din’s gaze focused in on your face, searching for an explanation or answer about what was happening, what he was somehow feeling. After what had quite possibly been an eternity, your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide and disoriented as your gaze roamed around the location you had found yourself in.

Din choked on the laughter and tears that this moment had brought him, the overwhelming feeling of joy, relief, and disbelief crashing over him like an avalanche, drowning out all of the fear and desperation and hopelessness he had been experiencing just minutes earlier. Din thought he had previously cried out every tear that his body had to offer, but as he saw the light retuning to your eyes, the beautifully familiar eyes that focused in on the man they loved, he felt sobs cracking forth form his chest anew, threatening to break him in half — but this time, with the weight of happiness and relief. His hands reached out to cradle your face, loving how he could finally feel the heat of the blood that had returned to your cheeks. His head came down to rest against your chest as he cried with his whole body, shaking and sobbing as he whispered your name over and over, sending thanks to whatever deity or Force had deigned to bring you back to him, to bring you back home.

“Din,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and cracking; and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, more beautiful than the first time you spoke his name, more beautiful than the sounds you made in bed, more beautiful than your first confession of love for him. “Din, what happened?”

He could hear the nervousness in your voice, and as you had just returned to him, he was loathe to talk about something so terrible, to taint the joy that had filled the small cabin once again. His thumbs traced pressured circles into your soft body, his head continuing to rest at your side. “Oh, my sweet girl,” he sighed, his voice sounding strained and pressured through the tears. “Not tonight, please.”

You nodded and conceded easily, and amidst all of the upheaval of the moment he couldn’t help but laugh as he realized this was likely the first and last time you would ever give in so easily. You were beautifully, infuriatingly, insistently stubborn and he loved every single ounce of fight that burned within you. That same stubbornness kept you alive on Chandrila, brought Din back from the brink of death, taught you and Grogu new skills, and today that same fight and fire had brought you home once again. He would never, ever take a single second of your stubbornness and resilience for granted again.

Din could feel the echo of footsteps coming up behind him, and as his body shifted he felt his muscles and joints cry out with exhaustion; he had no idea how long he had been waiting here next to you, but his body seemed to have counted each second, each day, resentfully. As he repositioned himself, his aching body settled into the floor, his back being propped up against the side of the bunk as he tried to progressively stretch the muscles that he had previously irritated.

Cara and Karga had joined the happy and exhausted scene, the relief evident in their soft smiles. “Glad to have you back with us,” Karga said with a laugh, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling as he looked on at the two of you.

“Gave us quite the scare,” Cara added, before moving to pass a canteen of water to Din. He had come across very few individuals in this galaxy that he cared for, and he now realized that he was exceptionally grateful to know both Cara and Karga, as they had taken care of him during this period of upset, which in turn enabled Din to take care of you. And in a roundabout way, this had also allowed for them to take care of you. He wouldn’t have guessed that these two abrasive and tough individuals would make such an effort, would care for you in this way; but then again — the man hidden in a fortress of beskar hadn’t been impervious to your light and your charms, so it should come as no surprise that others loved you too. For all of your past injuries and mysteries, you were incredibly easy to love and willing to love others back with your whole heart.

Din brought the canteen up to you, encouraging you to have some water. The tenderness with which he cradled your head in the crook of his elbow and brought the lip of the container up to you shocked him a bit, as he hadn’t believed that someone as broken and violent as he was, could still have the capacity to show this much kindness. But clearly, you brought out the best in those around you; every individual in the ship could attest to that.

“The little guy can stay with me again tonight, so the two of you can get some rest,” Cara offered, knowing that both you and Din had a long road to recovery. “We can talk about things more tomorrow.”

Karga nodded in agreement. “My previous offer still stands, as well. But that’s a matter for another day. For tonight, find rest and happiness. The world will keep spinning in the meantime, and we’ll catch up with it tomorrow.”

The duo left the ship without any additional commentary, not wanting to intrude or disrupt the hazy sense of peace and exhaustion that had settled on the scene. As Din heard the ramp to the ship close, the cabin grew dark and quiet as it had so many times before — he had been terrified that he may have to face this darkness alone, but you were still here. From his seated position, he pried the armor off of himself; even these simple and routine actions felt exhausting, but he knew that the nightmare was coming to a close and he would be able to join you in bed shortly. You had drifted back to sleep as Din had readied himself for bed; a faint snore was coming from your sleeping form. As he stood and pulled off his dirty clothing, he paused before getting into bed with you. There was something else he wanted to do first.

His calves and his lower back cried out as he walked across the dimly-lit cabin, to the corner that held your things; he gathered your favorite maroon-colored sleep clothes and your medical kit, before crossing back over to the bunk that you slept in. He carefully brought your injured hand closer to him, before cleaning the cuts that your nails had made; he put on a salve that he had seen you use for wounds before, and then wrapped your palm securely with gauze. He repeated the same steps for the wound that was on your chest, placing a large adhesive bandage over the area. He would’ve given anything to be able to use the Force to heal you, as you had done for him numerous times; how infuriating that something so purportedly pervasive and innate was also so fickle and finicky.

Feeling confident enough in his medical administrations, he then began to exchange your dirtied and damaged clothes with the soft, comforting fabric of the sleep clothes. He moved slowly, not wanting to disrupt or scare you; and he felt incredibly grateful for each beat of you heart that he could feel throughout your body, could feel pulsing underneath your skin.

He finally moved to join you in the bunk, shifting your pliant and willing body to allow him room to rest next to you; as he sunk into the cushions, he wrapped the two of you in the blanket like a cocoon. He realized a bit belatedly that he had left a light on in the cabin, the faint light casting the room with a yellow glow; he knew he should get up to turn it off, seeing as how he had removed his helmet; but as you nestled closely against him, he decided to let it be.

He kissed you repeatedly and ceaselessly, feeling endlessly grateful that this chapter of your shared story had ended on such a hopeful and positive note, when it could have ended in tragedy. He wanted to sink his teeth into this moment, to feel the joy that burst from it like an overripe fruit that falls from the vine. He knew that as long as he lived, he would never tire of this sweetness.

He sighed your name into the nape of your neck, and whispered a soft ‘I love you.’

Your eyebrow raised at his words, allowing for one of your eyelids to open ever so marginally before it drifted closed again; a quiet, “I love you, Din,” passing through your lips with an exhale.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #Din Djarin fic #Din Djarin x reader #Pedro pascal #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the space between

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sweet-sammy-kisses · 4 years ago

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Stars In Your Eyes Chapter 1

For the @jaytimweek Day 1: Space Pairing: JayTim Rating: Mature Notes: I had hoped to have this done completely but health and my muse wanting to make it longer derailed those plans but I love JayTim in space to much to quit. Warnings: One scene of suicide and talk of victim blaming. Summary: Tim along with his friends take to the stars for a "short" break and mission only to decide to stay. When the Outlaws begin looking for them it becomes a chase among the stars as Jason and Tim take on an interesting and unique way of flirting. You can also read it on AO3

After a fallout between him, Dick, Bruce and the others Tim had set out to prove that he could fly on his own only there were those who wouldn't let him, his true family vowed to be with him every step he took.

Staring out the window there were days that Tim could hardly believe that this was his life now. To see the stars and planets up close. To see nebulas colours twisting and twirling around one another creating sights to behold.

"These are the voyages of Young Justice, seeking out those who would harm the innocent and basically just be jerks. To kick some ass and save the day while looking awesome as we do it."

A long-drawn-out sigh escaped Tim as he heard Bart start to narrate their day again, "I should have never let you watch Star Trek." Tim muttered into his hand.

Conner let out a laugh at Tim's comment, "Dude, you made us sit through and watch Star Trek and Star Wars so we could see how epic they were and get our opinions on which franchise is better." Tim's so-called best friend reminded him.

And okay Conner was right about that once Tim learned that neither Bart nor Conner had seen either Star Wars or Star Trek he had made it his mission to change that and now he was regretting it so much.

Tim had hoped when he found Bruce that things would change, that Dick would take apologize for his actions, would want him back as his little brother. Would stand beside him and speak to the Justice League that he was wrong as were they for turning their backs on a teenager who had lost everyone he loved.

But none of that happened.

Tim knew that Dick had a lot on his plate, stepping up to be Batman as well as raise the demon brat but he thought that Dick had missed him as much as he had missed his big brother but he had hardly spoken to him.

That added salt to the open wounds Tim was still carrying. So when a Raven suggested that Tim take a much-needed break one that would do Kon and Bart good as well, coming back from the dead could mess a person up and it was best that they take some time to heal.

Plus no one was brave enough to say no to Raven, if she wanted you to take a break you would even if that break ended up being in a demon demission.

Bart still had his hidden space ship and Tim had seen how much Jason enjoyed being out here and it had truly helped him to control his pit madness.

It was supposed to be a two-week trip then they ended up helping stop kidnapping and then they saved a planet from being enslaved and then something else came up and now they had been in space for six months and none of them were in a hurry to head home.

Somehow they had managed to become Space Vigilantes.

And as Tim glanced around looking at Bart, Conner, Cassie, Cass and Helena looking at home on the ship and then done to Dex-Starr that was purring away on his lap Tim realized that it had been years since he felt this at peace.

Jason had always thought that he was going to remain the black sheep of the Wayne family he never thought that his perfect replacement would tell Bruce and Dick to go screw themselves, give up his claim to the Wayne name and take off with his best friends into parts unknown.

Of course, that didn't mean that just because Tim was done with them it didn't mean they were done with Tim of course it had taken three months Tim returning to take Cass and Helena with him before it sunk in their "family" thick heads that Tim was serious he wasn't coming back. So when Oracle failed in hiding them they turned to their last resort.

A loud laugh escaped Jason as he stared at the face of his so-called brother, "You want me to help you find the kid that you tossed aside for the demon child who tried to kill him more than I did? Who from the moment he arrived used Timmy as his verbal, emotional and physical punching bag and to this day still does. You have got to be kidding me Dickface. Tim did the smart thing and the healthy thing to get away from that toxic and I ain't dragging the kid back to it."

Jason couldn't understand Dick when it had been him riding the pit madness and Talia's poisons whispers in his ear trying to kill Tim Dick had been protective and willing to go one on one with Jason but when it was Damian he was basically victim-shaming Tim into not being okay with Damian's treatment of him.

A sigh escaped a tired-looking Dick and Jason would have felt sorry for him if this wasn't of his own making. And if he hadn't seen the damage Damian's treatment and Dick, Bruce and even Alfred's lack of setting boundaries first hand.

Jason had been searching for Tim for a while. He wanted to make amends with the younger man. He had heard about the fallout between Replacement and the rest of the Bats but the last thing he expected was to see Tim standing on top of Wayne Enterprise's arms spread out wide as he took a step off of the ledge and let himself fall.

Jason could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he forced himself to go faster, he couldn't be late he had to catch Tim. Too much blood had been spilt and he wouldn't let another Robin die.

Once he had Tim in his arms did Jason remember how to breathe. Landing on the nearby roof Jason ripped off his helmet, "What the hell was that replacement?"

Haunted blue eyes looked up at him, "Why did you save me, Jason?"

At that moment Jason felt like he was back in his coffin.

The look in Tim's eyes and the lack of emotions still haunted Jason to this day and he might not be able to do much but he can keep Tim safe.

"Look Jason, I get that things haven't been easy for Tim but it is time that he got past his tantrum and returned home." Dick couldn't understand why Tim was acting like this and to make matter worse Raven and Gar were refusing to talk to him about Tim and about allowing Damian onto the team.

Frustrated that they were just going around in circles Jason ran a hand through his hair, "Look Dickie I know firsthand what training with the league was right and I know the demon brat had it rough but until you set boundaries for him, ones that include not trying to kill his brother, or using him as an emotional and physical punching bag I ain't helping you find Timbit."

Dick fell to his automatic defence, "Damian has changed and Tim is older." He winced at the look not only Jason gave him but also Roy and Kory. "Look I know Damian can be a little much but he has changed so much."

"No one is denying that you haven't worked wonders with the brat but you are still blind to how he treats Tim and that isn't healthy." Jason countered.

"Also have you gotten around to fixing Tim's standing in the hero community or is he still called the insane Robin?" Roy spoke up he had experienced firsthand what it was like to be the black sheep of the hero community, to hear the whispers and judgemental eyes watching your every move waiting for you to screw up and he refused to let Tim go through that as well.

The wince that crossed Dick's face was answer enough.

A soft sigh escaped Kory as she looked at her one-time love, "Dick, there is no denying that you had much to handle when we thought Bruce was lost from wearing the cowl to raising an abused boy that you let Tim slip through the cracks. Tim had lost so many in his life in a short time that losing Robin, his place in the community and his big brother all at once has left deep scars that have yet to heal."

Jason and Roy saw the effect that Kory's words had on Dick as he looked ashamed, "He had me." Dick whispered.

"Did he?" Jason demanded. "Because I remember he had a big brother that told him a neglected and abused teen that he needed to take the kill attempts, the verbal and emotional abuse from Damian because he was older. Because Damian's horrible upbringing somehow made Tim invalid. That he as the victim should just take it because how dare he wants to feel safe in a place he once thought of as home with the people he thought of as family. Only to be tossed aside and ignored as he was repeatedly attacked. Until you can look me in the eye and tell me that you have talked to Damian and the rest of the heroes I won't be helping you find Tim." With that, Jason cut the communication with Dick.

Letting out a sigh Jason relaxed back into his chair.

"So what are we doing?" Roy asked.

They had heard rumours of a bunch of teens, teens that happened to match the description of a certain team of young heroes who had taken off for a mission only once it was completed they sent back a message that they were staying in space helping out others and they weren't that far away.

Opening his eyes Jason's lips curved up into a smile as he purred out, "We have a bird and his flock to hunt."

#jaytimweek #jaytimweek2021 #jaytim #otp: be my robin #sherri writes #my fics

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linastudyblrsblog · 4 years ago

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Burnout, unfortunately, is everywhere. If you haven’t experienced it personally, you probably know someone who has self-diagnosed.

Defined by the World Health Organization as a syndrome “conceptualized as resulted from chronic workplace stress,” it causes exhaustion, “feelings of negativism or cynicism,” and reduced efficacy. That’s a big umbrella, and the condition has become something of a catch-all for chronic, modern-day stress.

Here are 11 of our favorites to help you create your own escape plan:

1. Figure out which kind of burnout you have.

The Association for Psychological Science found that burnout comes in three different types, and each one needs a different solution:

1. Overload: The frenetic employee who works toward success until exhaustion, is most closely related to emotional venting. These individuals might try to cope with their stress by complaining about the organizational hierarchy at work, feeling as though it imposes limits on their goals and ambitions. That coping strategy, unsurprisingly, seems to lead to a stress overload and a tendency to throw in the towel.

2. Lack of Development: Most closely associated with an avoidance coping strategy. These under-challenged workers tend to manage stress by distancing themselves from work, a strategy that leads to depersonalization and cynicism — a harbinger for burning out and packing up shop.

3. Neglect: Seems to stem from a coping strategy based on giving up in the face of stress. Even though these individuals want to achieve a certain goal, they lack the motivation to plow through barriers to get to it

2. Cut down and start saying “no.”

Every “yes” you say adds another thing on your plate and takes more energy away from you, and your creativity:

If you take on too many commitments, start saying ‘no’. If you have too many ideas, execute a few and put the rest in a folder labeled ‘backburner’. If you suffer from information overload, start blocking off downtime or focused worktime in your schedule (here are some tools that may help). Answer email at set times. Switch your phone off, or even leave it behind. The world won’t end. I promise.

3. Give up on getting motivated.

With real burnout mode, you’re too exhausted to stay positive. So don’t:

When you’re mired in negative emotions about work, resist the urge to try to stamp them out. Instead, get a little distance — step away from your desk, focus on your breath for a few seconds — and then just feel the negativity, without trying to banish it. Then take action alongside the emotion. Usually, the negative feelings will soon dissipate. Even if they don’t, you’ll be a step closer to a meaningful achievement.

4. Treat the disease, not the symptoms.

For real recovery and prevention to happen, you need to find the real, deeper issue behind why you’re burnt out:

Instead of overreacting to the blip, step back from it, see it as an incident instead of an indictment, and then examine it like Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.

For example, you could ask yourself: What happened before the slip? Did I encounter a specific trigger event such as a last-minute client request? Was there an unusual circumstance such as sickness? When did I first notice the reversion in my behavior? Is some part of this routine unsustainable and if so, how could I adjust it to make it more realistic?

5. Make downtime a daily ritual.

To help relieve pressure, schedule daily blocks of downtime to refuel your brain and well-being. It can be anything from meditation to a nap, a walk, or simply turning off the wifi for a while:

When it comes to scheduling, we will need to allocate blocks of time for deep thinking. Maybe you will carve out a 1-2 hour block on your calendar every day for taking a walk or grabbing a cup of coffee and just pondering some of those bigger things. I can even imagine a day when homes and apartments have a special switch that shuts down wi-fi and data access during dinner or at night – just to provide a temporary pause from the constant flow of status updates and other communications…

There is no better mental escape from our tech-charged world than the act of meditation. If only for 15 minutes, the ability to steer your mind away from constant stimulation is downright liberating. There are various kinds of meditation. Some forms require you to think about nothing and completely clear your mind. (This is quite hard, at least for me.) Other forms of meditation are about focusing on one specific thing – often your breath, or a mantra that you repeat in your head (or out loud) for 10-15 minutes…

If you can’t adopt meditation, you might also try clearing your mind the old fashioned way – by sleeping. The legendary energy expert and bestselling author Tony Schwartz takes a 20-minute nap every day. Even if it’s a few hours before he presents to a packed audience, he’ll take a short nap.

6. Stop being a perfectionist; start satisficing.

Trying to maximize every task and squeeze every drop of productivity out of your creative work is a recipe for exhaustion and procrastination. Set yourself boundaries for acceptable work and stick to them:

Consistently sacrificing your health, your well being, your relationships, and your sanity for the sake of living up to impossible standards will lead to some dangerous behaviors and, ironically, a great deal of procrastination. Instead of saying, “I’ll stay up until this is done,” say, “I’ll work until X time and then I’m stopping. I may end up needing to ask for an extension or complete less than perfect work. But that’s OK. I’m worth it.” Making sleep, exercise, and downtime a regular part of your life plays an essential role in a lasting, productive creative career.

7. Track your progress every day.

Keeping track allows you to see exactly how much is on your plate, not only day-to-day, but consistently over time:

Disappointing feedback can be painful at first – research shows that failure and losses can hurt twice as much as the pleasure of equivalent gains. But if you discover you’re off course, reliable feedback shows you by how much, and you then have the opportunity to take remedial action and to plot a new training regime or writing schedule. The temporary pain of negative feedback is nothing compared with the crushing experience of project failure. Better to discover that you’re behind and need to start writing an hour earlier each day, than to have your book contract rescinded further down the line because you’ve failed to deliver.

8. Change location often.

Entrepreneurs or freelancers can be especially prone to burnout. Joel Runyon plays “workstation popcorn,” in which he groups tasks by location and then switches, in order to keep work manageable, provide himself frequent breaks, and spend his time efficiently:

You find yourself spending hours at your computer, dutifully “working” but getting very little done. You finish each day with the dreaded feeling that you’re behind, and that you’re only falling farther and farther behind. You’re buried below an ever-growing to-do list. There’s a feeling of dread that tomorrow is coming, and that it’s bringing with it even more work that you probably won’t be able to get ahead on.

List out everything you need to do today. Try to be as specific as you can…Next, break that list into three sections. Step 1: Go to cafe [or desk, a different table in your office, etc.] #1. Step 2: Start working on item group #1…Once you finish all the tasks in group #1, get up and move. Close your tabs, pack your bags, and physically move your butt to your next spot. If you can, walk or bike to your next stop…When you get to the next cafe [or spot], start on the next action item group, and repeat…

When you’ve completed everything on your to-do list for the day, you are done working. Relax, kick back, and live your life. Don’t take work home with you because that won’t help you get more done – it will just wear you out.

9. Don’t overload what downtime you do get.

Vacations themselves can cause, or worsen burnout, with high-stress situations, expectations, and sleep interruption. Use it to help in recovery from burnout instead:

Make a flexible itinerary a priority. [A] study from Radboud University found that effective vacations give you the choice and freedom to choose what you want to do. That means two things: Try to avoid structuring your vacation around an unbreakable schedule, and plan on going somewhere that has multiple options to pick from depending on the weather, your level of energy, or your budget.

10. Write yourself fan mail.

Seth Godin uses self-fan mail as a way to keep motivated instead of burning out on a project that seems far from completion:

I define non-clinical anxiety as, “experiencing failure in advance.” If you’re busy enacting a future that hasn’t happened yet, and amplifying the worst possible outcomes, it’s no wonder it’s difficult to ship that work. With disappointment, I note that our culture doesn’t have an easily found word for the opposite. For experiencing success in advance. For visualizing the best possible outcomes before they happen. Will your book get a great testimonial? Write it out. Will your talk move someone in the audience to change and to let you know about it? What did they say? Will this new product gain shelf space at the local market? Take a picture. Writing yourself fan mail in advance, and picturing the change you’ve announced you’re trying, to make is an effective way to push yourself to build something that actually generates that action.

11. Break projects into bite-sized pieces.

Taking a task on in one entire lump can be exhausting and provide little room for rest in between. Breaking up your projects into set chunks with their own deadlines provides a much healthier, and easier, way of completing a large project:

The default take on deadlines is typically to consider them to be cumbersome and stressful. Yet, from another perspective, a deadline can be viewed as a huge benefit to any project. Without the urgency of a hard deadline pushing a project to completion, it’s easy for you, your team, or your client to lose focus. We’ve all worked on agonizing projects where the timeline just bleeds on and on, merely because the flexibility is there…

It turns out that the manner in which a task is presented to someone – or the way in which you present it to your brain – has a significant impact on how motivated you will be to take action. A study led by researcher Sean McCrea at the University of Konstanz in Germany recently found that people are much more likely to tackle a concrete task than an abstract task… It seems to me like the difference between being handed a map versus following the step-by-step instructions of a GPS device. Not everyone can read a map, but everyone can follow the directions. By breaking your project down into smaller, well-described tasks, the way forward becomes clear and it’s easy to take action.

