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rarephloxes · 3 years

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@lucienvanserraweek, free day!

I’m so happy to announce that this is a collab with my dear friend @ratabrasileira!!! Go show the beautiful drawing she did some love!!

rating: G

words: 2.2k

Elain searches the woods for flowers and finds more than she ever expected. Sleeping Beauty Au

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Elain left the cottage barefooted, the soft cushion of the grass comfortable and well known to her feet. The familiar and gratifying feeling of calm earth beneath her, steady and grounding, more than enough reason to forego any sort of shoes.

Roses, Feyre had chanted, the dreamy look in her sister’s eyes persisting ever since her chance encounter with a newcomer guard at the town square, the prettiest ones you can find, please?

Elain had not the courage to tell her younger sister that she had picked fresh flowers just the day before, funny-shaped pink blooms Elain found at the lip of the stream near the border.

So, she had picked her basket - the one Nesta had gifted her on her last birthday, handmade by her older sister herself; a beautiful, intricate thing done with the hard-earned love of the hardest Archeron - and left, a spring to her step and a tune brimming in her throat.

The woods, the townspeople said, were older than the village by unaccounted years, and therefore filled with deep, wondrous and dangerous magic.

Elain, as well as her sisters, was orphaned too soon. A wasting sickness that had scourged their village had taken away both of her parents, one after the other, leaving only a nearly of age Nesta, a doe-eyed Elain, and a tear-stained Feyre.

Many years had passed since, the nebulous, all-consuming pain of the absence of their parents soothed by time. Despite her grieving, it never escaped Elain’s thoughts how lucky she was to have such wonderful people in her life: her kind neighbors; the quaint, energized people of the village, who never missed a chance for celebration; the old grouch at the square who made wooden figures just as her father once had; Feyre’s laugh, her creativity and Nesta’s attentive strength.

The woods, magical and mysterious, were a source of peace in Elain’s little life, too. A balm made of soft sunlight, fresh, perfumed breeze, and the singing quietness of wildlife.

She walked, shawl hanging on her elbows to ward off the slightest of spring chills. Elain sang to her heart’s