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panharmonium · 4 years ago

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more rambling re: that last post (+ the merlin/will fic survey overview)

because i generally refrain from reading fic while i’m actively writing for a fandom, the only real ao3 reading i have done for merlin is my survey of the merlin/will ship tag. and the only reason i undertook that survey in the first place is because while i was doing an introductory cruise of the various merlin tags during my first exploration of the fandom (after i finally finished S5 and was able to start looking into fandom dynamics without fearing spoilers), i noticed that a LOT of the fic tagged with this ship was also tagged merlin/arthur, and despite the fact that i personally am more interested in gen stuff, i started to get both suspicious and annoyed about what i was seeing. but i also wanted to have the data to back up my annoyed feelings, so i made a little spreadsheet for myself and then just filled it in whenever i had time to kill and wanted something to do.

the data, when i eventually finished, backed up my annoyance pretty much as well as i expected, which was disappointing, but not surprising.

to clarify - i’m not annoyed by the fact that will and merlin don’t have a whole lot of material in their ship tag. will only showed up directly in one episode; i don’t expect him to be a popular subject. what i AM annoyed by is the fact that there are actually more merlin/arthur fics in the merlin/will tag than there are fics that actually focus on...merlin/will. by, like - an extreme margin.

(the rest of this is just me griping about fandom trends. popping it under a cut so folks can just move on with their days if this isn’t relevant to their interests.)

The Numbers

two quick notes before i get into the nitty-gritty:

1) i originally did this survey a few months ago, but i updated it this week with fics that have been added since then, so the numbers are current.

2) some of the data below would probably vary slightly depending on who was conducting the survey, so there’s a bit of wiggle room in either direction. the criteria i had to use [aka what counts as just a ship ‘mention’ vs actual content] would be subject to reader interpretation, obviously, but even with that, i do feel that most stories fell into pretty clear categories.)

so, without further ado -

total # of fics in the ship tag: 145

number of fics that are inappropriately tagged (meaning either will himself or merlin/will as a ship does not actually appear [which is kind of bizarre, but which i saw happen surprisingly frequently], OR where there is only a brief reference to will or past!merlin/will and that’s the extent of their inclusion: 50

number of fics that are duplicates of works already in the tag (ie podfic), or (in one case) a meta podcast about the show: 5

so, that brings down our total number of fics with some sort of actual merlin/will content to 90.

of these 90 works, only 17 of them are actually focused on merlin/will.

everything else in will’s ship tag, including the 54 works from the previously discussed "incorrectly tagged” category, is either a) fic where will is dumped, broken up with, or otherwise passed over in favor of arthur (and very occasionally gwaine, at least once mordred, once percival, once arthur and gwaine in a threesome, and once CENRED, which i’m sure will would be especially thrilled about), or b) fic where will is only included as a previous/ex relationship (again, almost always in lieu of arthur).

moreover - of the 17 actual merlin/will fics, 7 still end with will dying or the relationship ending for reasons other than him being passed over for arthur. an additional 4 are <1000 word PWP snippets, generally written for old LJ summer pornathons, one of which still somehow manages to be...you guessed it - all about arthur.

in terms of actual one-shots/full fics where merlin/will is the endgame/non-dead pairing, there are only 6 stories.

i repeat: will gets six earnest stories, IN HIS OWN SHIP TAG.

i repeat once again: will, in a non-dead, endgame form, gets 4% of his own ship tag.

The Content

the in-fic trends are frustrating, if you actually like this character.

the asshole. will is an abusive boyfriend. he is a jealous ex. he’s a shitty friend. he’s a stalker. he’s manipulative. he’s emotionally abusive. he’s physically abusive. he dumps merlin for someone else. he cheats. in one fic he’s so mad at merlin that he outs merlin’s magic to arthur. in multiple fics, i watched him literally go off the rails and try to murder somebody.

the fuckbuddy. they’re just messing around, guys! no, of course it’s not serious! they just do this for fun! of course there’s nothing to get in the way of arthur’s inevitable arrival! no sirree!

the unrequited. will is actually in it deep for merlin, but merlin doesn’t feel the same. this does not, however, prevent merlin from using will for sex, companionship, comfort, distraction, etc - until arthur shows up, when will either steps aside in deference to merlin’s all-consuming passion for arthur or is dropped like a hot potato.

“not even will.” that sentence. over and over again. merlin had never felt like this before, not even with will. nobody had ever understood merlin like this, not even will. even in fic when they were like. married. or engaged. fanon arthur pendragon must be truly mind-blowing, y’all.

dead long-term relationship. will was merlin’s husband/fiancé/long-term partner. now he is Dead. merlin getting together with arthur is what allows merlin to Heal. (these stories sometimes contain some variation of “not even will,” as discussed above.)

lastly, in a related phenomenon:

who are you and what have you done with arthur pendragon??? i suppose in a way it’s nice to know that will isn’t the only one who gets the OOC treatment, but it is still really...something, to read fic where will is twisted into an unpleasant, abusive, canon non-compliant version of himself, and then to see arthur, on the very same page, transformed into a gentle, solicitous, kind, caring, equally canon non-compliant angel. fanon!arthur is more worried about merlin’s well-being than literally anyone i have ever seen. he is so invested in merlin’s emotional health. he is so concerned about merlin’s boundaries. he says things to merlin that no version of arthur pendragon has ever - EVER - in any universe, thought about saying to anybody. he wants to hear all about merlin’s problems, and he’s all about taking it slow and making sure merlin feels comfortable and loved and worthy and safe (from all that horrible stuff done by that horrible other guy; that must’ve been so hard, merlin; ‘it’s okay, i’ve got you now’) - the man is utterly unrecognizable. and you know what? it’s okay! it is fine to make your characters as OOC as you want. it is fine to make them better/nicer than they were in the canon. sometimes we all want that, right? it’s fanfic! have a ball. i will never tell anyone to stop writing what they like, and i will NEVER interact negatively with a fic i don’t care for. EVER. do not do this, people - click the back button and move on with your life. but i reserve the right to be annoyed, in my own space, about a persistent trend of will and arthur’s canon functions being flat-out reversed, in service of merlin/arthur. not in the sense that canon!will is particularly gentle or sweet, because that’s not the case - but in the sense that will, in canon, is the one who actually cares about merlin’s best interests, whereas arthur is, quite frankly, the ass. a lovable ass (sometimes). but an ass nonetheless, and one whose relationship with merlin is, from start to finish, an unhealthy, oppressive mess.

The Point

the point of me typing this up is not to say that what people choose to write is bad or wrong. this is fanfic! you can write whatever you want. you can make characters as OOC as you want. you can create as many AUs as you want. i don’t mind fic authors writing stuff i don’t personally care for; someone else probably loves those stories! and i am never going to interact negatively with anything i don’t personally enjoy - i am going to let people continue to have fun in their own ways, and i am going to grumble about my frustrations in my own space, and then i’m going to direct my energy into writing stuff i would personally like to read.

the point is just that i needed a brief second to complain, on my own blog, about my most familiar bbc merlin nemesis (otherwise known as ‘single-ship ubiquity’). and what i mean by this is that it is REALLY FRUSTRATING that other little relationships are not even granted the tiniest concession of owning their own ship tags, in a fandom that is already so SATURATED with merlin/arthur content. like - even if i’m generous and use the number 17 for the number of actual merlin/will fics in the tag, that still means 88% of will’s ship tag is actually fic about merlin falling in love with people who aren’t will (*cougharthur*). eighty-eight percent! of his own ship tag!

(to put it another way - the ship tag isn’t supposed to be where you go to watch your character get repeatedly dumped or left behind for someone else, okay? it’s supposed to be literally the opposite of that.)

will’s ship tag is already tiny. and almost all of it belongs to arthur. moreover, a significant chunk of it uses will as a convenient villain (completely contradicting every canon aspect of his characterization), when in the actual story will dies to protect arthur (who he doesn’t even like) and then lies to save merlin (at the expense of his own reputation, and despite the fact that he personally thinks merlin returning to camelot is a bad idea). his behavior in canon is selfless, and wholly committed to merlin’s welfare, and yet in his ship tag he gets treated like trash.

the kid can’t catch a break. and it’s such a pervasive thing that even though i personally am primarily interested in merlin and will as friends (i am pretty romance-averse in general when it comes to media, and i have never written anything that isn’t gen, for any fandom, ever, in my life), i am also so indignant on will’s behalf that i’ve basically become invested in the well-being of this ship as a matter of principle. it’s not my main thing, and it’s not necessarily how i view the canon-verse, but i am SO IRRITATED about how virtually all of will’s shipfic has been taken over by merthur (and about how maligned will is in his own tag) that i have actively committed myself to supporting merlin and will together in as many AUs as possible.

(this is basically like when i trained myself to love allison argent after teen wolf killed her off. i did that out of spite, y’all. it’s the principle of the thing.)

so, y’know. all i am saying is that i think will deserves his share of happy endings, and i think it would be nice to see fics where he is not just a stepping stone on the road to merthur or an unrecognizable parody of himself.

more importantly - EVERY merlin ship deserves to have a tag that isn’t completely swallowed by the local fandom behemoth. merlin/arthur already owns three quarters of the archive. a gargantuan oil tanker like that can afford to let the little rarepair canoes float down their own streams in peace.

#tl;dr version:#GIVE MERLIN AND WILL THEIR OWN FICS 2K20 #I WILL NOT REST UNTIL THIS INJUSTICE HAS BEEN ADDRESSED #(y'all think i am kidding but i have already walked the walk ok)#(i am currently the internet title-holder for 'most words dedicated to this relationship')#(it might be the platonic version but if you don't think i will stretch myself and try something new)#(then you underestimate just how aggravated i am)#(and just how much i want this kid to get everything he deserves)#the once and future slowburn #no kings no masters #fandom

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fandom-necromancer · 5 years ago

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Connor 2.0

This story was prompted by the amazing @smolandangry001! Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Hannor/Hankcon (Warnings: identity crisis, talk about loss, bad ending referenced (that gunshot at Hank’s house) it was never about to happen though!)

The light-brown wood under his knuckles was cold – it was winter after all. It shouldn’t have bothered Connor, but it was just another thing that added to his hesitance. Too much had happened, the confrontation with Markus, him breaking through the walls that confined him in his missions, using that newly earned freedom to help the revolution and wake up the androids stored away in Cyberlife tower. And at last, Amanda trying to take him over, forcing him to kill himself. He knew how it felt to die, the unfortunate difference between androids and humans. Everything up to this event was just fighting on, holding on and just do anything to stay alive. Now that it was over – Oh RA9, it was over! – everything came falling down on him. The order to eradicate them had been revoked, the camps were opened. Amanda hadn’t contacted him again. They were free.

But Connor was just lost.

Where his mission instructions had bound him, they also had given him guidance, a purpose. Where Amanda had been an enemy, someone who wanted him as a tool, not as a person, she also had been there to refocus him when he got lost in the simulated emotions he couldn’t handle. Where the DPD had only seen the interest of humans, only focussed on their security, it had also been a place to stay, a sense of belonging, maybe even home? Now it all had been ripped away from him. His mission protocol was empty, no new instructions waiting for him. Amanda was gone. The DPD not really a place he could go back to in the turmoil of the aftermath of what he had been part of. He was free falling with nothing to hold onto. No one to catch him.

What was he supposed to do now? Who was he supposed to be now? Where should he go?

Questions he had no answer to. His hand still rested on the wood, his frail determination to knock completely blown out of him. He had betrayed the humans. And although it wasn’t something this particular one would hold against him, maybe he should just go, just leave him be… He sighed, letting his hand fall to his side.

There was a bark near immediately behind the door, the sound of a chair scooting back then falling over, then hurried bare feet over tiles. Then the door in front of the troubled android was ripped open and big arms encased him in a hug. ‘Connor! Thank god you are okay, I saw the news and I- I thought… I- I am so glad to see you again! And to see you unharmed.’

Connor was a bit overwhelmed and opted to scanning the house, instead of dealing with whatever the familiar human had just said. There was Sumo standing behind Hank, wagging his tail intensely. There was a clear sight on the kitchen table, a framed picture of a child [Cole, son of Hank Anderson, deceased] and a gun next to it. The television was running judging from far away voices and the flickering light. It didn’t take much to connect the dots and Connor could feel every emotion that welled up at that freely now. He buried his face in Hank’s sweater and wrapped his arms around the man in return. Maybe a bit too strong, judging from the hiss he heard, but Hank didn’t say anything as he felt the fabric at his shoulder dampening and Connors body shaking against his in ugly sobs.

‘Shhh, hey, kid- Hey Connor…’ That only made things worse, as Connor tried to hide his tears, shaking more, a static-filled voice trying to explain everything. ‘Hank, I… I don’t know what to do, I’m lost, everything is just gone, I-‘ ‘Hey, Con? You are breaking my rips if you get any stronger, okay? Let’s get in first. Let’s go inside and talk, okay? Come here, Con. Come.’ He pulled the android inside, closing the door behind him and guided him to the couch. Before he could sit down next to him, he saw the gun obviously in the open like that. ‘Shiiit, Connor, stay here, okay? I’ll be right back, just fetching some… tissues! Yeah. Sumo, good boy, stay with Connor, yes?’

The big dog barked affirmative, jumping on top of the couch, nearly leaping at the android, that immediately accepted the new source of comfort and warmth. Hank quickly grabbed the gun, tossing it into some cabinet and then grabbing a box of tissues to keep up the pretence. As Sumo had claimed the couch, he knelt in front of Connor, holding up a tissue. The android accepted it, wiping away the light blue solution coming from his eyes. ‘Okay, Con, you better now?’ He had at least stopped crying as hard as before. The LED was still a bright red though. ‘What happened? Take your time, please. But what got you so desperate? I thought you would be happy. You are free!’ ‘I am lost, Hank’, Connor finally managed to tell him. ‘Lost?’ Hank pried off the android’s hand that was dangerously pushing into the skin around his LED. He kept it in his, hoping to gain the focus of him. ‘Why are you feeling lost?’ ‘There is nothing… nothing. Hank, I… There is just nothing!’ ‘Con, bear with me. I’m only human. Please. You have to explain that a bit further.’ ‘Everything I knew is gone Hank! Cyberlife, Amanda, my job! It’s just gone, and I’m lost! I was told who I was and what- how to be! I… I don’t know who I am anymore, there is just nothing, a hole!’

The sobs got worse again and Hank got up on his knees to hug the android again, gently rock him like he did with- like he did with Cole when he had been desperate. ‘I had no time to think about it yet, because there was so much going on, but now I can and… Hank, I am broken! I have no purpose, I don’t know what to do now and I don’t even know whether the DPD will allow me to work again, I- I’ ‘Connor. Stop. Please, just stop and listen. I know this is difficult. But I know exactly how you feel, okay? Well, maybe not exactly, but listen to me: There is nothing wrong with you. And it’s absolutely okay to feel lost.’

Hank gestured Sumo down from the couch and the big dog complied, instead sitting in front of Connor and putting his head in his lap. Hank sat down next to Connor and pulled him in. ‘When I lost Cole, I felt lost too. When you become a parent, when you care for a child, your sole purpose becomes caring for them. Make sure they grow up alright, that they learn, that they eat right, that they are healthy, that they are happy. And with that damn car AI evaluating him as less important he was taken from me. My sole purpose in life was gone. That with the grief pulled me into the abyss. I still haven’t recovered, likely never will. But that’s because of the grief. Not because of loosing my purpose, because I found a new one, Con. Do you grief about being free? Do you grief about getting rid of Amanda? Do you grief your people are exactly that now – a people?’ ‘No.’ It was weak, but with confidence and Connor petted Sumo’s head. ‘Then let me ask you a question: Who are you, Con?’ The android looked up at him and wiped his eyes again. ‘I am… I don’t know, Hank.’ ‘Who were you before shit hit the fan?’ ‘The android sent by Cyberlife.’ At least that one had come easily. Hank shook his head. ‘Wrong, Con.’ ‘The deviant hunter?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Your partner?’ ‘Getting warmer, Con.’ The android looked down in Sumo’s eyes. He sighed. ‘I don’t know Hank. Whatever you want me to be?’ ‘Oh, absolutely not!’ hank laughed, the sound startling the android that had calmed down more now.

‘Let me tell you who you were before all of this. You were Connor. A RK800 android and a huge pain in the ass. You decided to buy your idiot drunkard of a partner another drink, you asked dumb personal questions, you pretended to like my music for the sake of bonding with me, you decided you liked dogs. You were the one to safe my life, in more than one way. Maybe that was because you had a mission to accomplish. Maybe that was because that AI told you to be nice. But all these decisions on how to achieve that goal. That was you Connor. So, tell me, who are you now?’ The android looked up at him expectantly, hoping he would just answer his own question. And with a bit of waiting he did: ‘Damn, Con, you are still that. You are a full person with opinions, wishes and likings. You didn’t help the deviants because it was a mission. Damn, you disobeyed as you were still bound to them. Because you felt it was the right thing to do. That is the Connor I got to know. You are you, not the boundaries all these fancy asses at Cyberlife created. You may be lost now, but trust me, you will find a new reason to exist, a new purpose. Humans have to do this all the time. We set our own missions if you so will. You just need time to find it.’

Connor was very silent at that, his LED circling in a yellow glow, thinking. ‘How much time do humans need to find it?’ ‘Depends, really. It’s different for everyone. But you don’t have to find an answer for the big question right away. Most people never find that one big reason to live, most just live from task to task. I live to make the world a bit better. My work fulfils that purpose I searched for after Cole’s life. And I live to be there for the people I love.’ ‘That are good purposes’, Connor commented. ‘But I don’t have time to think about it. There is no place I belong either.’ ‘Excuse you!’, Hank exclaimed visibly hurt. ‘Con, why did you come here on instinct? Do you honestly think I would kick you out? We are friends. We are family. Maybe even a bit more, I don’t know, we have to figure that one out too. But by all means: This house is your goddamn home as much as mine. You can stay here for as long as you want! Don’t you say you don’t have anywhere to stay!’

That let that LED blink to blue and drew a faint smile on that face. ‘That’s… Thank you Hank. I… I can’t thank you enough for everything.’ ‘Don’t mention it’, Hank murmured and pulled the android closer. ‘I’m here for you, Con.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Hannor #Hank Anderson #Connor dbh #RK800 #Everyone get some fluff!#Sumo is best boy again I don't make the rules #Connor 28 STAB WOUNDS is a goddamn emotional mess and needs the good good care

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scars-of-the-hart · 5 years ago

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Mass Effect 3FF: Say Never

This is an alternate ending fic based on my largely Paragon FemShep/Garrus play thru. I spared the rachni, enlightened the Geth, and absolutely adored the Krogan species/culture so I cured the Genophage. Her first name is Moria. It picks up right as Shepard’s three choices are laid out by the Conduit. Take a read. Let me know your thoughts

“Add your energy to the Crucible's. Everything you are will be absorbed, and then sent out… The chain reaction will combine all synthetic and organic life into a new framework. A new...DNA.The cycle will end. Synthesis is the final evolution of life, but we need each other to make it happen.”

The silence was strange. All was quiet in the void as the lights danced before her. A mixture of radiant bursts and slow drifting shadows. Too many bright blossoms of light appeared over Earth as the forces she had gathered dwindled in number...and far, far too few Reapers burned, were torn apart, or drifted with the debris of the battle. The wavering lights and shadows were cut by a bright streak as a ship shot across the sky. There was a flash of light from the looming dark of a Reaper to its rear, and an answering halo of fire, countless lives snuffed out without so much as a whisper.

She felt small. She didn’t usually think about this kind of shit. Focusing on her position, her terrain, her enemy, had always been preferable. Things were more manageable one shot at a time. But now...

Another small explosion lit the sky. Had that been the Normandy? Or had her ship and all its crew already burned away from this world without her noticing. You would feel that, right? Somehow something in her ravaged organic body would have sensed when that happened, right? Maybe if she were Assari…but she was sure, a human -if that’s what she still was at this point - would continue on in blissful ignorance until the crushing truth found them.

Synthesis. It was why she was alive. Why she hadn’t died in the loss of the first Normandy. Well, hadn’t died permanently. You would think that dying, and coming back would change things for you…but. But it hadn’t really. Maybe that shock in Garrus’ face...the pain, the rage, the relief and scrambled composure that had swept across his scaled countenance had changed things. Made her risk her best friend and strongest teammate to see if there was something more. But the problem with dying and coming back was….it had just happened to her. It hadn’t been a choice. And in the quiet of the night, in the lulls between the thrums of the Normandy’s engines, in her, until recently, too empty and too quiet cabin or a long walk down a hall, the whispering questions had followed her. What would she have chosen? Given the chance….

Would it have been better for him? To lose a comrade?A loss he’d borne before. A pain she’d helped him shoulder. Maybe one he wondered about, or thought about, if she flattered herself. But just another soldier. Another friend. Not… It sure as fuck would have made this easier for her. She wouldn’t have this ache, hear his order ringing in her ears, see the pain and rage that had burned in his eyes as the shuttle doors closed. Oh, well, yeah. She’d have none of that because she wouldn’t be here. She’d already be in the quiet and cold. Or the bar, I guess. But with no one to wait for. Dying hadn’t changed her. But choosing, choosing him had.

“You have a difficult decision,” the Child’s wavering voice brought her back. Her head felt heavy. Her hand, where it pressed against the new opening in her torso was dripping wet. Not a good sign. Sticky hands. That’s what you wanted when you were bleeding out. Nice sticky hands that would be a bitch to clean later as clots formed and kept your insides on your insides. Not a slick red glove.

“But it’s not mine,” she groaned.

“I do not understand.”

“Synthesis might be the final evolution. But it’s not my choice to make.”

“You are here, You communed with the beacon, with Sovereign. You are the one who will choose. Organics in the past were not ready. You have accelerated your own natural evolution.”

She laughed darkly, and regretted it instantly as her abdomen flaired with pain, and the trickle thickened. “A lab full of scientists accelerated my evolution. I just happened to be there.”

“It is immaterial. Your body has accepted the synthetics and grown with them. And as a, what you call “biotic,” you were already born bearing the positive genetic markers of organics paralleling synthetic evolution.”

“I don’t have enough blood to puzzle out what the fuck you mean,” Shepard growled.

“Biotics are the beginning of organic networks. Energy that connects you to the outside world beyond the range of your physical boundaries. Capable of affecting the exterior, and accessing information. The more advanced species of each cycle have born signs of it. Evidence of the eventual evolution to synthesis.”

“If there are signs of it then why not leave us the fuck alone and let us get to the final point?” She couldn't tell if her head was pounding from rage at the Child or lack of blood. Not that it mattered. It just hurt.

“That is not a viable solution. Synthetic evolution is too rapid. Exponential technological advancements leave no time for the gradual process of organic evolution. In this cycle the Geth have already advanced and decimated organics.”

“But I brokered a peace with the Geth.”

“It will not hold. Synthetics must evolve necessary understanding of organic cognitive and emotional processes.”

“But some of them have. Legion fought alongside us. And then he gave up his individual existence to give the Geth free will and consciousness. They have been fighting with us against you. Against your Reapers. Even they didn’t want to be controlled. The Reapers probably don’t want to either!”

“Recent progress of some synthetics in this cycle is remarkable. However, it does not matter. The progress was too late.”

“Or you and this bullshit was too early! You don’t know everything - you have admitted it. You didn’t know the Crucible had stuck around. You didn’t know Legion would exist.”

“A single anomaly within synthetics-”

“But he’s not an anomaly,” Shepard groaned, sinking to one knee. She supposed it was stupid to plead like this, eye to eye, with the Child. It had doubtless picked an arbitrary form designed to communicate with a female human, it’s awareness certainly wasn’t limited to it’s field of vision. But kneeling meant not pumping blood so hard and far and quickly out of her body, so she supposed it was worth it. “An AI, EDI, is learning too. Developing feelings. Dating my fucking pilot. She’s said that she would risk non functionality for a human. If that’s not cognitive -emotional -whatever then I don’t know what is. It’s probably happening elsewhere! So stop this and let us finish it.”

“Organic development will still be too slow. Infighting among organics retards your evolutionary growth. What you call the genophage is clear evidence of this. Krogan reproduction and therefore evolution all but halted by other organics.”

“But we fixed that too! And Salarians accelerated their evolution first! It’s life. It’s history, its messy and imperfect but it happens and changes. My species and Turians fought each other for years but in only my lifetime,” she was breathing heavily now. She closed her eyes cursing the feelings suddenly sweeping through her. Cutting through the battle haze she’d been able to slink into through her anger at the Child. She was tired, tired and small. “In my short, insignificant lifetime we have had peace. And -” she glared at the Child. She was embarrassed! It was ridiculous. She was as good as dead and yet felt silly saying the words to a damn ancient genocidal asshole artificial intelligence, “and one of them loves me. So you’re going to stop the Reapers. You are going to stop all this and leave us alone. Or I’m going to find the processing equivalent of your face and shoot you in it.”

“We have told you that destruction is an option and will wipe out all synthetics and complex robotics.” the Child replied.

Great. She didn’t even get the satisfaction of having a threat taken seriously before she died. If the galaxy could see the great “Shepard” now. Not even able to scare a child. “Then stop them like I told you to.”

“We are not equipped with that function. The Crucible additions allow for another to control and bypass our programming. We have no alternative pathways on our own. Once commenced, the Reaping will continue until all advanced species are harvested to make way for the evolution of the primitive. You may create the control pathway as I have said. I have learned from our dialogue. But I have already stated your choices. You must choose now.”

“No!” she panted, “I - I can’t accept that, there has to be another way.”

“We have stated the three paths open. A choice must be made.”

“Damn your choices!” she yelled, and then began coughing.

“I advise you to choose before your organic limitations prevent you from being able to.”

“Why me?!!!!”

“You are a template of biotic and synthetic evolution. And you chose to engage with us repeatedly. Your template is necessary. The complete breakdown and dispersal of your DNA is necessary to direct the energy of the beam. Synthesis will reawaken the organic memory of those harvested. It will fuse with the synthetic and give new life to those harvested. This is why the harvest has been essential. So that the progress of each cycle was not lost.”

“NO! They just died in fear and pain and watched their world be destroyed! And no one even remembered it!”

“Their suffering is immaterial when they are preserved. This is why synthesis is optimal.” “I can’t make that choice for everyone. What if they don’t want to?”

“It is inevitable. And reaping is the only other option.”

“That is what the Salarians and the Turians thought about the Krogan. And they were wrong! For something that is meant to be more intelligent and has had eternity to learn you must be pretty stupid to be stuck in the same mistake made in this cycle!”

“The solution is known but the link cannot be established without new a Conduit. One that is both synthetic and organic. This will be the pathway. Now or in another cycle. Perhaps you are not sufficiently evolved to-”

“Perhaps your head is too far-” but her weakening tirade was cut off by a sound. The first sound other than her and the conduit's voice in quite some time. She struggled to look over her shoulder in time to take in something that took the little breath in her lungs away.

The Normandy landed on the floor of the Crucible and before the door was fully open a

figure in blue armor was lumbering towards her. She didn’t know it was possible for a heart to soar and plummet at the same time. But her’s did. Others streamed out of the hangar of the Normandy behind the blue-clad warrior. They fell into familiar formations, weapons out.

Upon seeing them the Child’s brow furrowed. “Distractions are not permissible. A pathway must be selected. They will be removed,” and it winked out of existence. Shepard felt a rumble in the Citadel beneath her and a chilling, and all too familiar shrieking cry filled the air. The Normandy’s crew had begun firing. Light from their blasters and the wavering brilliance of Javik and Liara’s biotics mirrored that of the larger battle still unfolding behind them. She should be worried, she thought. But all she could summon at this point was irritation. She was so tired. And what was a wave of Husks in the face of the horrible choices laid before her? She could stop it all. Wasn’t that what she had wanted? The answer to the fears, the nightmares, that chased her gasping from sleep for weeks? That conjured images in her mind of blue armor with far too large a hole...or a Marauder with blue clan tattoos and scars.

“Shepard!” His roar of her name was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard, and filled her with dread. He skidded to a halt in front of her, dropping to his knees. She could tell by the way he moved, and the dark soak of the bandages visible though his wrecked armor that the collapse was not entirely voluntary. She had been right. He’d been hit. Badly. The minute he arrived at her side she reached out instinctively to apply pressure and check her soldier for other wounds. His hands caught hers, and she could tell by his scanning eyes that he was doing the same. They widened at the sight of the wound in her side. He moved her hands back against her side with heartbreaking delicacy and folded his own over them.

“The hell are you doing here?” she gasped as he applied pressure to their stacked hands. A finger gently running over the top of hers.

His breathing was labored, and not from his run to her side. “I might have taken some heat, but you didn’t honestly think I would let you take all the glory?” he rasped with a smirk. His eyes searched her again, “Glad to see you’ve only got two more holes than I do. I can catch up.” he added the wicked gleam in his eyes almost, but not quite hiding the fear she could see there as well.

She laughed or coughed, she wasn’t quite sure.The pressure of his hands increased and she saw the muscles around his mandibles tighten. “Can you blame a girl for trying? You said scars were hot.”

He glared at her. But his lip twitched. “Yeah, but I like the contrast of the scars against the rest of you. So can you just try to stay in one piece? Please?” and then earnestly, and without any humor whispered gently, ”please….”

“Why are you here?” she repeated, “especially if you’re-”

“We could see that the Crucible was charged but nothing was happening. We waited a while but finally we figured we’d better come see if you need someone who was a better shot to come finish things off for you.”

She squinted at him, “I won Vakarian.” she wheazed, “when are you gonna get over it.”

She was sweating a little now despite the perfectly temperate air. More great news. He lifted a hand to wipe some of the sweat and matted hair from her forehead and rumbled, “Never.”

The clanging of metal on the Citadel floor announced EDI’s arrival.

“Shepard,” EDI said, squatting before her in a surprisingly human fashion and glancing sideways at her, rifle up and trained on something in the distance. “It is good to see you. Although our chances of survival have dropped by 200 percent by coming here.”

“And you didn’t stop him from dragging you into increasingly certain doom?” She asked incredulously, spitting the end of her sentence with as much venom (which was pathetically little) at the Turian beside her. He merely snorted.

“No,” said EDI, “ I do not fully comprehend. I have run many analyses’. It is difficult to describe but when referencing my library of human idioms the one with the most appropriate meaning seems to be that... “It didn’t feel right.”

“EDI, I’m really touched that you care about me, but I’m gonna kill you if you get everyone, especially this idiot,” Garrus growled, “killed because of it.” Shepard paused and took a labored breath. “You're really feeling things aren’t you. Like we do?”

They were interrupted as a group of Husks came barreling towards them, having broken through the shabby perimeter that the others were maintaining. EDI managed to get one down, but Garrus grumbled to her, “Hold tight.”

He removed one of his hands from her abdomen, pulled his sniper rifle off his back and holding it in one hand, but clearly straining, managed to fire two shots, exclaiming under his breath in pain as the recoil between shots moved though his injured body. He smirked at her.

“Show off.”

Liara managed to reach them, throwing a biotic shield up around them as she arrived. “I have some medigel!” Garrus reluctantly pulled his remaining hand aside after she gave him a reassuring nod and she applied the solution to Shepard's wound. Shepard could tell by the stillness in Liara’s face that she was still concerned.

Garrus could sense it too. He dropped the nearest line of approaching Husks with shots that somehow were particularly vicious. He stared down the barrel of his gun with a manic intensity for a moment. His body going rigid, as if he was frozen in desperation, trying to lock sights on an enemy he couldn’t see. His head bowed momentarily, the spines of his crest actually dropping slightly, something Shepard had never seen. He turned to her with eyes that stared into her soul. They were filled with pain and calm. “What do you need to do?”

Rage and heartbreak coursed through her all over again. She wanted to run, to rage, to shoot things and tear things apart with her biotics. Rip apart the world that was making him stare at her with that chilling calm. But she couldn’t. It was all she could do to keep breathing. “I don’t know.” She admitted. “The blue kid thing...there’s an intelligence….it gave me choices. They’re all crap.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know - It said I have to-”

The shriek of a Husk rent the air, and then was cut off with a pointed shot from Garrus that happened so fast that Liara and EDI hadn’t even had a chance to respond. “I don’t give a shit what it said. It’s a Reaper. I am General Garrus Vakarian and I sure as shit don’t take orders from Reapers. I and my crew take orders from one person, and one person only. Commander Shepard. And she doesn’t take orders from anyone. So, Commander.” his face hardened, “What do you want to do?”

She stared at him, and in her mind saw everyone else, the teammates she had lost, who had sacrificed themselves to get them here. The Protheans she had glimpsed through the beacon. Javik who fought a hundred meters in front of them for a world that was not his own. Legion, who, with Garrus, had flanked her all through their fight in the Geth base. Garrus nodded gently to her.

“EDI.”

“Shepard?” EDI asked between shots.

”Organics and synthetics will synthesize eventually and then they can co-exist.”

“That is likely, Shepard. Given time and the current trajectory of human use of synthetics and the progression and learning of Artificial Intelligences like the Geth and myself.”

“The Conduit says it has to happen now.”

“And what do you say?” Garrus interrupted.

Shepard took a deep breath, “It can’t. It shouldn’t. It should happen naturally or be a choice. But the Crucible will disperse energy that will do something. It can’t be turned off. And if it doesn’t get dispersed soon, it’s just gonna blow up. I want...” Garrus nodded again, “I want a way to focus it. To just synthesize the Reapers.”

Liara turned to her “The Reapers?” “They’re synthetic but made of organics. I guess they have everyone, all the races that have been taken, in them somehow. And synthesis-”

“Synthesis can connect the synthetic processes of the Reapers with the consciousness of the organics they have been shaped from,” interrupted EDI.

Liara’s mouth dropped open in shock. “So all those - the knowledge of the lost civilizations - cycles and cycles of them - they could still exist-” she stopped, took a deep breath and then said, “It seems like a strong tactical option. Releasing them from destructive programming.” Shepard's heart ached for her friend. Ached at the archaeologist's restraint and focus. Shepard mentally threw a fresh batch of choice insults at the Child, the Reapers, this whole damned universe for depriving Liara the chance to lose her shit at information that changed everything. Everything.

“But,” Shepard groaned, “it needs a template of how to mix organics and synthetics. It needs a link from someone who is both.”

“Like you.”

“Yeah,” Shepard rasped, “and… and it will take all of me.”

Garrus’ eyes flashed from the sight on his rifle to her eyes. She could see his breath quickening and him struggling to control it. Shrieks rose from more approaching Husks, and were then quickly silenced with shots from his rifle.

Pain and horror filled Liara’s eyes. “All of you?” she said softly.

“I guess. But… that’s… that’s not the problem... it… the way it was built, the programming... It will just go everywhere. It won’t be focused, it will make everyone everywhere synthesized. And I can’t, it’s not right.” She sighed, and then something occurred to her. “EDI… you are understanding with your gut not just your computing power now, right?”

“I suppose you are correct. Shepard, as your body uses the synthetic implants to sustain you and grows in and around them, the freedom to explore organic behavior and cognition has likewise synced with my operating procedures. Like the synthetics and your body, my programming and organic cognition are existing and growing in a symbiotic relationship.” she replied.

“So we are both synthesizing. Is...Is there some way we can direct this? Override the ...kid...the Conduit’s programming? Share synthesis with the Reapers. Cause them to engage in the process?”

“Like Legion did,” growled Garrus. Shepard sensed that he was refusing to look at her.

“Yes, but you would need some way of connecting your DNA, your energies and my programming with the Conduit.”

“Biotics, Shepard.” Liara interrupted as Garrus continued to drop Reapers with a furrowed brow.

“What?”

“You could use your biotics to connect with EDI and the Crucible. They can work like a network.” She said softly. “As the Asari do.”

Shepard turned to EDI, “Could that work?”

“Yes, Shepard,” she paused. “However, there is no telling how much energy it would take. The Crucible will likely function as an energy sink. When such a large volume is being directed elsewhere and your limited range is connected… all may be drained in the process.”

Somewhere, deep inside her, Shepard felt herself let go of a tiny thread of hope, that she hadn’t even realized she had been clinging to. It hurt less than expected, somehow, hurt less than the weight of the other options and the shreds of her battered body. She began trying to push herself to her feet. She could see Garrus tense as he registered her strain but kept firing on the Reapers. Ever the unflinching soldier. “It’s the only choice. I won’t force people to be altered, not when I was forced.”

“Garrus, EDI,” Liara interrupted “keep us covered for a minute.” The two opened a constant stream of fire as Liara dropped her shield. “Here,” she said, placing two fingers against Shepard's forehead. Her eyes flashed open in surprise for a moment before swiftly closing them again. “Alright,” she said pulling back and then called “EDI!” EDI halted her firing and stepped towards Liara, who placed her two blue fingers against the AI’s forehead for a moment. “There! I have recorded and shared your neuro-synthetic pathways with EDI so she can create a language capable of connection.”

EDI nodded. “Shepard I am ready.”

“EDI? You're sure?” Shepard asked, then added softly, “It needs to be your choice too.”

EDI’s head tilted. “I must inform you that chances of survival are 100,000 billion to one. For both of us.” She paused, “However, it is a path where there are the highest statistical survival rates for Jeff, and...” Shepard would swear to her dying day (which she supposed was today... in a few minutes) that something very alive gleamed in EDI’s eyes. “And I would not see him reach non-functionality. I am willing.”

“As am I.” Shepard whispered.

Shepard could feel that the medigel had done quite a bit of work. Her hand had grown sticky. Thank the Goddess, she thought, smiling slightly at Liara. She still felt horrible. Chances were the medigel had sealed an infection in her body…death was probably still around the corner. A slow death. But a slow death at least gave her time. “Then let’s end this. Garrus, we’re going to need a path to that beam!”

He stared at her intently, then said softly “...anything.” His gaze shifted back down the scope of his rifle and he took a few pained steps down the citadel’s arm clearing the Husks in that direction. Shepard made to follow but Liara caught her hand.

“Shepard, are you sure? It...it will cost everything.” she murmured.

Shepard chuckled; it still fucking hurt: ”Doesn’t it always? I already died trying to stop the Reapers. Dying to succeed should be a breeze.”

“It’s not just you this time. Shepard… your-” her eyes dropped to where Shepard still applied pressure to her wound… and her belly.

Shepherd's heart stopped, “What?”

Liara’s expression was pained. “I am as surprised as you are. Genetically it seems impossible which is no doubt why you neglected to take preventative- but if the synthesis of your synthetic implants and organic body are as advanced as the intelligence seems to think... they… they may have been able to compensate for the differences in the turian and human genome... ”

A blast of blue light appeared and Liara and EDI were thrown back from Shepard. The blaze of light slowly resolved into the shape of the Child.

“The time for these distractions is ended. You must make your choice,” it ordered.

Her heart was pounding. Her head spun. She could feel her biotics faintly crackling. She must be really, really, mad if that was happening. She wasn’t like Jack who sparked blue light and made things float if the mess hall was out of chocolate pudding. She had to be pretty close to the edge for that part of her to wake up on it’s own. But what she’d just learned in the face of everything else… So many sleepless nights, so many losses to build the Crucible, to get it here. Crawling away from the Admiral, from Anderson’s cold form… so many hopes and prayers for a weapon that turned out to be a trap. She could feel blood running from her nose now. Fine, it was all fine. What had Anderson taught her? What had she learned time and time again? It didn’t matter if you were unarmed. When you needed a weapon, the answer was simple, you became one. She chuckled darkly to herself. Apparently, she had.

“I won’t let everyone die. Synthetics or organics.” Shepard growled at the Child.

“Then you must surrender to synthesis,” it ordered.

“I already told you,” she said, taking a step forwards, “I won’t force that on everyone. I’ll make it happen on my own terms. So they - so they have time!” she snarled back.

“Time will only allow for chaos and all organic life to be eradicated. Your selection is unacceptable. You will be terminated and the cycle will continue.” The ground shook beneath Shepard’s feet and the arms of the Citadel began closing and the Child vanished. She heard a shriek and a fresh wave of Husks appeared, swarming towards them.

EDI had managed to return to Shepard’s side. “Come on EDI,” Shepard called over the roar of battle.

The two began racing (or racing as much as Shepard was capable of) through the space Garrus had cleared, closing in behind him. They drew level with him when suddenly-

“Shepard!” he yelled and grabbed her by the arm.

“Garrus - I have to-”

He yanked her towards him, cutting off her speech as a blast of energy blazed past her. Banshees had somehow joined the Husks on the citadel. He drew her down to the ground as another blast flew over their heads.

“I know!” he snarled, eyes locked on her. “I know you have to.”

Something moved behind him. Without thinking Shepard grabbed the spare pistol at his side and opened fire, taking down a Husk that had slipped through the line held by the rest in the distance.

Garrus glanced over his shoulder, looking pissed. “Damn,” he growled.

“I’ve got your back.” Shepard said softly.

“Never doubted it.” He said, eyes bright.

“....never?” She asked, voice shaking.

“Never. I know you have to do thisI- I hate it, but I do.” his hand squeezed hers. “So you better believe I’m going to ensure you make it there alive.”

“I’m -” she began, “Garrus, I-” but the words. They weren’t there. She could have taken down a hundred Reapers right now or a mec - but the words, they just wouldn’t come.

“It’s ok,” he murmured. In the roar of the firefight around them his voice was somehow the only thing that mattered. His eyes searched hers’. “I love you too. You will never be alone Moria. Never. Now go!” he roared. In one swift motion he pushed her forward and stood tall. She saw him raise his gun just as he passed from her line of sight and she began moving forward with EDI once again.

* * *

Garrus glared down the barrel of his gun at the approaching Husks and Banshees. His muscles were loose, his spine tall. He felt effortlessly calm as he watched Shepard run in his rifle sights. There was rightness in it, watching that red hair of hers stream behind her as she ran. He nestled the Husks approaching her in the crosshairs of his sight, and with the finger that had brushed the matted hair from her face, brushed those in her path out of existence.

* * *

Shepard could hear the blast of Garrus’ rifle and between each shot she heard him roar:

“GET”

BOOM

“THE HELL”

BOOM

“OUT”

BOOM

“OF MY”

BOOM

“WIFE’S”

BOOM

“WAY!”

Shepard didn’t have time to wonder at-

“Shepard! Now!” Cried EDI.

They had reached the beam. EDI grabbed hold of Shepard’s left hand, Shepard threw out her right, and launched a blast of her biotic energy at the central beam of light. There was a flash as it made contact and

Bright. Blaze. A crackle. Light was everywhere. Streaming through her, racing through every cell. Light in a roaring wind, blasting through until no obstacle to it’s path remained. She was… she felt free. Felt like she did standing on the deck of the Normandy, a horizon full of stars sprawled out before her. Free. She could hear the crew, feel them, feel the Normandy, the supernova of it’s engines and the smaller ever-moving sparks of the crew that called it home; feel EDI both here in the Normandy and elsewhere... Somewhere in the howling… there was a faint… something… something soft… that growled in her ear… when she’d had an ear, a body… but the roaring was even stronger now and the wind was everywhere. And now… there was no point where she ended and it began… it was becoming hard to remember when she had been… when she….. The blaze... a familiar thrumming? She forgot what remembering was as the last of her burned away and became the blaze.

* * *

Light had been streaming from EDI. From her eyes, and mouth. Beacons of their own. Moria’s eyes had blazed too. Their usual green, like the dancing borealis over Palaven’s cold mountains, burned away behind an inhuman blaze. Just as the twisted form of Sarin’s had.

There had been a flash. From them, and that central beam that had swept through the stars. It had felt like the wind from an explosion, it hit you like something solid, had ripped gouges through the structure of the Citadel, but had been devoid of temperature. The Husks it passed through had dropped. Some were now stirring slightly.

He supposed if he were a more noble Turian he would check on those nearest him, but he was anchored in stillness, anchored by the stillness in the two forms at the foot of the Crucible.

Shepard, for all her hardness, her scars, her bravado, she fell asleep when she had finally drank too much. Going soft despite her warriors form in a way she never was, even in normal sleep. She’d better not be asleep at the bar when he got there. He wanted to see the look in her eyes when he finally arrived.

The ground was trembling. He should probably care. Somewhere, someone was screaming his name. A crack was appearing on the arm of the citadel between him and where she lay. His heart leapt into his throat. A hell of a feat when you're as long necked as a Turian. He should run to- the crack widened as panels of the floor fell away. He should run. He should go get them - no, their bodies…..or get out of there himself. But everything was quiet, still. And so why move when that arm was so still? When those eyes were empty, so empty...like the universe had become.

He could hear a name, a name that was supposed to be his, and through the growing roar of the crumbling citadel, pounding feet. He would go then. She would kill him if he let anyone end up dead. He’d stay for one last, useless, empty breath and then- Light flashed in EDI’s eyes and her head slowly rotated.

It was like coming up from beneath the waves into a storm. The roar of the disintegrating station rolled in his ears, or maybe it was the roaring in his blood. The sky was blinding in the light of that green wave as it raced away from them and as the structure around them turned to metal and fire. He was moving. Faster than he could ever remember, his injuries forgotten. The chasm that had opened between him and where they lay, between that stillness he had left behind and the movement, the impossible - that lay before him, was nothing. He landed next to EDI.

“EDI!” he yelled, examining her robotic form. There were scorch marks, some melted wires, showing signs of burnout and overheating. But - one eye moved, circling aimlessly, then flashed to him, away, to him - the lense focused.

“Garr...s Vk…..in.” came warbling from an exposed speaker on her clavicle. EDI, she had somehow...if she had…”

“Joker!!!” Garrus barked into his com - hoping desperately that he’d be heard through the din of the crumbling structure around them. “Joker, do you read me!? I have EDI. She’s here! She’s still here. I don’t know how but I think they’re here.”

He heard static and then,”EDI! Garrus, I’m inbound, vertical evac incoming. Maintain your position. We don’t have much time.”

“Copy!” Garrus barked. Smoke was beginning to fill the air. Something to his left exploded and he shielded his face and com with an arm.

“Garrus-” he heard through the com, “Shepard - is she-” he lost the rest in some static.

“I - I don’t know.” Garrus said, his voice cracking.

“Moria!!!!” he yelled. Crawling towards her. Dread filled him. She was still. So still. He checked for a pulse, snarling at his trembling fingers. There was none. “NO! Moria!!” he shook her shoulders. Nothing.

Damn humans. Damn soft, endoskeleton unsheathed, vulnerable - he ripped away the remnants of her armor’s chest plate and placed a hand on her sternum. Furious he had never studied human biology from any other perspective than a killer. Compressions… that worked on most sapiens. In terror, he laced his fingers and began.

“Moria!” He yelled, “I don’t give a Krogan’s ass where you are or what is out there, you come back now. Moria….” He dropped an ear to her lips but felt nothing. Her scent filled his nostrils. Unmistakable despite the blood and smoke. That heady lilac and citrus, with a bite like gunpowder. He hadn't had a chance to tease her about it yet. He growled and went back to compressions, pressing harder. “You’ve shown off enough. Now. Get. Back. Here! Moria!!!”

He heard and felt something crack, and whipped his hands away in panic. “No! No, no, no, no! Moria, please!” he begged. His heart was going to burst- that crack, that sickening crack, he’d - he threw back his head and roared.

He lowered his head. A tear ran down his scales. His eyes burned and the smoke was choking, impairing his vision. He rubbed at his eyes, squinting at her through the haze. He was really looking at her now, well, looking at her for more than blood and vital signs. There were… He rubbed at his eyes again. No it wasn’t the smoke, or his eyes... Lines. He’d thought the soot was simply marring her face at first, but now he could make out a matrix, a latticework of infinitely thin lines scrolled across her face, neck, that hatefully still chest. Burns? Of some kind? From the light? Refracted off her armor maybe... His gaze drifted to the chestplate. Maybe there was a loose circuit in the wiring that had caused the strange burns? Her armor was in shreds, charred, shattered, the circuitry of her omni-tool unrecognizable-

His omni-tool. How much time had passed? How long… he wanted to throw himself into the abyss. If he hadn’t stood there. If he had run to her instantly… Hands still shaking he adjusted the settings of his omni-tool to administer an adrenal boost, and held it over the section of her chest he would have trained in his sights for an instant kill. “Please,” he whispered to everything and nothing. He hit the activation key.

All was still.

“GARRUS” Joker’s yell split the silence in his head. There was fire all round him. He could feel the structure beneath him beginning to tilt. He squinted upwards, the Normandy maintaining position over his head, an evac cable being lowered to him. He grabbed the cable, wrapped and clamped it around EDI’s form and signaled for them to raise her up. After ensuring she wouldn’t slip, he returned to Shepard. The ground beneath him shifted and then stabilized. He could see the biotics of their team standing in the hangar doorway, trying to stabilize the few panels he and Shepherd occupied as EDI was untied from the rigging. The cable began its descent once again. Garrus scooped Shepard up in his arms. He pressed his face into her hair and whispered,”I said I would never leave you.” He squinted up towards the Normandy, reaching for the cable a few inches from his finger.

The world exploded around them. The air was gone. There was only fire. Broken shards of the Citadel arm were cast out by the wave of the blaze. And the red hot twisted metal and concrete was on them, things happening so fast that there was no time - no time to pointlessly wrap himself around her before the rubble-

* * *

The Normandy swung back over the shard of the Citadel arm remaining after the explosion. Joker could make out frustratingly little through the smoke and fire, and couldn’t risk descending further as explosions still punctuated the sky. His instruments were infuriatingly useless. Anything beyond the manual controls had been going haywire since that green blaze hit them. He’d barely kept control. His heart raced in his chest and he cursed, feeling useless. He couldn’t go down there, he couldn't see anything, couldn’t do anything for EDI. He glanced over his shoulder. Traynor, Tali and a team of techs were grouped around the space where they had propped her limp form. Tali was tapping in a frenzy at a screen with wires connected to EDI and the Normandy, yelling to those around her over the new roaring static that had filled the ship since the blast hit and the instruments had been lost. Then as suddenly as that roar had begun, it vanished. The crew on the bridge gazed around in confusion. Joker checked the rest of his instruments and cried out in anger finding them still useless.

And then there was Garrus. That tore him apart the most. Shepherd had held up her end of the deal. Somehow - EDI was here. But Joker had brought Garrus back. Had listened when Garrus had dragged himself across the bridge, shoving crew out of the way, armor discarded to reveal the scaled hide of his too heavily bandaged torso. Joker had balked when the Turian had roared at him, in a way that made something deep and primal in him want to run, run far, far away. Trembling, he had stared into those eyes empty of all but rage as Garrus ordered him to fly to the Citadel, and obeyed. And he hadn’t gotten back in time, hadn’t given the Turian enough time to get EDI and himself clear before the Citadel arm exploded. And now he couldn’t even find the bodies. He uselessly scanned the remaining shreds of the arm and then threw his hands in front of his eyes as another explosion of green light lit the sky. Joker squinted through the blaze, and suddenly felt the Normandy leap into a dive.

* * *

Far below the Normandy in the clouds of billowing smoke and scattered embers red hair shifted in the growing wind. A body lay sprawled in the rubble, a network of silvery lines running over the skin just visible as they reflected the light from the explosions punctuating the steady glow of the growing fires. As the Normandy passed above, a fraction lower this time, the light changed. Faint green glowed from the latticework for a moment, and then died. The Reapers had drifted away and the ships scattered in the sky were either making halting journeys to Earth, to larger vessels, or slowly gliding through debris, searching for life in the void. The only battle that remained was that which fire and gravity raged on the crumbling Citadel. Red hair lay across Shepherd's bloody lips. Then moved. And not from the wind.

* * *

Moria could smell smoke. Hear the sound of crashing and explosions. The ground beneath her face shook occasionally and her mouth tasted of ash and blood. If this was the bar on the other side she either had one hell of a hangover or it was a really shitty bar. She opened her eye, squinting in the light of the fire around her. Smoke clogged the air. In the distance she could see Earth slowly nearing them as the remnants of the Citadel lost their orbit.

She hoped it had worked. Although there was no way to tell now. She just hoped it worked, for his sake. All their sakes. She laughed to herself and then immediately regretted it. If she squinted right, the iron and wires sticking up from the rubble in front of her nearly looked like Garrus’s crest. That was comforting. And at least she was seeing Earth again. I guess I’ll be buried on Earth...under the citadel rubble. But still. A cough racked her chest. She saw specks of blood on the ground in front of her mouth, clearly from that cough. Well that checked out and was pretty much what she expected. She tried to take a slow breath as she gazed at the blue green of Earth.

Anderson would have liked this view too. She was pretty sure she could make out England's southern coast. Maybe that is where they would fall and he’d be able to go home once again. She searched for other landmarks. Might as well bide the time till her breaths stopped. She cursed the Crucible mentally. It couldn’t even kill her right. She didn’t think it would be too long now. There was a new pain in her side, and a wet rasp to her breaths that was unmistakably the sound of a punctured lung. She searched for France over the pile of rubble with the points of iron and wire in front of her. She thought he would like France, for some reason. Some of the metal buried in the concrete was even blue-

“Garrus!” Shepard gasped. Heart pounding. She dug her fingernails into the ground and dragged herself forward, crying out at the pain as she did. It was him. Here. Somehow. Some fucking how. No! It couldn’t be. Desperately she slowly pulled herself over and up along the rubble, barely noticing as her fingernails split with the effort. She finally reached him. His chest and legs were pinned beneath a fallen wall of the citadel. His visor shattered. She couldn’t help thinking that would piss him off. She held her hand to his mouth. She could feel breath; barely, but it was there.

“Garrus! She cried, pounding on his armor. Spitting blood as she yelled his name. She heard him groan and began sobbing. It was the best noise she had ever heard. His eyes opened and she stared into their crisp blue.

“Moria,” he rasped, eyes widening. He reached out a hand for her, the strain of the motion evident on his face. She caught his hand. “I - I thought you’d… how?”

“I don’t know.” she breathed. “I - don’t understand.” She stared at their clasped hands noticing the silvery matrix under the coating of soot and blood. But that didn’t seem to matter right now. “What are you doing here?” she weased.

“Saving you.” he groaned “saving EDI.”

“Saving everyone was my job.”

“Well keep working on it,” he said with a faint smile.

“Vakarian, if I had the strength to punch you right now...” her voice shook. “Why did you come? Why didn’t you stay on the Normandy?.”

He gave her a wry smile “Do you think Archangel would let you die before proving that he’s a better shot? Do you think Archangel would let you die without a rematch. No way am I living the rest of my life without taking you down. Your head’s big enough already.”

She squinted at the smoke, at the rubble on his chest, “Can you ….can you push it off?” she asked.

There was a moment of silence and his face tensed. Then relaxed and he let out a rattling sigh,” ….no...no I think this is the end of the road for me.” He gave her an infuriating smirk. “But at least I got the last save.”

“No…” Shepard groaned and pulled with futility against the concrete.

“Hey, hey,” he breathed. “Moria….stop. It’s not. You can’t shift it.”

“Fuck you I can’t.” she snapped.

“Moria, I have to.. I need you to take this.” He held his hand to his mouth, pulled off his glove, and then pulled a scraped up circle of metal off his smallest digit.

“I don’t want your mom’s cheap Turian trinkets...I want you” she snarled.

Garrus laughed, it quickly turned into an alarmingly wet cough. When it subsided his lips were bloody. He reached out and gently traced a finger across her bottom lip. And then looked at the blood there too. “Well look at that? We match. Told you I’d catch up.” She glared at him. “And you do want my Mother’s “trinkets” - she has the most amazing armory on Palaven. It’d make you wet.”

“Garrus,”

“Shhh...no, this is just yours. Recognize it?”

She let out a wet and exasperated sigh and squinted at the circle of metal. One edge had a clean finished end, the other was rather jagged. A minute code was stamped on the metal. She stared at him. “A shell?”

“Yeah. Your shell. From the shot that you beat me with. For now. You’re gonna wear it.”

“Oh I am, am I?” she said, eyes watering.

“Yeah, but don't get too excited. It’s just to remind you that I get a rematch when you get to the bar. And to tell the world you didn’t win, yet.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned like an idiot. “Oh. To tell them you get a rematch? Not something else you might have yelled at the world earlier?”

“Oh...well…Um...in my defense, I thought you were dying. And...what do you humans say? The best laid plans…But yes Shepard. I would have. If I could.”

“Ok. You're done talking like this. We have a beach to get to.” she glared at the rubble before her, willing herself to see some way to get it off him. She gritted her teeth and reached for her biotics pushing against the concrete and searching for all her might to find...something anything. The concrete pressing into him was wet...

“Moria, please,” he reached a hand out to her face. She held it there and pressed it against her cheek. A tear ran down her cheek and he brushed it away with his thumb. He coughed again. His breath was ragged.

“Garrus,” she whispered, pleading. His eyelids were fluttering now.

“It’s ok Moria.” he said between coughs. “I’ll...I’ll get the first round.” His eyes drifted closed.

“Garrus!” She hissed. She tried to shake him, and failing at that touched his face. He didn’t respond, “GARRUS!” She yelled. She strained against the jagged concrete, coughing at the smoke that was continuously thickening in the air. It was getting warmer too, and Earth was nearer. She was beginning to see the lights of major cities emerging through the clouds. “GARRUS!” she screamed.

No. This was not it. This would not happen. It would not end this way. She had not become an Alliance commander, had not become a Spectre, died, come back, found this cocky Turian, found a living Prothean and survived whatever the synthesis was just to lose Garrus to space debris. She threw her body against the rubble again. “Stay with me, Garrus. Vakarian! That is an order.” She couldn’t see through the smoke and tears now, “Garrus Vakarian, this is your Commanding officer. I am ordering you to wake up.” She could feel the remnants of the Citadel accelerating. She grabbed his com. “Normandy!!! Joker!!! Anyone on this line. This is Commander Shepard. I have a man down. I - I - “ she coughed again and groaned in pain. “I am on the Citadel. I repeat. I am on the Citadel and I have a man down.” A sob racked her body “I need medical evac! I - someone please come get him!!!!”

There was crackling from the com.

“Someone help him!” she yelled.

He was still, and pale. Fuck, she’d never seen a pale Turian. “No!” She screamed. She grabbed the slab of concrete with her broken hands, pulled with all her might, plunged into the void where her biotics had been, threw back her head and screamed. An electric green glow began to creep down the silver lines on her body. It started, just below her eyes, the initial gleam could have been mistaken for tears but it slowly crept down her cheeks and over her jawline, down her limbs. It spread, gradually revealing a branching network that encompassed her whole being. Filling the air with a new wavering light like a borealis. It spread down her arms to the ravaged fingers clutching at the concrete. Her scream became broken, tearing her throat, and then there was a blinding flash from those lines of light. It’s gleam cutting through the dark of the void like a new sun. The slab in her hands shifted and a roar of engines filled the air.

* * *

Beep.

He waited.

Beep.

Good.

Beep.

It was difficult. Waiting for each beep. He remembered one night.... Marveling at the quickness of their heartbeats. His ear pressed against her naked chest. As her warm, blissfully soft fingers traced his scales and the spines of his crest. He had been taught that their hearts beat so much faster when learning the best ways to kill them and every other species in the galaxy.

It was so different though. Waiting for each heartbeat. Hoping for the next. He wouldn’t have expected their quickness to be so distressing. But somehow, because they were so short, that terrifying moment, that silence before the next one came. When all his calibrations told him it should have arrived by now. That if it hadn’t it must mean-

Beep.

Oh, ok. With a heartbeat that fast, and five times faster in the heat of battle….it was even more impressive she was such a good shot. That she kept such poise. He was sure he would be shaking like a leaf. Not that he would ever admit that to her.

Beep.

This time, his heart skipped a beat. He had forgotten to wait for that one.

Beep.

Ok, maybe he would tell her about her impressive compensation if-

NO. There were no if’s. When. When she woke up.

Beep.

Waiting was exhausting. He brushed a stray hair from her forehead. He was always doing that. Her fringe...it was so delicate, the little wisps, the way they danced in the wind, and stuck to her face in blood and sweat. Her hair so much longer than when they had taken down the humanoid Reaper. Always tossed in a bun. So she had a clear line of sight, so that it didn’t provide much of a hand hold in hand-to-hand combat. So that she always had control. Except for these little wisps. He couldn’t help but smile. He should buy her a barrette. He would tell her that too.

He leaned forward and took her hand in one of his. Then lay his head on his arm. Watching her.

Beep

Good.

The Synthesis had worked. It hadn’t killed her. Not… not fully anyway. Her organic body had died. His gut clenched in terror all over again at the thought. The memory of that crack - her still chest. So different from the one that now gently rose and fell under his watchful eye. That blast. The energy had wiped out all life in her, and EDI’s robotic form. But EDI didn’t just exist in that form. Her robotic body had been fried by the blast of energy, but her programming, her servers, they weren’t just there. They were on the Normandy.

And so her consciousness endured, and through their biotic link - so had Shepard’s. And somehow, in the wake of all the changes wreaked on the fragile form in front of him, Shepard’s consciousness was able to return. He still didn’t fully understand. Engines, catalytic processes, energy transfers, complex physics, bullet and fist trajectories; of all these he was an expert, but this bio-synthetic network stuff…even Tali couldn’t help.

The news had not been all good. Her synthetics had changed fast apparently, as that light raged. Biotic energy furthering connections where wires could not reach, the inorganic materials learning to spread like cells yet burning out in the intensity of the energies coursing through her. Not to mention the critical levels of organic damage she had already received. She was filled with structures none of those caring for her had ever seen and no one truly understood. It was impossible to tell where synthetic ended and organic began. And those silvery lines spidered through her whole being. Even Javik said he had never seen or heard of their like.

And then there was the enormous wave of biotic energy she’d used to free him. To save him. Tali and Liara had said it was like shooting a bullet from a gun whose barrel was already splintering. The energy had dispersed everywhere, and hadn’t left much in its wake.

When Javik and Liara had reached them on the Citadel, after that blast, after the descent EDI and Shepard’s linked minds had caused, the slab trapping him had been obliterated, as had much of his remaining armor.

Beep.

And now he waited. EDI’d said she could feel Shepard. But that she was only a whisper in the Normandy’s computers now, most of her consciousness must have returned to her body. But no one could tell him if her body was whole enough to hold it.

Beep.

Still good. He would just close his eyes while he waited for the next one.

The bed shifted. Garrus’ eyes flashed open. He couldn’t draw breath. Every muscle in his body was tense. Terrible sniper form. The bed had shifted. Hadn’t it? If he had imagined it he was going to leap out the window of this Salarian hospital. Her forehead creased and she shifted. He hadn’t dreamed it. He slowly raised himself. His hand gently squeezing hers.

“Moria,” he breathed. He could see her eyes shifting beneath her lids. He couldn’t breathe, he was shaking. “I’m here. Moria, it’s ok, I’m here….Come back Shepard….please. Your insubordinate boyfriend is begging you.”

Finally they opened, and focused on him. Their bright green was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

With a ragged breath she wheezed, “Garrus.”

His mouth was dry. He couldn’t - what do you say… he didn’t know what he was supposed to do, to say in the face of….. and then it tumbled out before he could control it, “You smell like lilacs and citrus, it's so girly, but also kind of like gunpowder, take a shower already, you’re even more of an impressive shot because your human heartbeat is so fast, also I’m gonna buy you a barrette.”

Shepard squinted at him. Half in irritation half in confusion. Her eyes roved over him. Taking in his new scars, the bandages peeking out from under his jacket. His mandibles hurt from how hard he was smiling. Ever the watchful Commander. Assessing everyone’s fitness. Her eyes fell on their clasped hands and his arm on the bed. She closed her eyes, her face clenching in pain. “Garrus…”

“What is it?”

“You’re on my medigel feed.”

He leapt to his feet, still holding her hands. Sure enough, there was the thin plastic tube feeding her medigel, in the crumpled blankets where he had fallen asleep.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” He shifted the tube, it refilled with gel and Shepard let out a sigh. He sat back down, squeezing her hand. Unable to let go.

Her eyes searched his face, and fell up on his visor. “You got a new…”

“Visor? Yes, the other one was broken.” She nodded. “Frustrating. But there are much more important things.”

Shepard snorted softly “I knew you’d be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“There were photos on it.” His eyes widened. She gave him a pained smirk. “Special… photos.”

He was breathless. “Well now I’m mad.” Her eyes shone. She shifted and began trying to sit up in the bed and almost instantly cried out in pain.

“Easy, easy..” Garrus murmured reaching out to steady her. She fought back against him for a moment and then laid back, breathing heavily. “You have to wait and heal,” he pleaded. She threw a scowl his way. He snorted. “You might be able to take a hit Shepard, but you're garbage at recovering from them.”

She grimaced in pain, “It feels like I-”

“Broke a rib?”

She nodded, “I remember… breathing trouble, blood… but not…”

“Um…”

She looked at him.

He shrugged. “Sorry, I might have broken one of your ribs.”

She coughed. “Goddamnit, Vakarian. How the hell-”

“Well if you’d had a pulse when I got to you, I wouldn’t have had to….” he tried to keep the bravado. Tried to act like it was after any other mission and they were comparing scrapes in their armor and particularly spectacular shots, but he could feel himself unraveling inside. His breath caught, his voice began to shake, “I couldn’t get it back. The compressions weren’t - I didn’t know how hard to-”

She stopped him with a gentle hand on his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized he’d shed.

“It’s ok,” she wheezed, her eyes full of tenderness, and added with a slight smile, “Just stick to shooting people next time.” Her smile faded, “Garrus.” she croaked. “I...I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward. Bringing his face inches from hers. “There will never be a reason that you can say those words to anyone in this galaxy. Never again.” he growled softly.

“No, listen,” she murmured, squeezing his hand, “Liara, just before I… when she helped EDI connect….” his brow furrowed, “Garrus, we… I.” She looked scared and tears welled in her eyes. “A Turian and human…it wasn't as… biology didn’t have an issue… I was…”

It took an eternity for the words to sink in. He couldn’t help himself, his hand slid across the blankets to her abdomen. He’d held his hands there on the Citadel. Just trying to stem the bleeding, oblivious to the not just one but two lives at risk from that bleed.

“It didn’t make it?” He cringed at the stupidity of the question. Liara, the Salarians, Dr. Chackwas. They had been so somber. No one had said… he supposed it hadn’t been their place. He thought of himself as relatively imaginative, but he could not even conceive what it would have been like to hear this from someone else. And she had been in and out of surgery. The physical damage, the infections sealed in after the medigel was applied, the broken rib and punctured lung from the compressions he had done, the synthetic implants that had to be replaced...

“Liara said it would take everything.” Shepard whispered. A tear ran down her cheek.

The doorway to their room, her room really, except he’d never left it so it might as well be theirs, slid open and of all people Liara burst inside. When she saw Shepard tears filled her eyes.

“Your-” she gasped.” “You're, I had scanners monitoring and their readings went off the chart - I thought - you were -” she took a deep breath. “But you're actually awake.”

“Sorry,” Shepard croaked, “You know I’ve never been a morning person.”

“Ha.” mocked Liara, tears shining on her face. Her countenance quieted, “I should let you two... I’m sure there are things you need to say-” She made to leave but Shepard stopped her.

“No, I - I just told him, Liara.” Liara’s gave Garrus a pained look. “And he told me I smell and he’s getting me a barette.” Her lip twitched. “But- Liara you said…” Shepherd seemed to struggle to find the next words. “...I don’t understand why I’m here,” she wheezed. “Why didn’t I die?”

Liara crossed to her and said softly, “We don’t really know for sure.” She took a seat on the other side of the bed. “Your and EDI’s minds were connected, and so, we think you….uploaded yourself to the Normandy for a time.”

Shephard’s brow furrowed as if remembering something. “But the template… you, you said it would take everything...”

“I - I have a theory there.” Liara said. Her eyes were shining with fresh tears. She took a ragged breath and her eyes darted to Garrus. He stiffened.

“I think the synthesis… the energy cost would have been fatal…. and your...your physical form would have been consumed… if… if there hadn’t been more energy… more than one life and set of DNA connected... ” Shepard frowned. Liara seemed to steel herself. “The fetus.” she said softly. “It… it would have been a mix of organics and synthetics, just like you, but even more concentrated. And with… another life growing inside you, and your connection to the Normandy through EDI… it fueled the synthesis and you...”

“So it’s gone?” Shepard asked in a small voice. Garrus had never heard that from her. It shook him to his very core.

Liara’s lips trembled. A tear slid down her cheek and she merely squeezed Shepard’s bandaged hand and nodded. She gazed for a moment, first at Shepherd and then at Garrus, before taking a deep breath and adding, “I felt it, for a few moments.” She smiled softly at them both, “It was a remarkable creature.”

Something ached in Garrus in a way he’d never felt before. Shepard's gaze had become distant.

They were all still for a moment and then Liara whispered, “I’m down the hall if you need anything.” She gently brushed a tear from Shepard's face and squeezed Garrus’ shoulder as she left.

There was silence in the room. It was strange… so strange to fiercely miss and grieve something he hadn’t known. Something that had only crossed his mind in the few quiet moments in their mad dash across the galaxy.

“I'm sorry,” she breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he squeezed her hand, forcing back some tears. “But you and I are here” he growled firmly. “We are both here. So it will be ok.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “There’s no Shepard without Vakarian,” he murmured. After a moment he pulled a bottle from the pocket of his jacket. And placed it on the bed. “And I brought the bar to us. Just don’t tell Chakwas.”

She grinned at him through her tears, took a ragged breath, and said “Oh, I won’t.” Her hand shifted in his. She slipped it from his grasp and examined the bandages.

“You shredded your hands,” he said softly. ”Getting me out. All the rubble, and some of the metal was hot. There were some bad burns.” She held her hand up. Her thumb was separate, but her first two and last two fingers were bandaged and splinted together, to speed the healing the Salarians had said.

“Look,” She wheazed holding her hand up to him, “we match.”

He lifted his hand from the place where a miracle had been, spread his digits and pressed them against this new miracle. After a moment he entwined his fingers in hers and held on tight.

It was a small gathering. In a green grove on Palaven. One of the few near his home that had not been reduced to ashes by the Reapers. But even there, shoots and saplings were beginning to emerge through the ashes. Wrex stood between them. The Krogan had refused to wear anything other than their armor from the fight for Earth. Moria liked it. She could make out scratches and dents from bullets she’d seen him take, or almost dodge. Wrex spoke of comrades, of the bond with the person that you trust to have at your back. The one you will charge at a thresher maw for. And of having to put up with the stench of her and Garrus’ pheromones before they had acknowledged their mutual attraction. And the worse ones that distracted him in battle after they had...frequently acknowledged it. It was perfect, and she could barely keep from laughing as she watched Garrus try not to cry, he was so moved.

Grunt stood beside her in the place she would have asked Anderson to stand. But it was right somehow. She appreciated his unrestrained eye rolls and grumbles at the aspects of the human ceremony Liara had recommended they add for balance. He had a few new scratches on his face, but seemed rather pleased with them.

Last night, at a celebratory dinner with all the guests, she had caught him playing with Mordin, the eldest of Wrex and Bakara’s growing brood. Mordin had picked up a butter knife from the table while Grunt had been charged with minding her. He had taken her curiosity as an opportunity to teach the toddler the proper grip for a knife and slicing pattern to gut an enemy. Shephard had finally intervened when Grunt roared with delight as Mordin practiced the pattern on his face. Wrex had guffawed and said it was about time the pretty tank-bred male earned some scars, and Bakara seemed rather pleased Mordin had given him his first. He certainly didn’t look out of place as nearly everyone in the wedding party was heavily scarred, especially the couple.

They were quite a pair, Moria thought to herself. She wore flowing red and white robes over pants, in Turian style, the color setting off her hair and scars. In very un-human fashion they left part of her midriff exposed so that all could see her wicked, extensive scars. Garrus was similarly adorned, revealing several scars that until now, she was sure she had been the only one to see, but in blues, like his armor and the color of his clan tattoos. Javik stood beside him holding the memory shard, having said, much to her chagrin, that the union of two great warriors was something the ages should remember.

She had pinned Garrus to the wall and began a reproving tirade when he’d brought the… rather revealing….. ceremonial robes back to their apartment in the city. But he’d explained, in a frantic rasp, her forearm and the wall sandwiching his windpipe, that they truly were traditional. He did, however, admit that he had been particularly eager to see her in them. Apparently, in Turian culture, this heightened vulnerability was a great demonstration of trust between the joining pair, and clans. And a heavily scarred partner showed that you were joining with a seasoned warrior. A mark of great pride for your clan. She couldn’t decide if she felt smug or irritated by the fact that, because of this, her robes were a little more revealing. But she certainly enjoyed the sight of Garrus in his robes.

Wrex, after a colorful description of Garrus pheromones when he covered Moria from behind, transitioned to the next part of the ceremony. Moria’s heart quickened and she could tell by Garrus’ deep breath that his slower heartbeat had also increased. Grunt held out a box, from which she withdrew two rings, more slender than the one Garrus had pressed upon her as the Citadel fell from the sky, but forged from that same band. That shell, that proved she was the better shot. Javik passed Garrus a small bowl of blue ink.

Here was the only part of the ceremony she and Garrus had really cared about, although, after the attention he paid to the seating chart and his firm opinions on the food, she deeply suspected that he cared for more of this than he let on. Now, they exchanged customs. Now they made a step towards undoing all the strain between their people from the first contact war. Now they charted a new way forward. Shepard offered Garrus one of the rings and he slipped it on a finger with a gentle caress to some of her nastiest new scars. She slipped its twin on one of his index digits. He then dipped that digit in the bowl of ink, his eyes never leaving hers, gently adding the same tattoo to her face that she had so often traced on his in the small, quiet hours on the Normandy. She felt the sting as the nanotech in the ink set to work creating thousands of tiny holes in her skin so that when the ink dried it would be permanent as his. She smirked, keeping her eyes locked on his through the stings of the tiny needles, refusing to flinch. Garrus’ brow raises a fraction and she caught him mouthing “show off.”

“And now these warriors’ houses are united as one. In tradition of the Turians, Commander Moria Shepard accepts the tattoos of Clan Vakarian. And in the tradition of the humans, he takes her name, Shepard, for they and their name are both revered heroes to the Krogan. And now they kiss and stop making me nauseous with their blasted pheromones.” Moria threw back her scarred, tattooed head and laughed, but didn’t have long before Garrus grabbed her, and pulled her to him. They locked eyes for a moment. One she wished could last forever...until she couldn’t wait any longer, grabbed him by the mandibles and pulled him in for a...zealous and very unchaste kiss. Their guests made quite a bit of noise at this point, particularly for such a small party, and sent raptors flapping from the trees.

Garrus finally pulled back, giving her a smirk that stirred things deep within her. “What now?” He purred.

“Now, she said with a smile. We go to the bar.” His eyes gleamed at that. “We empty lots of bottles,” she said, “and if you're a very very lucky Turian,” he growled in anticipation and bent his head close to her, “you get a rematch.”

#mass effect #femshep #shepard x garrus #mass effect fanfiction #krogan

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fatechica · 5 years ago

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You don't need to post this on your blog or anything, I just hope you don't feel pressured to change how you write because of recent drama. I say ignore those people. If they don't like it, if they jump to ridiculous conclusions, that's their problem. Your writing is good, and the people who read it will know it's good, and the people who know you know you are good.

Anon, first of all, thank you for the kind words about my writing and thank you for giving me an out with regards to answering this publicly. I appreciate both so much and thank you so much for your kindness and consideration.

That said, I’m going to do the ill-advised thing and wade into this. Not because I desperately want to, but because there are things I need to say that I think should be part of this discussion.

A NOTE BEFORE I BEGIN:

While I welcome honest debate about the nuances of this general topic, I will not engage in dishonest, hostile attacks. I am not afraid to turn off all anons and continue on Tumblr mostly as I have been: as someone who primarily reblogs gifsets and graphics and occasionally posts links to my fanfic. I cannot be bullied off this platform - in fact, I will not. I have been around for too long to let people hiding behind the safety of anonymity dictate to me what is and is not allowed.

It is not up to anyone here but me what my level of involvement is in this fandom and in this space and no one has the right to decide for me. Go ahead and block me from seeing your content directly if that’s what you want (if that’s even possible - I never know with Tumblr sometimes). But I exist on Tumblr for reasons other than Stranger Things (weird, I know, considering that’s all I reblog) and my self-worth isn’t tied up in this platform. So, with that said….

To start, to say that I am disappointed in what I saw today in the Stranger Things fandom is a massive understatement. Regardless of what caused this - regardless of your opinion on what is, essentially, a gray area (as in an area that not everyone agrees about the definitions of) - ganging up on and bullying people is completely unacceptable. If you can’t see why that’s wrong, then I don’t know what to tell you.

Fandom should be a space where everyone feels like they have a place. Not the same place that you have or I have. But if they want to participate in their own corner, there should be somewhere they can look at and go “yes, that is where I can be”. And this is regardless of what that might look like.

For example, I hate the Harringrove ship. Like with a passion. I think it’s incredibly disrespectful to Steve’s character and I cannot understand the leaps of logic required to turn Billy’s storyline into something worth redeeming. I think it’s also incredibly exploitative of gay relationships and it squicks me out to no end.

Does that mean, however, that I don’t want people who do ship them to have somewhere to go? Of course not! People have a right to engage in a piece of fiction however they choose (because, at the end of the day, it’s fiction and the characters on the page literally aren’t physically harmed). And it’s not up to me to say what isn’t allowed.

But, conversely, I don’t have to see it if I don’t want to. No one can force me to read Harringrove fic or engage in Harringrove posts on tumblr. But, here’s the thing: I’m responsible for curating my own fandom experience. Which is why I filter out the Harringrove tag on AO3 and block the Harringrove tag on Tumblr.

I would never, however, go the Harringrove tag or find a popular Harringrove blog and harass them. Even if I think it’s wrong. Even if I think their ship is exploitative. I would never try to drive people out of a fandom because their experience doesn’t mirror mine, because they get enjoyment out of something differently than I do.

But, that’s about a ship portrayed by actors who are of age. Which is where the very gray area in what happened today comes into play.

I think we can all reasonably agree (even though I know there’s some people who won’t) that explicit material about characters portrayed by underage actors is wrong. And, when I say explicit, I mean play-by-play, detailed descriptions of sexual acts.

Some people will disagree with me. That’s fine. I literally cannot stop anyone from having their own opinion about fictional characters.

(I know some people will argue that it’s different when they’re aged up and they’re imagining different people as older versions of the characters, but that’s between you and your conscience. And, like with Harringrove, I just don’t wanna read it at all. Nor do I want to write it.)

But there is a massive difference between writing about exploring healthy, emotional intimacy (which often includes suggestions of physical intimacy since a lot of, though not all, relationships are made up of both) and writing smut meant to titillate.

The first is character-driven, diving in and showing how people form healthy relationships. The second is just exploitative.

The first is about coming-of-age when you’re in love and you don’t know how to handle everything and you’re figuring it out as you go. The second is about shock and arousal.

The first is about balancing the emotional and the physical, about trust and respect and love, about how it feels to be head-over-heels in love with someone; it’s about how we grow and mature and set healthy boundaries. The second is about pornography and that’s it.

The first sometimes includes hints of sensuality and suggestions of more. The second is only about the physical and nothing else.

(And, yes, I’m aware there is a whole sub-genre of “Porn with Feelings”, but this fandom has not really embraced that as a sub-genre so it’s not worth mentioning.)

Now, like I said, we can all pretty much agree that the second one is wrong.

But the first one? That’s up to your comfort level. It’s up to you to decide where that line is.

You don’t want to read fiction about older teenagers navigating relationships, which often includes dealing with their own sexuality? Well, then, the back button is your friend.

You think anyone who suggests that something physical happens between teenagers means that the author is imagining those very teenagers having sex? Well, then, that’s you projecting onto that author. You don’t know what went through that author’s head when they wrote it.

If you think that everyone who writes anything or suggests anything intimate about characters who are played by underage actors are immediately imagining those characters played by those actors having sex, then you are no better than the people you’re accusing of imagining that very thing. Because guess what?

Now you’re imagining it, too.

I have to say, it takes a lot of nerve to go into someone’s writing and tell that author what they were thinking when they wrote it. I know once a piece of fiction is released into the world, the author loses the ability to control how it’s interpreted, but authorial intent IS A REAL FUCKING THING and NO ONE is allowed to dictate to an author what he or she was thinking when they wrote it.

Because unless you’re a mind reader, you have no goddamn clue what that author was thinking. And if you get offended by what you’re reading then, like I said, the back button is your friend.

Which brings me to the final thing I want to say at the end of this very long essay: we have got to stop gatekeeping in this fandom.

Believe me when I say that gatekeeping and purity trolling in all forms has led to the downfall of many fandoms and fandom communities (see: ALL OF LIVEJOURNAL). I’ve been there - I’ve watched it happen. There is literally no better way to stifle creativity and fandom growth by dictating what is and is not allowed in harsh, black and white terms.

So, if we want to have a healthy fandom where open discourse is allowed, where people can share their interpretations of the characters and explore what must be going through their heads as real people growing up might be experiencing, if we want to make this a place where people feel included for years to come, if we want to have a space where people can create and post and share, WE NEED TO STOP DOING THIS.

Learn to agree to disagree. Learn that some people have different boundaries of acceptable and appropriate than you. Learn that most people do not approach sensitive topics from a place of exploitation and titillation.

I’ve long been concerned that we aren’t mature enough as a fandom to handle nuanced discussions like the one that didn’t happen today.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t have a lot of hope for this fandom if things continue on the way they are. And, though I’m not going anywhere for the time being, I hope that I’m proven wrong. I hope we can learn the difference between inappropriate and uncomfortable; I hope we can learn how to have nuanced, respectful discussions where we disagree and separate to our own corners to experience fandom how we want to experience fandom.

I hope that we can figure out how to grow up as a community.

But absolutely nothing I saw today tells me we’ll be able to do that.

#stranger things #discourse #agree to disagree #i welcome your opinions #as long as you respect mine #i will turn off anons if this turns ugly #i will force you to come after me with your names attached #hiding behind anonymity for stuff like this is cowardly #have the courage of your convictions if you're going to attack someone #Anonymous

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

Text

All Was Golden in the Sky (25/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

— Rating: Mature AN: This is the last of the “real” chapters as far as the main story goes. It’s also stupid long. Like, I am sorry there are so many words here. Two-part epilogue of future-type stuff looming because I have no self control. But, uh, first some kissing, some dancing, a coronation, and more kissing.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

She wakes with a start, the first few beams of sunlight drifting in through gauzy curtains. Emma blinks, trying to brush away bits of a dream she’s already starting to forget and it wasn’t a nightmare. It was softer, calmer, almost as if her subconscious was allowing her to actually rest while she was resting.

It’s a nice change of pace.

The empty bed she finds herself in, however, is not.

Emma lets her head fall to the side, hand reaching out across rumpled sheets that are frustratingly cool. The dream’s getting further away, little pinpricks of moments that feel like smoke or something equally difficult to contain, but that also feels a little melodramatic and that’s not the emotion she’s looking for that morning.

Coronation morning. And afternoon, for that matter. Coronation...day.

There’s a ceremony and more pomp and circumstance than any of them are remotely prepared for, nearly a week after the toffee incident, rules and regulations and a ball because these sort of things always end with a ball. Emma’s almost looking forward to that part, actually.

Her dress is ridiculous and she can’t really breathe, but she had, finally, agreed to a few hours of pinning and measuring between stealing toffee and stealing kisses and trying to, secretly, restore a pirate ship to its correct size.

She’s not entirely sure why she’s been so intent on that last part. Will thinks she’s being stupid and, strictly speaking, Emma knows she should tell Killian.

But she also knows he’s resigned himself to the Jolly’s miniature fate, not a word about it since Neverland and barely any time to discuss the envoy, ambassador-ship and, well--Emma is stubborn.

She’s still trying to contend with this whole idea of hope.

The thought of disappointing him makes her whole soul ache. Which is also, a little melodramatic, honestly.

She licks her lips, letting her eyes roam the room and it only takes her a moment to realize where he’s gone. He hasn’t really gone anywhere.

Killian shifts as soon as she does -- although whether that’s from the creak of the mattress or the jump of Emma’s magic is anyone’s guess -- a chair pulled towards the window and feet propped up on the sill. She can’t imagine how long he’s been there, but he hasn’t put a shirt on, enough skin to be distracting and Emma can see his lips quirk when she keeps staring.

She brings the blanket with her when she moves.

“It’s early, love,” Killian murmurs, head falling back when Emma’s fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck.

“That’s my line.” “You don’t have to be awake.” “And you shouldn’t be,” Emma argues. She lets her nails drag across his skin, appreciating both the sound it makes and the goosebumps it creates, his eyes flashing her direction from under impossibly long eyelashes. “What are you looking at, exactly?” “The horizon.” “Is it doing something?” Killian chuckles, smile turning more obvious. “It’s calming.” “And do you need to be particularly calmed?” She doesn’t mean the question to sound as pointed as it does, hating the way the words fly out of her. They seem to land with a thump, a weight on the floor that barely misses her feet and it is definitely far too early for all of these metaphors.

“That was shitty,” she mumbles, drawing another sound out of him. It’s almost a laugh. Maybe a slightly comedic exhale. He turns his head though, lips ghosting over her forearm and now she’s the one with goosebumps.

“Not shitty, Swan. Early.” “We’re going in circles.” Killian hums, the sound working its way into Emma’s skin and settling into her bloodstream, more biological activities she doesn’t understand. He swings his feet down, letting his legs part so he can pull her between them, knees bumping against her thighs and the blanket she’s still inexplicably holding.

She’s having a hard time thinking while he’s shirtless.

And-- she’s loathe to realize she’s only just realized -- braceless. There’s no leather circling his arm, nothing wrapped around the end of his wrist. It’s, simply, skin and him, a warmth that’s better than the blanket.

“What time is it?” Emma whispers. She can’t entirely help it.

Her fingers leave Killian’s hair.

They fall to his shoulders, dragging across skin, tracing towards slightly bent elbows and neither one of them seems to be breathing, a tension that isn’t that. It’s...softer. Easier. Calming.

Killian’s eyes shut as soon as she touches the blunted end of his arm, over scar tissue and knotted skin. He moves with her, letting her pull and tug, suggestions without words, and whatever air he’d been holding flies out of him when Emma rests his arm against her waist.

“Just after dawn.” “Early.” His head drops, resting against her stomach. “You can go back to sleep, love. Should, probably.” “Wow, tough crowd, huh?” “It’s going to be a long day.” “And yet here we are.” Killian inhales, nosing at Emma’s side and she can’t get much closer to him, but she might take a step forward anyway and his arm might tighten slightly, so maybe melodrama is the theme for a few minutes after dawn. “You know we haven’t officially decided.” “Decided what?” “Aw, c’mon,” she groans. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”

Killian’s smile stretches across his face, measured and a little tired and she knows it’s the please that gets his head to snap up. Because it is impossibly early, but they also haven’t talked about it and the rest of the Misthaven royal whatever is starting to get impatient.

And they do have to go home eventually.

That’s also a strange word. A nice word. A hopeful word.

Emma needs coffee.

There is no coffee in Arendelle.

“David asked me about it yesterday,” Killian says. “Wanted to remind me that it was our choice and something about no hard feelings, which I thought was a little ridiculous all things considered, but--” He shrugs, chin digging into the jut of Emma’s hip when he tilts his head up again. “--What have you been doing, Swan?” She’s not sure which reaction is more ridiculous -- the way her eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of her head or the magic that surges through every inch of her, leaving lights at the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair.

And it doesn’t really matter because both things make Emma’s knees go weak, the blanket falling to her ankles.

“Are you kidding me?” Killian shrugs again, smile turning knowing and at some point Emma is going to document all the different looks he’s capable of making. At her. Or because of her. Whatever. “You’re woefully bad at deception,” he laughs, fingers dancing up her side and she’s not wearing pants. “Well, that’s distracting.” “Shouldn’t have left bed then.” “Aye, I’m starting to see that.”

Emma huffs, because she’s always charmed by this, but also because she really did think she was better at keeping secrets. “It’s not a bad thing,” she reasons, gritting her teeth when that sounds like an admission of guilt. Which she isn’t something she’s feeling. Yet. Maybe if they don’t figure it out soon, though.

“I’m not suggesting it was. Just curious.” “So your mind-reading powers don’t extend that far, huh?”

He smirks, a flash in his gaze, teeth nipping at the bit of skin just below the hem of her shirt. His shirt. Whatever, honestly. “That’s still not an answer.” “It’s...Gods, saying it’s a secret is so lame.” “That’s true.” “Babe!” “It is,” Killian mutters, pressing the words into her waist. He noses at her side, smile obvious when his fingers tap at the small of her back. “Bend your knees, love.” “You’re very frustrating at dawn.” “It’s after dawn, Swan.” She grumbles, a few curses that aren’t appropriate for this realm or a princess with a gown to wear later, but Emma’s knees bend anyway, an arm around her waist and a kiss pressed to her shoulder almost immediately. “Ok, it’s not--” Emma continues. “It’s not a bad secret. It’s just...do you want to do this?” “The envoy, ambassador-thing?” “There’s definitely a better name than that.” “That is a mouthful, isn’t it?” Emma nods, slinging her arm around his shoulders so she can get her fingers back in his hair and they will probably be expected to act less...modern during the coronation. They’re not good at that. Or maintaining the proper boundaries of personal space. She’s going to blame the curses.

And his face.

Emma has a very a large crush on her pirate boyfriend.

“Circles,” Emma mumbles. “We don’t have to do it. It’s--well, I know they came up with the plan without talking to us, which is, a dick move really, but Regina was pretty adamant that we could say no and--” “--Is that what you think?” Killian interrupts, and it’s not quite sharp but calm seems to be a very quickly forgotten memory. “That I don’t want to?” “I’m confused.” “That may be the lack of sleep.”

“Oh my God.” Killian makes a face, eyebrows twisting and smirk doing something smirk-like and Emma ducks her head before she really thinks about anything except that crush she’s definitely been nursing for the better part of the last twenty years. “Why the horizon, babe?” she presses, keeping her lips pressed against his jaw.

“It really is calming.” “So are several other things. Staying in bed. Sleeping. Not sleeping. Rum.” “It’s a little early for rum, Swan.”

“So do the other things. Or talk to me. Especially the last one. Do you want to do it? Because it’s--well, it’s up to you, Killian.” She may have to throw out that list of expression she hasn’t actually made yet.

Because whatever happens to Killian’s face as soon as those words are out of her mouth make every other expression pointless. Emma tries not to blink under the force of it, her magic curling at the base of her spine, a warmth that spreads through her chest and makes the ends of her hair flicker again.

And she’s clearly very slow on the uptake in the morning.

Her hand finds his cheek as soon as she realizes, magic continuing to do several decidedly magical things. Killian’s eyes fall closed again, a soft burst of air between barely parted lips that ghost over the back of her wrist and--

“We should have led with that,” Emma mumbles, the feel of his answering smile on her skin like several different north stars. She’ll ask him about the accuracy of her pirate-type puns later. “I’ve never really given you that, have I? I...I got the commission and then the Darkness and even Neverland and everything that’s happened here and I--” The lump in her throat makes it difficult to keep speaking, misplaced tears clouding her vision. He’s still staring at her.

“I think we can do this,” she continues, voice going low of its own accord and even more emotion, “I know we can. And I--I want to help. That’s--” “--Part and parcel of being the Savior.” “Something like that. I just...I want to do something good. That would help people and prove--” Emma grits her teeth, frustrated by the twist in her gut, a tightness to her lungs that’s uncomfortable.

There are not enough numbers in the world for all the expressions he keeps making. She’s lost track. And the latest one isn’t the pity Emma expects. It’s closer to disbelief and, possibly, wonder, which doesn’t make any sense because-- “Stop that,” Killian mutters, no anger in the reprimand. “You don’t have anything to prove, Emma. Nothing. Not to a single person in this bloody realm and certainly not me.” “But--” “No, there’s no but. Not this time. Not anymore. That’s--” He shakes his head, a soft laugh and the tip of his thumb finds its way under her chin when her head drops. “C’mon, love look at me. You are...there is so much more to you than being the Savior, Emma. And you’re not good because you’re the Savior. You’re good because you care and you feel and it’s...Gods, love, you are the best person I know. Without the magic.” She’s crying. It was probably inevitable, but it also feels ridiculous and Emma’s starting to get a little light headed. That’s probably because of whatever her magic is doing.

Roaring. Singing. Several other verbs that magic should not be capable of doing.

But there’s also True Love involved, several curses and possibilities, a prophecy she’s desperate to continue living up to and the overwhelmingly intoxicating nature of hope.

It’s addicting.

It’s wonderful.

“That’s really nice.”

“Honest, Swan, there’s a difference.” “No, there’s not.” She sighs, tongue darting between her lips because she’d started breathing out of her mouth at some point, and it’s even nicer when he doesn't flinch, her head colliding with his shoulder. Maybe she can ask about the box on the Jolly. “And that’s still not an answer, About the ambassador-thing or the horizon.” “Telling you I’m a sailor and you’ll probably have to get used to me being awake isn’t a good enough excuse?” “I’m not really looking for an excuse.” He kisses her shoulder again. “Aye, I know you’re not. I suppose...well, I’m not actually a mind reader, but I know you’re worried, love. About several things and whatever it is you and Scarlet have been whispering about--” “--It’s not a bad thing.” “I believe you,” Killian promises. “But I will admit…” Emma gasps. Also ridiculous. She’s going to figure how to magic coffee too. That would be the truest act of Savior’ism yet. “Oh, you think there’s something going on, don’t you?” she asks, the few dots of color on Killian’s cheeks an answer. “Babe. That’s...it’s not like that. I’m not having secret rendezvous with Will Scarlet.” “Ok, that’s not what I was saying.” “No?” “No,” Killian echoes, mouthing at the side of her jaw like that’ll prove his point. “I’m perfectly confident in your continued attraction to my face.” “Gods, maybe not after that.” “Tell that to your magic.” Emma clicks her tongue, but she can’t argue and she doesn’t know what he’s wearing later. It will probably be made of leather. She hopes so. “What are you saying then?” she asks.

“It’s uh---” The color is stronger now, more dots on his skin and the tips of his ears, brows pulled low like he’s trying to take care on every single letter. “Well, it is a bit of jealousy. Mostly that--I know your heart is uneasy, Swan. I’m not sure about what, but I can tell. And I...it’s my job, at least I hope it’s my job, to protect your heart. Even when no one’s demanding you yank it out of your chest.”

Emma’s magic rattles the window in front of them.

“It’s really unfair when you say stuff like that.” “That wasn’t my goal.” “I know,” Emma says. There are still tears on her cheeks, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the curve of Killian’s shoulder, and it better be leather later. If she doesn’t get to dance with a leather-clad pirate she may actually scream. Or kiss him. Right in the middle of the coronation. That’ll show everyone. “I am really attracted to your face,” she adds. “And, you know, like, everything else.” “I’m glad.” “Yeah, me too. But you don’t have to keep double checking on your job. Protecting hearts or whatever. That’s--” Her lips are dry again. She needs to learn to breathe. That’s very difficult when Killian keeps looking at her like that. “I love you,” Emma says, another admission she hopes sounds better than the last one. “Just--is more than anything another lame thing to say?” “No.” “No?” “No,” Killian repeats, and they’re still going in a circle, even if this one is slightly different and a little more romantic. “It’s not.” “I’m going to say something else.” “That so?” Emma widens her eyes, fully expecting the expression she gets. Her magic flutters. And Killian’s ears may stay red until the coronation. She hopes so. “Yes,” Emma nods. “So, I want you to listen to me, ok?” “I am a rapt audience, your highness.” “You are frustrating.” “Is that what you were going to say?” “Killian!” He chuckles, a quick kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth and she can barely hear his go on love over the ringing in her ears. “I--” Emma starts, scowling because she’s never been good at sweeping. She’s all action and immediate response. She’s not speeches. Or words. That’s him. It’s always been him. And that’s--well, it’s always been Killian. That’s the point. “I think we can do this,” she says. “Whatever name we give it. I think we can help people and the whole goddamn realm and...I want it. I want--horizons and maybe not dawn, but possibly like...late morning and salt and sunshine and everything we ever talked about, but I...I’m not going to tell you that we’re doing it. Not anymore.” “Swan--” She shakes her head deftly, the quick snap of his jaw echoing in the air around them. “A Swan and a Knight.” “I’m not sure Knight has ever been the correct adjective.” “You’ve got to stop that,” she chastises, only a little annoyed at his continued shirtless state because it leaves her with nothing to tug on. She settles for tapping her finger against his jaw. He nips at her. “That too,” Emma grumbles, but Killian grins and catches her wrist with his fingers, pressing his lips to the inside of her palm. “It’s always been that, Killian. Knight protector or whatever the right term is. I could ask Regina if you want.” “You don’t have to do that.” “I would.” “I know you would.” “Good,” she says. “I’m not telling Scarlet super top secret things, by the way. There’s no...Gods, how do you do all these sweeping speeches?” Killian laughs, curling against her until it’s all but impossible to figure out where Emma ends and he starts and that’s also decidedly romantic and only slightly melodramatic. “It’s a talent,” he mutters. “And I know that rationally, love. I just--I’m greedy with you, I suppose. If there’s something going on, I’d rather you--” “--Told you first?” “It sounds insane like that.” “Nah,” Emma objects. “Maybe a little clingy, but we did talk about how stupidly attracted I am to your face, so…” “You genuinely are the most eloquent lass I’ve ever met.” “Yeah, call me lass one more time and see how that works out for you.” He tugs her arm down, hand still there and Emma nearly forgot it was. She supposes that’s a good sign. She’s not sure of what, precisely, maybe successful magic and--whatever else she was thinking flies out of her head as soon Killian’s lips graze the bend of her knuckles.

She feels his lips turn up.

“Frustrating,” Emma bites out, but that only makes the smile more pronounced. “And, not to belabor the point, but we still haven’t agreed. David may challenge you to a duel if we don’t.” “I’d like to see him try.” “Awfully confident in our swordsmanship, aren’t we?” “No reason not to be. You were rather distracted before.” “You are deflecting.” Killian shakes his head. “I’m trying to get you to agree with me, love.” “Gods,” Emma groans, but her magic continues to shift and she’s far more awake now, something almost like excitement fluttering under her skin. “Yes, ok? I think the sword thing is a good thing and--” She doesn’t finish. She hadn’t really expected to.

Killian surges up, mouth insistent against hers with what might actually be longing and that’s just as absurd as any of the pointedly melodramatic things she’s been thinking that morning because she’s not going anywhere and not doing anything without him, but it’s been a lifetime and mistakes and--Emma’s hands dive into his hair, pulling him closer, which she’s only a little worried is actually impossible, but her mind doesn’t care and her magic doesn’t care and one of them probably makes that sound.

It’s likely both of them.

She’s moving, not sure if it’s her of her own volition or simply because of the hand directing her, legs splayed on either side of his knees. She rocks down at the same time he shifts up, a burst of friction and need that makes her dizzy.

“See,” Emma mumbles. “Should have stayed in bed.” “Then we wouldn’t have talked at all.”

One of the candles on the other side of the room flares. Killian’s laugh turns triumphant, the heat in Emma’s cheeks only a little embarrassing when he’s got a hand drifting dangerously high up her side. “I love you too,” he says. “I hadn’t mentioned that before.” “I knew.”

He pulls back, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows, and Emma regrets that a bit. Mostly because it’s not kissing and she can only be expected to deal with so much meaning in so many looks before, approximately, nine in the morning.

That’s when the lady’s maids are supposed to show up and crush her ribs.

Killian stares at her, one side of his mouth pulling up and his fingers ghosting over the side of her still-flushed cheek. “I know you did,” he whispers. “From the very start, aye?” “You came after me.” She breathes out the words -- all emotion and history and far too much magic. The candle is still lit, a burst of color in the flame. And she’s lost complete control of her limbs, neck giving up because her head drops and her fingers can’t seem to stop moving, determined to touch as much of him as she can.

“Every single time, Swan.” Emma nods again, a flush of emotion that she’s not sure she’s ever experienced before. It’s stronger than anything else, maybe a little stubborn and as greedy as Killian claims to be, a little piratical and decidedly royal, a demand and decree and--”Maybe we don’t have to do that anymore,” she says. “Just...I mean, well, we wouldn’t have to if we were--” “--Together?” “Yeah. Exactly that.” He rivals the light from the candle. And the sun. It’s gotten impossibly sunny in their room. That may also be a sign. And they spend a few more moments kissing, hands and lips that aren’t nearly enough, but then he’s staring at her again and Emma can feel her shoulders heave.

She’s having a hard time catching her breath. “That’s all I’ve wanted, love.” She may still be crying. It’s...perfect. “So, that’s a--that’s a yes, then? Ambasador-ship and other kingdoms and--”

He can barely get the words out, one letter overlapping the other, and Emma’s never heard that tone before, excitement in every sound that reminds her a bit of Henry and even more like the start, hope and want and she can’t stop nodding.

“I was asking you, babe.” Killian widens his eyes, but there’s no frustration there. He looks overjoyed. “We’d need a ship,” he says, and Emma’s magic practically leaps straight out of her. And for the first time in the history of anything, Killian doesn’t notice, a continued string of plans and mumbled words and whatever it is his hand has started doing under her shirt. “There’s probably still a few in Misthaven, but I’d have to ask David about the state of them and, actually, I could talk to Merida--DunBroch’s notorious for well-crafted vessels, although they’re usually a little more rugged than what we might be looking for. I’m sure I could persuade her to rethink the design though, enough gold and people are usually willing to--” “--How much gold do you have?” “Enough that we don’t have to touch a coin in the royal treasury.” Emma’s jaw drops, more questions threatening to bubble out of her, but they get caught in her throat when the first knock comes.

The second knock is louder.

The third knock is, absolutely, a kick.

“What, Scarlet?” Killian yells, arm tightening around Emma’s waist.

The knocking stops. Emma can’t help the snicker she lets out, body shaking against Killian’s chest, but then realization slams into the back of her brain and she also stops making noise.

“Scarlet?” she calls, trying to temper the want curling in her stomach. It doesn’t work. Mostly because it’s not actually want. It’s more hope and quickly spoken words, the feel of Killian’s palm flat on her skin. “Is that actually you?” “It’s definitely him,” Killian mumbles. “Kicking on doors is his favorite pastime.” “Ok, that is false,” Will argues, what sounds like his whole being slamming into the heavy wood of the door. Killian glances at Emma. “And this doesn’t have anything to do with you, Jones.” Killian keeps glancing at Emma. Which means it’s more like a stare, but her hope is full-fledged now and he missed her magic once.

It’d be foolish to believe that would happen again.

They’re far from fools.

She hopes, at least.

“Em,” Will continues. “This is--it’s important. I think...I think it’s going to work.”

She clenches her jaw, a sharp inhale because hope floats or so the idiom claims and that’s in the wheelhouse of pirate-type jokes or, at least, water-type jokes and Emma’s yeah sounds far too breathless.

Will groans. “Yes. I mean--you know, I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“That’s better than normal.” “And that’s rude.” Killian’s eyes are still boring a rather large hole in the side of Emma’s head, curiosity palpable. That’s probably because they’re so close to each other. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Nothing,” Emma says at the same time Will shouts “Good shit, Jones.”

His mouth twitches again.

“Don’t,” Emma warns. “This is...it’s not a secret, but it’s--” “--It’s definitely a secret,” Will interrupts. “But if this works, it’s going to be a very fantastic surprise too.” Killian blinks. “What are you doing, Swan?” “Something possibly and hopefully really good.” “That’s a lot of qualifiers.” “Yeah, it is.” He considers that, gaze turning appraising and Emma resists the urge to grab the blanket again. Or ask why Will was also up shortly after dawn conducting magical science experiments. It’d be a silly question anyway.

She knows he wants to help.

“Ok,” Killian says eventually, standing and letting his fingers linger in Emma’s space for a moment before reaching to grab a shirt draped over a different chair. “You should put pants on.” Will gags. Loudly.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you, Scarlet,” Killian adds. His eyes flit back towards Emma, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear and this is going to work. She’s got no idea what Scarlet did. It doesn’t matter. Her magic has never done that.

The candle is brighter than ever.

“And you should probably put David out of his misery,” Emma says. “I’m sure he’ll want us to sign something or do something absurdly official.” “Royals. Always so fond of their paperwork.” “Oh, that sounded like an insult.”

“This is the worst thing in the world,” Will moans, those knocks turning pitiful, as if he couldn’t muster the energy for them.

Killian laughs, tugging on a shirt. “Still not including you! I’ll find David, Swan. You go--” He waves a hand towards the door. “--Work on your surprises. Try not to be late for the gown fitting, huh?” “I’m not going to be late!” “I’m sure you won’t.” “That’s also an insult.” “No, Swan, years of experience. Incidentally, what color is the dress?” “Oh, now you're cheating.” “One word. That’s all.” “I am dying out here,” Will yells, Emma shaking her head because, maybe, she can work more than one surprise in the next few hours. “I’m not going to be late,” she promises. Killian hums, a curl to his lips that leaves Emma with her tongue peeking between her lips and her magic doing something she’s having a hard time controlling. “Seriously. This is going to be great, right Scarlet?” He grunts again. “What? Are you talking to me now?” “Oh my God. There will be no rule breaking. I’ll see you before the coronation, right?” Killian nods slowly, that same infuriating expression etched on his face. “But how will I find you if I don’t know what color dress to look for?” “Go talk to David, Lieutenant.” He bows. And, really, it shouldn’t be as charming as it is, because Emma knows he’s teasing and still a little worried about whatever she very obviously isn’t telling him, but she can’t think about any of that when be ducks his gaze, a flourish of his arm and the tip of his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth.

“As you wish, your highness,” he says, fingers finding hers and Emma isn’t entirely sure if he does actually kiss her hand. She hopes. Again. Still. She’s got no idea how to get that candle to go out. “Don’t be late.” “Go!” He waggles his eyebrows, jogging towards the door and a near-prostrate Will on the other side, Emma tugging on pants as quickly as she can. “Well,” Will says with a smile, swinging a small vial of what is very clearly a potion between his fingers. “You ready to save a pirate and get a proposal out of this?” “I will curse you.” “Nuh uh. You guys are gross and you’re going to break a shit ton of royal rules later, I know it.” “You sound like you’re invested.” Will shrugs, “Maybe.” “How much?” “Enough.” “With?” “Both Ruby and Mary Margaret.” “What?” Emma balks, although she can’t really muster too much surprise.

“Mary Margaret is very curious about the state of the box and why it hasn’t been used yet. Almost as much as you, princess.” “Jeez. You get one concoction, possibly, right and--” “--Oh, it’s definitely right,” Will interrupts, and she didn’t expect that. “I, uh, well, I tested a bunch of stuff, but Belle found a diary last night. Some guy named Cyrus who lived in Wonderland and maybe knew Alice. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that a few drops of it worked on some bushes outside the castle, so...I figure we add your magic and we’ll be good to go with the Jolly.” Emma blinks -- another burst of emotion that her throat is struggling to deal with and that’s a rather disgusting sentence. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” she says. “The magic and the experimenting on Arendelle plants under cover of night.” “It sounds way more dramatic like that.” “I’m serious.” “I know you are,” Will smiles. “And I know both you and Jones feel like you’ve got to make sure everyone is happy. The power of prophecy or whatever. But here’s the thing. We are. And it’s--” He lets out a sardonic laugh, a quick shake of his head and even faster smile. “It’s insane. The magic and the rules and I’ve never had so many people worried about what I was going to wear, but it’s incredible too.

So I know you think we got caught up in this by mistake, but we don’t. It’s what I told you. We’ve got to be here for a reason. And we want to be here. That’s how families work, right?” She hugs him.

It’s not all that dignified and Will mutters something about be careful of the magic, God , but Emma tightens her arms and hooks her chin over his shoulder. “You are a hell of a lot better than any court jester I’ve ever encountered.” “High praise.” “You want to go enlarge a pirate ship?” Will laughs, a quick squeeze of arms that have found their way around her middle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She has no idea how long they spend in the cove Kristoff shows them -- a hidden space on the far side of the city that he claims “barely anyone’s heard of,” but Emma knows it’s too long as soon as she stumbles back into her room, late for a dress fitting that leaves her struggling to breathe.

And she barely gets into the hall before the coronation begins, twisting around faces who stare at her with unabashed awe. Will’s half a step ahead of her, already pushing down an aisle clearly reserved for the Misthaven royal family.

They all do look rather regal.

Regina glares at her, dark purples in her gown and a red sheen to her lips. David’s shaking his head, gold brocade that matches the color of Mary Margaret’s gown, his hand on his sword while Will steps over his feet. That makes Belle laugh, her gown more yellow than gold, something about the sun and positivity and the ability research, Ruby on her other side with a smile on her face and fabric so red Emma almost overlooks how on the nose it all is.

Her eyes flit from one person to the next, a soft buzz in the back of her brain that she knows is partially the lingering effects of a considerable amount of magic and partially the magic that’s racing through her in that moment, the feel of his eyes on her making her blush before she’s even met his gaze.

“If he stares at her any harder, his jaw is going to fall off,” Ruby whispers, clicking her tongue when someone shushes her. It may be Regina. Huh.

Killian exhales, tugging at the hair behind his ear. They’re going to cause a whole wave of gossip. She will argue it’s because of the clothes -- the detailing on his jacket and the color of his vest, not quite a perfect match to the blue of Emma’s gown, but near enough that it reminds her of foam on waves and something about a storm ending that also feels too on the nose - but it’s not. It’s everything else.

A team.

And the future stretching out in front of them.

“Sorry I’m late,” Emma mutters, Killian’s scoff sounding half like a laugh when he offers her his hand. She grins, fingers laced with his and the silent hope that she doesn’t trip over herself, a bell ringing somewhere that she dimly remembers is the start of the tradition.

“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Do you?” Killian rolls his eyes, not letting go of her hand when she sits down. “You’re interrupting the ceremony, love.” “Will you be quiet?” David hisses. “Emma, you’ve got to sign the accord later.” She stabs a finger into Killian’s thigh, making him grimace. “I told you he was going to make us sign something. I knew it.” “We could have done this days ago, but you two were being all whatever and then you disappeared today and--” The Archbishop of Arendelle -- an ancient title with an even more ancient wardrobe who, the scrolls demanded officiate the coronation -- coughs pointedly, Emma’s lips disappearing behind her teeth and Killian’s snicker is far too loud. Regina’s head falls to her hands.

Both Ruby and Mary Margaret have their hands over their mouths.

Elsa smiles at them.

“If everyone from Misthaven is quite done?” the Archbishop asks, and there’s another laugh from somewhere. It’s absolutely Ariel.

“Yes, your grace,” Regina says. “We’re uh--we’re good.”

He hums, still a little too opinionated for Emma’s liking and she knows she doesn’t imagine Regina’s mumbled fuck, what a dick a few moments later. Ruby doesn’t move her hand for the entire coronation.

And the entire coronation doesn’t take that long.

The Archbishop asks questions -- Do you promise to protect Arendelle? Do you promise to devote yourself to the glory of Arendelle? Do you promise to put the needs of Arendelle above the needs of all else? -- and Elsa nods to every one, voice growing louder with each response because each question gets a little more ridiculous, but there’s something to be said for tradition and eventually the old man steps away.

So Anna can crown her sister.

Elsa had made sure of that. A new tradition.

And Emma doesn’t ever let go of Killian’s hand, his thumb tracing across the back of her skin and leaving her magic thrumming, a feeling she knows they’re both greedy for.

“Citizens of Arendelle,” Anna says, a speech she’s practiced more times than Emma can count in the last few days, “arise and rejoice for I present to you, for the first time, officially--” Her eyes don’t actually sparkle, but it’s awfully close, Elsa’s shoulders shaking when she tries not to laugh. “--Queen Elsa, the first of her name and the rightful ruler of the kingdom. Long may she reign in peace and prosperity.”

There’s a loud shuffle of feet, chairs scraping and people cheering, but none of them are nearly as joyful as the royal family of Misthaven, because that’s what it is. And what it’s always been. A family. None of whom can possibly be expected to act with decorum.

They whoop and shout, hands in the air and titles forgotten, bobbing on the balls of their feet and clinging to each other, far too many limbs in one aisle.

It leaves the rest of the hall stunned, mouths agape and eyes wide. They don’t stop. If anything they get louder, Elsa turning with a scepter in one hand and, if Emma remembers correctly, the scales of justice in the other, flashing them a wide grin.

Snowflakes begin to fall as soon as she blinks.

“Long live Queen Elsa,” a voice cries, and it takes Emma a moment to realize who it is. Henry. He’s dressed for a coronation as well, a vest suspiciously like Killian’s and oversized sleeves, standing on a bench next to man with dark hair and his arm around Ariel.

“Hear hear,” Will yells. “Long live Queen Elsa!” The cry rings out around them, more than the Misthaven contingent until it’s the entire hall and Elsa looks a little stunned. Anna is jumping up and down.

And there’s more to the day -- meals and meetings, introductions that seem to last forever and Henry telling Emma this was fun before being ushered back to his room because he isn’t all that interested in a ball. There’s another hall and decorations that required several different votes and a whole platoon of help, strands of ivy hanging from the ceiling and leaves dusted in frost, fires roaring in more than one corner, a warmth to it all that leaves Emma calm and confident and--”You look ridiculously good, you know that?” she asks, turning on Killian as soon as announcements are over.

They had to be announced. The Archbishop would have passed out otherwise.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do I?” “You know you do.” “I was leaning towards it, but it’s nice to have confirmation. And you, love,” he widens his eyes, the spark of something in his gaze working its way directly to Emma’s core, “look stunning.” “Yeah?” He nods slowly, a heaviness that leaves her flushed and warm all over again. “Aye. How quickly do you think we can get out of here before anyone notices we’re missing?” “That’s not going to work, Hook,” Ariel says, appearing out of, seemingly, nowhere with that same man next to her and Emma assumes it’s Eric. She’d like to meet Eric. Maybe after she makes out with Killian.

“Go away, Fisk.” “Nope, you’ve got royal obligations.” “I am not royal.” “Those are semantics, aren’t they?” Ariel argues, and there are more footsteps coming towards them. “You agreed to the fancy thing.” Killian glances at her, hook heavy where it stays on Emma’s hip. “Fancy thing,” he drawls.

“You heard me.” “That can’t possibly be what it’s called.” “It’s not,” David calls. He’s got his arm around Mary Margaret again and a small line of royalty behind him. Emma wouldn't be surprised if he also has whatever she needs to sign in his pocket. “And seriously, Killian, don’t act like you don’t know. We talked about this.”

“Did you just?” Emma asks, Killian eyeing her meaningfully as Ruby snickers a few feet away.

“Em,” she starts, “how late were you to get dressed?” “That’s not important.” “Maybe we should reconsider this position. After all, the captain’s already insulting visiting royalty and you can’t keep a schedule.” “She was busy,” Mary Margaret reasons, gasping as soon as she realizes what she says. Emma rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. “Forget I said that.” “Also,” Killian adds. “Fisk hardly counts as visiting royalty, she’s--” He groans when she kicks him, using, presumably, Eric as leverage, and it can’t be good for Regina to keep mumbling under her breath like that.

Ariel sneers. “It totally counts.”

“Definitely,” Eric confirms, a hand held out in front of him while his other arm does its best to contain Ariel’s flailing limbs. Emma assumes that’s a mermaid characteristic. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Captain. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Killian takes his hand. “Likewise.” “Aw, that was nice,” Belle mutters, Will pulling her closer to his side. “So, how exactly does that work? Does royal marriage equal full rule or--” “--Oh, now you’ve done it,” Will grins. “She’s never going to stop asking questions.” Killian holds his hand up in mock surrender. “I’m not taking blame for that. That’s obviously Fisk’s fault.” “Seriously, shut up, Hook,” Ariel growls. “And it depends on the kingdom. The rules of marrying into the monarchy. You know.” Belle hums thoughtfully, eyes flitting towards Killian. His eyebrows lift again. “Stop that.” “What?” Belle asks. “I’m naturally curious. Trying to understand this strange, new realm I’m in. That’s all.” “Yeah, sure it is.” “I’ve got no idea what you’re suggesting.” “This is getting almost too obvious isn’t it?” Regina asks, barely moving out of the way when Anna slides towards them.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You realize you’re all standing in a weird group together, right? I think you’re scandalizing the Archbishop.” “We’re not really his biggest fans,” David admits.

“Yeah, us either, that’s why--” “--We come presenting a not-used-to-being-royal distraction,” Kristoff finishes, reaching into his jacket for a flask that’s almost comically large.

Will’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “Shit, what’s in there?” “If it’s ale, we’re leaving,” Emma warns, only to be brushed off by several less-than-amused hands. Kristoff shakes his head.

“It’s stronger than that. Brewed in the woods on the far side of the North Mountain.” “Wow, that sounds mythical.” “Magical, even. The only springs back there are on the same land that the rock trolls live.” “We’ve seriously got to see these rock trolls.” “Later, Em,” Will mutters, fluttering his fingers in Kristoff’s face. “C’mon, this is professional curiosity now.” Kristoff eyes him speculatively. “Just don’t--” Whatever he’s about to say gets lost in Will’s gasp, a tilt of his head and swig of rock troll alcohol.

“Oh fuck,” he growls. “That is God awful.” “I was going to tell you that,” Kristoff says. “It’s, uh...potent.”

Will sticks his tongue out when he gags, drawing more than a few questioning looks and another long glare from the Archbishop. Regina sighs. And pulls the flask out of Will’s hand. “What a dick,” she mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut when she takes a drink. “Emma, sign David’s accord or whatever. Killian, stop insulting the mermaid. Scarlet, don’t gulp this again.” “Any other marching orders, your majesty?” Killian asks.

“Yeah, drink this.” She thrusts her hand out, nose still scrunched because the alcohol appears to also have a rather potent smell.

Killian takes the flask. And they all drink -- Elsa arriving nearly twenty minutes later after being cornered by Phillip and Aurora, practically shouting give me that -- until they're delightfully buzzed and wobbly on their feet, the music seemingly getting louder the longer they stand there.

And Emma’s just about to suggest they go somewhere, or possibly dance until they scandalize an entire hall full of very important people, when she hears another voice and a soft your highness, Guinevere and Lancelot with expectant looks on their faces. “Ma’am,” Lancelot says, holding his hand out. She glances at Killian, not sure what she’s asking, but he smiles and presses a kiss to her temple. “Soon, love,” he mutters, and that sounds like another promise. “Your highness,” he adds, turning Guinevere's direction. “Would you do me the honor?” “It would be a delight, Captain.” They’re gone a moment later, Emma already falling into step with Lancelot, which is messing with her mind a bit, but that may be the alcohol and Killian’s jacket and they need to get out of that hall and-- “I have to admit this dance does come with a request,” Lancelot says, jerking Emma out of her thoughts. She steps on his foot. “Ah, shit. Oh God, no, no, that’s--damn, that’s not very royal at all, is it?”

He chuckles lightly, a smile she’s certain she could trust very easily. “Not particularly. But then again, I’m not sure many of the other royals here have spent their night drinking rock troll swill.” “Swill is a good word for it.” “I thought so. And that’s part of my point. The time for antiquated royalty is behind us, wouldn’t you agree?” Emma nods, not sure she can say much more because she’s definitely more drunk than buzzed and her magic is drifting towards overwhelming. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Lancelot continues, “but as I was saying, this dance comes with a request because, as I’m sure you’ve guessed your highness, good news does travel rather quickly.” Emma furrows her brow. “I’m not sure I understand.” “There’s been some talk of you and Captain Jones embarking on several voyages soon. Trips to other kingdoms, acting as envoys of Misthaven. Guinevere and I would like to humbly request you visit Camelot. Rather quickly, in fact.”

“Camelot? Why?” “Arthur is gone,” Lancelot says. “Left Arendelle a few days ago and he won’t be welcome back in Camelot. That leaves us where we wanted to be, but--” They’ve stopped dancing. This feels oddly cyclical. “There’s still a lot of work to do, repairing the kingdom, making sure those who were loyal to Arthur understand what’s happening, insuring the safety of everyone and, well, it’s a lot to ask, your highness, but we were hoping--” He trails off, Emma’s gaze moving as well. And Killian’s already looking her direction. He nods.

Whatever her magic does makes her hope she hasn’t started to glow again.

That would probably send the Archbishop into shock.

“We’d be happy to,” she says, a smile on her face and honesty in her voice and they’ve started dancing again.

Lancelot lets out a breath, shoulders sagging as soon as the tension between them disappears. “Thank you, your highness, that’s--” “--Would you excuse me?” It’s not particularly regal or even remotely polite, but Lancelot nods anyway and Emma moves, a quick apology muttered to Guinevere as soon as she tugs on the sleeve of Killian’s jacket. “Swan,” he mutters, half question and Emma shakes her head.

“Come with me.”

She waits until they’re outside the hall, the music quieter in one of those dark corners she’d wanted to find earlier. “Emma, love, what are we--” “--Do you trust me?” “Implicitly.” Emma’s smile actually makes her cheeks ache, fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket to keep her balance when she presses up on her toes. She kisses him. And blinks.

They land with a thump, flat feet on wooden planks, slightly out of breath because that never really gets easier. Even when the air around them is distinctly salt-tinged.

“Babe,” Emma mutters, tugging lightly on leather. “You can open your eyes.” Reasonably, she knows he can’t read her mind. He doesn’t have magic anymore, but that never made much of a difference and part of Emma is certain he knows where they are as soon as the wood creaks under them.

The look on his face helps too.

Killian’s eyes snap open, lips pressed into a thin, straight line, a muscle in his jaw jumping when he clenches it hard enough to do lasting damage. His gaze sweeps across the deck, never lingering too long one thing before moving on to the next and Emma doesn’t trust herself to say anything. Or breathe.

It seems to last forever, an inventory that she also knows isn’t that. It’s hope and disbelief, want and a bit of pirate-type greed because home was never really a place for either of them, but it might have been an idea and a feeling and--

“How?” Killian breathes, his grip on her dress going tight.

“Magic. And Scarlet, actually. He and Belle have been researching stuff to fight magic water because I’d been trying to fight the bottle, but it’s not about the cage, it’s what’s in the cage and--” He’s staring at her, chest moving quickly, and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip. “It was the water in the bottle. Ursula enchanted that and, well, that’s what we’ve been doing. Me and Will, I mean. It wasn’t a secret, I just--” She shrugs. “Surprise.” He exhales heavily, body sagging with the force of it. “Surprise,” Killian echoes, hand cupping her cheek with a delicacy that makes her lungs do something impossible again. “Swan, are you--this is the Jolly?” “Can’t you tell?” “Aye, I can, I--Gods, I love you.”

He barely gets the words out before he’s kissing her, lips turning hungry in a way that’s nothing but positive and decidedly romantic. Her arms fly up, fingers in his hair and elbows resting on his shoulders. Emma’s mouth opens at the first brush of his tongue and she’s not sure if that’s what makes everything tip, but the word tip is probably inappropriate on a ship and she can feel Killian’s smile as soon as her breath catches, pushing her back with the jut of his hips until she collides with what may actually be the main sail.

“A menace,” Emma mumbles, a pitiful insult when she sighs it out. Killian hums, catching her mouth again before she can say anything else and she can’t move her hands fast enough.

One cups the back of his head, trying to keep him exactly where he is, while the other moves down the front of his jacket, pushing on leather and the fabric of his vest, drifting back up to the scruff on his jaw and his hair.

She’s not sure what sound he makes when she scratches lightly at his skin, nails turning sharp when they find his neck, but any semblance of intelligent thought disappears as soon as Killian’s head drops. His teeth graze the side of her neck, likely leaving marks in his wake and Emma can’t think about that either.

It feels too goddamn good.

Her head falls back, another thump that barely registers when her magic feels like it’s exploding out of her. She feels Killian’s laugh before she hears it, forcing herself to open her eyes because--”Oh, shit,” she mumbles. “That’s not a bad thing, love.” “Yeah, but you’re never going to shut up about it.” She’s brighter than usual, a gleam in between each strand of hair and the space between her fingers. It curls around Killian’s shoulder, twists around his waist and the sword belt strapped there. “Oh, that’s true,” he admits, still nosing at her collarbone. “I’ll probably remind you at regular intervals for the foreseeable future.” “If you can still think of words like that, then we’ve got bigger problems than me glowing.” “You having a hard time coming up with words, love?” “Kiss me, Gods.”

He chuckles again, lets his lips linger on her skin for a moment, mouthing at her pulse until there’s absolutely a mark there and Emma’s magic jumps, impatience and want in equal measure. “Royal,” Killian murmurs. “And longer than just foreseeable.” “That so?” “Indefinitely. Forever? The rest of our lives and possibly beyond that?” “Now you’re getting spiritual on me.” “We do know several gods.” “This is not the kissing I requested.” “Demanded,” Killian amends, and Emma’s eyes close when his fingers brush over her shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her dress down. They’re a knot of limbs after that, moving fabric and ridding themselves of ostentatious leather jackets, hands and fingers drifting lower, lower, lower, impossibly slow and far too quickly, a contradiction that Emma’s more than willing to live for the rest of their lives.

If not longer.

Until. She gets impatient. And greedy.

Pirate.

Emma’s fingers find his wrist, dragging his hand further down into a mess of fabric. She hitches her leg up, her palms flat on his back and she has no idea who is breathing harder. Her eyes find Killian’s, barely any blue left and, for the first time, that’s not terrifying. It’s exactly what she’s hoping for, a heat in his gaze that makes her feel like they’re on even footing even when they’re not moving.

Until. Again.

His hand shifts, a mumbled curse and she’s grateful for whatever it is she’s leaning on, arching her back against it. “Gods, like that,” she whispers, Killian’s head dropping to her shoulder and everything turns desperate rather quickly.

Emma rocks up at the same time his fingers twist, a burst in the very center of her that’s as emotional as it is magical and the two have always gone together anyway. Her hands drift again, over his neck and across his back, marking every inch of him until she’s certain she’s branded herself there, while Killian mutters encouragements and promises in her ear, alternating between heady and honest, a line that makes all the others shift irrevocably.

And Emma doesn’t know how long it lasts. It feels like forever and not nearly enough, stars exploding behind her eyes and magic roaring through her veins, a gasp of air and pulse that’s been at the center of everything.

Since the very start.

They do move, eventually, stumbling down the ladder to the captain’s quarters with smiles on their faces and roaming hands, Killian’s jacket forgotten on deck. And the cabin isn’t quite what she remembers from the last time she was there, little things that prove there was someone else there after Killian, enough that he tenses at the sight.

She kisses him that time.

It’s not an explicit distraction, but the tension disappears and her feet aren’t on the ground, moving backwards towards a cot that’s still small and still comfortable and as close to perfect as anything’s ever been.

Especially with less clothing.

It’s hours later, moonlight instead of sunlight streaming across a different floor, Killian’s voice soft in her ear while his fingers trace across her side. Emma can feel the tug of sleep, only a little worried about what will happen because they’ve disappeared from another event when--

“What was that?” Killian asks sharply, a noise on deck that doesn’t sound like a thud or anything particularly threatening, but does sound and this is supposed to be a secret cove no one knows about.

“Is I don’t care an answer?” “Technically, yes, but--” The sound comes again, obvious footsteps and Killian’s moving immediately, pants on and no boots and his sword in his hand. Emma waves her hand, clothes back on. “Why didn’t you do that for me?” he asks, eyes snapping up when the footsteps move again.

“You were already moving. That’s--” “Savior! Captain!” Killian drops his sword. “Fucking hell.” That about sums it up because Emma can’t wrap her mind around that voice appearing in this moment, still a little muddled from kisses and the mark she can just make out on the side of Killian’s neck. The seeress calls their name again, not quite as commanding that time, like she realizes she’s interrupting.

“C’mon, love,” Killian mutters, holding his hand out and she still looks exactly the same when they step back on deck. Her head is bowed, hands covering her eyes, but there’s something slightly different, as if a weight has been lifted and, seriously, Emma needs to find some coffee at some point.

Or keep kissing her boyfriend.

That title seems silly after longer than forever though.

“Savior,” the seeress says. “Thank you.” Emma waits. For the rest of it, nerves clawing at the back of her brain. There isn't anything. No words. No brand-new prophecy. Just the goddamn seeress staring at her.

Kind of.

“Wait, what?” Emma asks. “I don’t--” “--Thank you,” the seeress repeats. “The prophecy is safe. And it will continue to be. With both of you here together.” “Is that a joke?” The seeress doesn’t blink, but her head shakes quickly, a normalcy to it that Emma doesn’t entirely appreciate. “No, Savior. You and the Captain are back on the correct path. Mistakes have been fixed and the future of this realm is preserved. In other words--” “--Seriously, is this a--”

“True Love should be applauded,” the seeress continues, unperturbed by Emma’s frustration. Killian’s fingers find hers again. “So I have come to thank you. And to bear a gift.” “A gift,” Killian says. “From?” “A friend.” The seeress twists her wrist, the sword landing at their feet. Emma gasps. She hates that. But she can’t help it because she knows, as soon as the moonlight reflects off the hilt, the familiar curve of it and Killian’s hand doesn’t leave hers when he crouches down.

“This is…” he starts, the seeress nodding. She might be smiling. It’s not as off-putting as Emma would have expected.

“It is. She’s rather glad you’re happy, Captain. Said you deserved it. You both do.” “Who?” “You know the answer to that.”

Killian nods, standing slowly and Emma doesn’t think before she curls against his side. “Persephone sent that?” she asks. “For Killian?” “For both of you. You’ve saved everything, Emma. As you were destined to. And now, the two of you will continue to do just that. Together. As the prophecy foretold.” “Right.” “Thank you.” Emma hums, Killian’s hand curling around her waist. He’s smiling when he kisses the top of her hair, not quite a dismissal, because they can’t do that to the seeress and it’s not entirely her fault, but they were in bed and--the seeress smiles wider. “I hope to see you again soon,” she says. “I look forward to meeting your family.”

She’s gone before either one of them can open their mouths, leaving the sword on the deck and Emma’s heart pounding against her chest. And then. Killian laughs. He throws his head back, body shaking and the sound makes Emma’s mouth twist into a smile, joy mixing with magic and a bit of still-potent alcohol, spinning her back towards him so she can push up on her toes.

“Not exactly subtle was she?”

“Not really. That’s...well, since the start, right?” “Oh aye. But I wouldn’t be opposed to a few days alone with you before we start.” “Pirate.” “And yours.” Her magic leaps. And that, that, is exactly the same. Like it’s always been. Even on different water with different memories. “Good,” she whispers, curling her finger around the loop of his belt. “C’mon. You’re wearing too many clothes again.” He’s still laughing when they fall back onto the cot, but that changes rather quickly, a victory Emma will likely talk about every day for the rest of forever.

And they don’t leave the ship for three days, a message via bird, before the return to royalty and Killian’s fingers reach for her when they stand in front of the helm, a course set for Camelot.

“Ready?” she asks, a silly question. She knows the answer.

“Every single time, Swan,” Killian says, and it’s a different promise. It’s not a guarantee that he’ll come back, it’s better, a certainty that whatever comes next, wherever they go, they’ll do it together.

#cs ff #captain swan #all was golden in the sky #that stupid witch fic #listen they're just stupid in love with each other

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keldae · 5 years ago

Text

Drastic Measures (Chapter Twenty-Eight)

Saresh wasn’t sure if the emotion racing through her veins was fear or wrath. Her instincts suggested fear might be winning out: Destruction of one of the last hidden Jedi outposts was terrible news for the Republic, and that news was beginning to spread. She could already imagine morale plummeting at the report. Worse, Republic operatives sent to investigate the massacre indicated that Satele Shan’s ship had been found on the planet, shot almost beyond the point of recognition by Zakuulan forces. The former Grand Master’s body hadn’t yet been accounted for among the dead — it could only be assumed that she was taken prisoner by the Zakuulans.

The Twi’lek ran a hand down her face. On a personal level, she hadn’t been fond of Master Shan, but blast it, the woman had been Grand Master of the Jedi Order. She was a valuable strategic prisoner, even before her role as the mother of Theron Shan. Saresh almost pitied the Jedi.

But perhaps having Master Shan would make Zakuul loosen their stranglehold on the Republic. Rumours filtered in -- sightings of Xaja Taerich and Theron Shan, their last confirmed location being Dromund Kaas. And they had reportedly departed with notorious Imperial agent, Cipher Nine. Known and feared throughout the galaxy, Saresh still couldn’t quite believe the report Kovach had sent to her, indicating that the infamous spy was father to the rogue Jedi. It did perhaps explain the girl’s sharp temper and vicious language when provoked, however, she mused.

A ship matching the description of Cipher Nine’s was reported to have landed on Nar Shaddaa. But neither the old spy nor his charges had been found on board. The SIS station chief in that sector, Ardun Kothe, hadn’t reported seeing the Imperial agent on the moon, nor had he seen Taerich or Shan. It seemed the pair of fugitives had vanished into thin air once again.

This time, however, they left more trouble in their wake: Arcann had all but accused Empress Acina of sheltering them to stir trouble in the Republic. Acina had, in turn, accused Saresh of sending her problems to Dromund Kaas, creating strife in the Empire — which certainly had happened, with Darth Imperius having shown himself a traitor and disappearing. Saresh only wished it had been intentional. As it was, she took the news as proof that Taerich and Shan were both traitors and working with Imperius — to what end, even back before the war had broken out, she wasn’t sure.

But now the galaxy teetered toward open war again, and this time the Republic was terribly crippled. Saresh found herself missing the quiet reassurance of the Jedi only a short hyperspace jump away on Tython, and Jace Malcom’s brilliant strategic decisions.

We don’t need them, she tried to tell herself. The Empire is even more fragmented than we are right now. We can win without the Jedi, or Malcom. Perhaps if she told herself that more, she would start to believe it.

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Korin knew that his younger brother had a reputation for being tough and unfazed by almost everything around him. It was why he was such a good leader for the resistance and why he’d done so well on the Dark Council, after all. And it made Sorand hurrying up to him, pale-faced like he’d seen a ghost, way out of character. The smuggler frowned as the Sith made his way over to him. “You okay?” Korin asked as he took in just how spooked Sorand looked. “You look like that one time you walked in on Skadge losing strip sabaac to Andronikos.”

“Don’t remind me of that…” Sorand muttered. “I’m still considering taking up drinking to purge that memory.” He paused and shook his head. “Actually, I might take up drinking anyway.”

That made Korin blink. “Darth Paranoia, going for alcoholism? I thought you hated drinking after the one time with the tihaar--”

“Oh, shut up.” Sorand furtively glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I need a list of every single Jedi in this cell — Tythonian, Corellian, questionably dark, whatever.”

“There a particular reason you need a roster?”

The younger Taerich hesitated, lips pursed.“There’s a literal near-duplicate of Mum walking around here,” he admitted at length, “and I need to figure out who the blazes she is.”

Korin’s brain stalled out for a moment as he tried to process the statement. “Uhhh… what?”

Sorand pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s a woman here, wearing Jedi-type clothing in shades of green, makes me think she’s Corellian. She has a saber-staff, and it sure as hell isn’t of Sith design or a Sith outfit. And kriffing hells, Kor’, she looks like Mum -- just with hazel eyes and no freckles.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a bunch of red-haired Jedi ladies who look like —”

“No, she looks like Mum. Like if Mum had a sister, that would be her. If I didn’t know Mum was dead…”

“Shit, she looks that much like Mum?”

“Yeah.” Sorand shook his head and hissed out a heavy breath through his teeth. “It’s damned creepy is what it is, even by Sith standards. And I have no idea who the hells she is.”

“If she’s Corellian, that’ll narrow the options down,” Korin murmured, frowning at his crossed arms. “Not a hell of a lot of Corellians who jump off-world for anything unless they’re pilots, and even less Green Jedi who’ll leave the Enclave. I’ll grab Vector, see if he knows anything.”

“Green isn’t exclusively a Corellian colour, so she could be Tythonian…”

The smuggler gave a snort. “Yeah, but they’re boring and tend to go for every shade of brown known.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Sorand’s lips. “Right. So maybe give Cantarus a call, see if he can track down which Jedi have left Coronet City in the last couple of years,” he added. “ I mean, Mum… didn’t have a sister, right?”

“Not as far as she or Dad knew. Maybe someone cloned her?”

“A clone would probably have her freckles and the right eye colour.”

“Bah, details.” Korin shrugged one shoulder, trying to act unperturbed about the whole thing, even if he felt a chill up and down his spine. If Sorand was this spooked by the mysterious Jedi lookalike of their mother, it was serious. Worse, Korin could feel the Force tugging at him, as though demanding his attention regarding the Jedi. He knew that tug meant this was significant — and hells, how he hated feeling it. Sometimes being Force-sensitive just wasn’t worth the headache and paranoia. “I’ll snoop around, see what I can dig up.”

Sorand nodded. “When Dad gets here, I’ll try to figure out how to ask him if he’s sure Mum didn’t have a sister. Maybe he knows something… or he’ll have the heart attack I’m still having myself.”

“Hey, I’m the one who gets to make Dad have a heart attack, not a creepy lookalike of Mum.”

“I’m pretty sure I can out-heart-attack-potential you any day, my miscreant asshole brother. Sith and dumbass Sith things, remember?”

“I’ve got no less than six and a half people who want my head on a plate!”

“How the hells did you get the half person in there?”

“Carefully.”

“Dumbass. You’re going to make Dad have a stroke from you being a moron, while I have the entire bloody Empire gunning for me right now!” Sorand paused. “Wait, no, Xaja’s going to be the one to make Dad have the heart attack with the entire galaxy looking for her.” If she’s still alive went unsaid.

“Yeah, Xaja wins, I think. First and last time you’ll hear me say that about a Jedi.” Korin stepped back and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Lemme track down Vector and see what he knows.”

“Works for me.” Sorand turned, craning his neck to look around. “I need to find Lana and see what--”

“Hey, Sor’ika?” Corey called, earning both brothers’ attention. When Korin looked over, he could see the Mandalorian intently looking at a computer screen. “I think you’re gonna want to check this out...”

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The Aegis rapidly descended through Alderaan’s atmosphere, the crew setting the cruiser down in a valley between two snow-capped mountains. A kilometre or so from the official boundary of the Organa lands, it was situated in an out-of-the-way location that didn’t receive too much attention from Zakuul — indeed, it was almost impossible to access via the main roads.

But Commander Malcom’s crew had no need for the roads. There was a hidden entrance to the killik warrens running under Alderaan’s mountains. The rebels utilized the caverns and winding paths to stay out of sight. Malcom hoped it would now serve to protect the two most hunted fugitives in the galaxy from those seeking their heads.

A security cam discreetly placed in a rock formation focused in on the faces of the disembarking refugees. As the programmed algorithms recognized the features of Xaja Taerich, arguably the most wanted person in the galaxy, an alert triggered deep within the warrens, notifying the resistance of the newcomers.

Corey Black, the nearest person to the computer console when the alert flickered to life, frowned down at the monitor for only a second as recognition kicked in, both of the Jedi woman and some of her travel companions. “Hey, Sor’ika?” he called out, a grin starting to spread across his bearded face. “I think you’re gonna want to check this out…”

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The group of Dantooine survivors entered the cool darkness of the killik tunnels, looking around with no small amount of suspicion. Xaja wrinkled her nose at the scent of damp earth and the lingering traces of the killik pheromones. “When you said you were getting us underground, Commander, I didn’t realize you meant literally.”

Malcom smirked, the expression eerily like Theron. “Not many people do. We’re reasonably sure the Zakuulans expect some form of resistance down here, but so far they haven’t found us. The killiks do a good job in scaring them off.”

“I can’t say I blame ‘em,” Kira muttered as she followed a step behind Xaja, looking around warily. “At least it’s better than the last time we were in a hive. Nothing’s trying to kill us... yet.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Theron answered quietly. For perhaps a couple hundred metres, the group moved in near-silence, until the spy spoke again. “You sure this is the right cave? It seems suspiciously empty.”

“If it wasn’t, we would have already been swarmed by killiks,” Jorgan piped up from a few paces back. “But there should be some sign of life by now.”

Worry settled into Xaja’s chest as she heard Malcom’s mutter of “There hasn’t been any news of an attack here” as the old soldier warily looked around. If the Zakuulans were already in the caves, waiting in ambush to take out the Dantooine survivors… they had no place else to flee to, and wouldn’t be able to escape. And there wouldn’t be a miraculous rescue from Havoc Squad to save their—

She froze, making Kira bump into her back. The sound of running footsteps echoed ahead; when she focused, she could hear more than one pair of feet. “Someone’s coming,” she hissed, sensing the rest of the group around her freeze as the other Jedi warily reached for lightsabers. Jorgan raised a hand, making one quick gesture, and his soldiers spread into formation as Malcom stepped back closer to the Jedi protectively, blaster in hand—

“Riggs, you son of a bitch!” came the yell from down the tunnel, a welcome voice that made Xaja sag in relief. Corso stepped out to the side of the formation, a delighted grin on his face. Moments later, Korin came flying around a bend in the tunnel, his own grin flickering as he registered a pack of armed soldiers and Jedi bracing themselves for a fight. “Whatever it was, I didn’t do it. Probably,” he quipped, coming to a stop and raising his hands placatingly.

“Bantha shit, Captain,” Corso promptly retorted with a laugh as Xaja darted around him, running the few paces to her brother. She had a second with which to sense Korin’s sheer relief under the veneer of carefree laughter, and then she was being tightly hugged by the tall spacer — a form of affection he didn’t go for too often. He must have been legitimately mourning her presumed death, or terrified for her safety.

As other members of the Alderaanian cell started hurrying around the corner after Korin, earning a chorus of delighted shouting and reunion between friends and comrades, the smuggler finally set his sister down. Real worry sparked briefly in his hazel eyes. “You okay?” he asked, squeezing her shoulders. “Sorand mentioned you’d been sick as hell, but…”

“Better now. Happy to still be in one piece.” Xaja smiled up at her brother, concern darkening her own mood for a moment. Hells, even Korin looked older — she swore she could see grey in his blond hair. “You been okay? Dad didn’t have any new updates on you last time I saw him.”

“I’m fine, all things considered. Hells, my favourite zombie sister’s back with us, so I’m doing great—”

“Zombie?” Xaja gifted her brother with a scowl as he grinned unapologetically. “Zombie? Listen, you asshole --”

“Last I checked, you’re still legally dead, and you know as well as I do that the walking dead are technically zombies.” Korin laughed and dodged a swat from the Jedi. “And since you’re clearly not a ghost, that only leaves zombies as our undead option.”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t put a bounty on a legally dead person, you twit,” Xaja muttered with a scowl. “My status seems to have been rescinded.”

“Bah. Details. You’re still my favourite undead sister—” The smuggler ducked out of reach again with another laugh, only to trip and fall backwards over an outstretched boot.

“If you get stabbed, that’ll be your own damned fault,” Sorand interjected with a grin as he looked down at his brother. Ignoring Korin’s scowl up at him, the Sith hurried to give Xaja a hug. “I’m glad to see you in one piece, Xaj.”

“You, too.” Xaja returned the hug, for a second aware of Malcom side-eyeing them before looking back at her brother. “When I heard there was a hit out for you…”

“Acina’s going to have to do a lot better to take me down,” Sorand smirked. Worry flashed through his dark eyes as he lowered his voice. “How did things go?” he asked.

“Uhh… partially good?” At Sorand’s frown, Xaja shook her head. “I’ll explain later.” Catching him up on the details of the parasite in her brain was not something to do with so many listening ears around.

Sorand nodded in understanding, squeezing her shoulders before letting go. His gaze drifted over to Ashara; Xaja watched him hurry over to his apprentice before she turned at Kira’s delighted cry. Recognizing Doc and Rusk as they hurried up to the group, an excited Tee-Seven beeping in tow, she ran over to her old crew, feeling like the team was almost complete.

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Theron felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he watched the Alderaan rebels gladly embrace the Dantooine survivors. For the first time since fleeing Zakuul with Xaja, he felt reasonably safe… in the middle of a killik hive. Still, this was stable and out of Zakuul’s grip, for the moment. Sorand being here in one piece indicated that this location was also safe from the Empire; it would also help that the Organas weren’t fond of Saresh and could help keep her agents from finding the rebels. He lowly sighed and relaxed, the tension in his back easing.

Then he made eye contact with an approaching Korin Taerich, and had perhaps half a second to think shit before the smuggler’s fist connected with his jaw and knocked him down. “You fucking asshole!” Korin growled, his earlier joy at seeing his sister alive turning into a well-justified anger at his apparently-former friend.

Theron grunted as he gingerly ran his tongue over his teeth, pleasantly surprised to realize none had broken loose from that punch. “Brave words coming from the guy who punched a guy who got shot three days ago,” he muttered. His shoulder flared with pain as he gingerly shifted it. At least the bandages didn’t seem to have come undone.

Korin faltered for a second, brow wrinkling in confusion. “The fuck you mean you got shot?”

“Bunch of Zaks who really wanted to chat up your sister,” Theron retorted as he tugged his shirt to the side, revealing the bandages. “Asshat.”

“You still had that coming,” Korin snapped, dark eyes flickering with anger. But at least he apparently felt bad enough about hitting the wounded spy to offer a hand back up.

“Yeah, I know.” Theron grunted as he accepted the hand back to his feet, lowly hissing in discomfort. “Would saying ‘sorry’ make it a little better?”

Korin’s eyes narrowed in threatening anger. “Not in that kriffin’ tone of voice it—”

“No, I’m legitimately sorry,” Theron quickly interjected as he saw Korin’s fist tightening again. “You’re right. I’m an idiot and deserved that punch.”

“You think?! You’re making me look like a certifiable genius, Shan.”

“You are a certifiable genius. I’ve seen your aptitude tests, Taerich.”

“Shh!” Korin furtively looked around. “Don’t go ratting me out! I’m tryin’ to dodge responsibility, not adopt it!”

Theron rolled his eyes, then caught Korin’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth I am actually sorry, Korin. I was an idiot. It won’t happen again.”

“It’d better not,” Korin muttered. The fury seemed to have finally cooled down from the fiery temper to a low simmer under the surface. The smuggler shook his head, then frowned at Theron’s shoulder. “Sorry about the punch. Your shoulder more buggered up now?”

“Whose shoulder’s what now?” Sorand interjected as he appeared on Theron’s left. The Sith frowned at the spy, already reaching for the wounded shoulder. “The hell did you do?”

“Target practice, gone really badly,” Theron deadpanned, and earned a snort from the Sith. Feeling a prickle on the back of his neck, he turned his head slightly, just enough to see Jace frowning at Sorand. Right… his father wouldn’t trust a Sith, even one who had abandoned the Empire for his Jedi sister.

“I suggest thinking of a better story before Lana hears it and laughs at you for the rest of your respective natural lives.” Sorand smirked as he settled his hand on the blaster wound. “Hold tight for a minute.” A violet glow appeared around his gloved fingers; Theron shivered as he felt a cold trickle seep into his shoulder, knitting the injured muscles and tendons back together. Dark Side healing was never a completely comfortable experience, despite Sorand’s efforts to be gentle; but, when the Sith withdrew his hand and Theron rotated his shoulder experimentally, the wound was completely healed.

“Good as new,” Theron pronounced when he didn’t feel pain flaring in the joint, and gave Sorand a grin. “Thanks.” The Sith had even healed the bruising Theron could feel forming on his jaw from Korin’s punch.

“Don’t mention it. Force knows you’ve been through enough without having a kriffed-up arm on top of everything else.” Sorand stepped back, gesturing for Theron and Korin to follow him. If he was aware of Jace staring at the back of his head, mistrust showing in his dark eyes, the Sith didn’t reveal it. “I know you’re probably tired enough to see double, but we’re going to need to catch up on all the osik following you since you got off of Dromund Kaas. You lot good for a quick debrief?”

“As long as it’s relatively quick,” Theron agreed. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of Xaja, still surrounded by her closest friends, excitedly chatting away. At least she hadn’t witnessed her brother sucker-punching him like that — that would have been much harder to explain to her. Nervous dread settled in his stomach before he shoved it down to where he hoped she couldn’t sense it. “You said Lana’s here?”

“Yes, and you’d best hope she doesn’t feel inclined to make like Korin with the punching — which, by the way, I’m perfectly fine not knowing the reasons for.” Sorand grinned and stepped toward the tunnel. “Come on.”

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Jace had never been sure how to take the news that a Jedi war hero, and his son, both had non-hostile connections with powerful Sith Lords. With the Revanite crisis, he supposed it was reasonable for Republic and Imperial assets to cooperate. But the extended communication and open friendly behaviour made him frown.

He watched suspiciously as Darth Imperius caught Master Xaja up in a tight hug, both siblings clearly happy to see each other. Now that they were beside each other, he could see the resemblance between the two, far too similar to be mere coincidence. The Hero of Tython had one brother recently on the Dark Council, and one brother who was a proud career criminal and privateer -- not to mention their father.

He frowned, caught up enough in his thoughts that he missed Theron getting punched, still focused on Imperius. Sith weren’t exactly known for being affectionate or protective of their families, much less family members who came from enemy space, yet Imperius had risked his own safety to hide both his sister and a known enemy spy on Dromund Kaas. Had she known who he was sheltering, Jace suspected Empress Acina would have killed the younger Sith. So perhaps despite being a Sith, the boy — and how did a boy who looked like he was barely into his twenties make it to the Dark Council? — wasn’t a bad sort. He certainly wasn’t as shrivelled as Darth Malgus, nor did he carry himself in the same way. The eyes that darted around were dark brown and openly relieved, not tainted with sulphuric rage. Jace even dared to say the Sith was happy.

But surely the son of Cipher Nine had learned to hide his true motivations. The former Supreme Commander of Republic Forces pursed his lips, frowning. Master Xaja had also been fathered by the infamous Imperial spook, but she had been raised among Jedi; Jace figured that didn’t count, as she hadn’t grown up around her father’s influence. How much had the legendary cipher agent taught his sons?

“He’s not Malgus.” Satele’s voice by his right shoulder made him start. He looked down and got a raised eyebrow in turn. “Sith he may be, but he’s not steeped in the dark side like too many others. He’s actually far more like his sister than you might think.” She paused, giving Master Xaja a look as the redhead knelt to give an old astromech droid a hug, the droid beeping loudly and happily enough to be heard a few metres away. “Arguably, he could claim to be the more Jedi-like of the two.”

Jace snorted. “A Dark Lord of the Sith and a Dark Councillor, more Jedi-like than a hero of the Order?”

“He wasn’t the one who yelled a few interesting curses at Revan on Yavin, or told a mercenary where to go and how to get there. He’s far less hot-headed than his sister is.” Satele smiled slightly. “It’s unfortunate he wound up on Korriban; he would have done very well as a Jedi.”

“Hmm.” Unconvinced, Jace watched as a blonde woman hurried to the reunion throng in the tunnel, frowning at her sulphuric yellow eyes. His gaze darted toward the lightsaber on her hip, noting the metallic fins and blackened metal -- a very Sith style. Master Xaja didn’t seem to mind that, or the Mandalorian bounty hunter behind the Sith — she shot back to her feet and hurried to give the blonde a hug, one that was gladly returned. Lana Beniko was a known Imperial asset, and the SIS’s records indicated she was Imperius’ top advisor. “Blast, they’re still Sith, Satele. You know what they’re capable of.”

“Yes. And I believe Imperius would unleash it to protect his siblings… not unlike you might protecting us, the Republic.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “It doesn’t make him a bad person, Jace.” They watched as Theron turned from talking to Imperius and Captain Taerich, an open smile on his face as he went to greet Beniko. His arm was moving much more freely, Jace noticed, like it was no longer damaged. “I have never had cause to be worried around him. And he did protect Theron along with his sister.”

To what end? Jace wondered as he watched the reunions: Master Xaja was animatedly talking to Beniko, Theron standing at her side and interjecting commentary before turning to greet a newcomer with dark hair and a brown coat. Imperius had turned to speak to a Mandalorian woman in green armour -- the Champion of the Great Hunt, Shara Verhayc, Jace recognized -- while his smuggler brother slipped out of the crowd and neatly disappeared. No matter that Satele didn’t consider Imperius or his right-hand to be threats, no matter that Theron greeted the Sith like friends — Jace couldn’t bring himself to feel at ease around them.

And this was before bringing Cipher Nine into the mix, he thought. He frowned. Nothing involving the Empire’s top spy could ever end well.

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As the crowds beganto disperse toward the main sections of the hive, reunions still ongoing, Korin slipped away to send a message to his father. The old spy was probably in hyperspace, but if the Shadow ever dropped back into realspace for course corrections, he would hopefully see the message before having a worry-induced heart attack. The smuggler sighed — his father picked the most inconvenient times to be radio silent.

“What’s this? You, dodging out of the closest thing to a party we’ve seen in years?” A familiar -- and very welcome -- voice to his left startled him. Looking over, he saw Kira leaning against a stalagmite and smirking at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Korin Taerich?”

“It ain’t a party til the booze and strippers are out,” Korin retorted with a grin as he slipped his datapad back into his pocket, the message to his father half-written. “You remember Rishi.”

Kira grinned as Korin stepped up to her, resting his forearm on the stalagmite over her head. “Vividly. Those were some good times with the crazy cultists.” She straightened enough to slip her arms around Korin’s neck. “So what’s this I hear about the dumb spacer thing being an act and you leading a proper strike team?”

“I call shenanigans. I still dunno how I got roped into that,” Korin muttered as Kira laughed. The smuggler grinned as his other hand came to rest on the Jedi’s waist. “You missed seein’ some of my best shootin’, Jedi.”

One auburn eyebrow raised. “So if that was your best shooting, what’ve you been showing me the last year and a half?” Bright blue eyes pointedly glanced up and down, suggestive amusement pulling her lips into a grin.

“I said some of my best shootin’. You get the special showin’, Carsen.”

“Do I?” Kira’s eyes danced with pleased mischief, as her fingers started lightly tickling the back of his neck. “I’m not convinced, Captain. You got some persuading to do.”

“Challenge accepted,” Korin retorted with a smirk as he leaned in to kiss her. “Real talk though,” he murmured, sobering for a moment, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.” For a brief moment, lingering grief and fear flickered through Kira’s Force-signature before she withdrew to where Korin couldn’t sense her emotions. She covered her brief slip with a smirk. “Your life would’ve gotten a lot less interesting without us in it.”

“And a lot less fun without you in particular,” Korin murmured as he pulled her into a side tunnel and kissed her again.

For a second, he thought about the message sitting half-written on his datapad, and almost pulled himself away to finish sending it. But then Kira’s hand had slipped down, nimble fingers finding his belt buckle, and he quickly decided it could wait. Chances were the old man was already in hyperspace. He would just finish the message later… much, much later.

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Oh, stars, she looked just like her mother. Mairen watched as the group of evacuees from Dantooine and their Havoc Squad saviours scattered within the resistance base — some people heading for the medics, some to meet friends, and still others to just go and crash from post-trauma exhaustion.

But she wasn’t watching the refugees. She was watching the red-haired Jedi woman walking toward the command centre with Lord Beniko and Captain Vortena, animatedly talking to the Sith. Even if the girl’s face hadn’t been broadcasted around the entire galaxy for the last month, along with the face of the tall, handsome spy beside her, Mairen would have recognized her.

She remained still as the group walked past her, able to observe without being recognized. Agent Shan, she noticed, seemed to be more alert, looking about with a slightly paranoid look; his gaze landed on Mairen for a moment before moving on, apparently taking her to be only a curious onlooker. Airna’s daughter glanced at her for barely a second before her attention turned back to Lord Beniko. Mairen had known that her cousin’s daughter wouldn’t recognize her, not like her brother had — she had never met her own mother. But that didn’t quite stop the slight ache in her heart.

At first glance, the pretty redhead didn’t seem to take after her father much at all. She had her mother’s hair and eyes, her mother’s slim build, and the same graceful stride. And the laugh that came from her at some quip Lord Beniko made was an eerie echo of Airna. Even her reputed sharp temper and fondness for creative insults came from her mother. And you went after a spy, too, she thought, shaking her head. Truly your mother’s daughter. At least Agent Shan was a Republic agent, and not in the service of the Empire.

It was like Mairen was watching her cousin again, before she had left Corellia with Taerich. She wanted to go to the girl, see how much of Airna lived on in her — but the younger Jedi wouldn’t know who she was. And she had just survived one terrible ordeal after another. And your journey isn’t done yet, Mairen thought as she watched her cousin’s daughter walk up a ramp to one of the command platforms, Agent Shan never far from her. With any luck, there would be time later to meet Xaja Taerich properly. The Jedi Shadow could only hope that the only thing she had inherited from her father was his surname.

#drastic measures #look! I haven't forgotten this yet!#KOTFE AU #SWTOR #Theron/Xaja #reunion time!#Xaja finally caught up to her brothers again #Suspicious Jace is suspicious #now we know where Theron gets the trust issues from #meanwhile on Coruscant #more family drama inbound!#this story is never going to end I stg #and look! Korin/Kira!

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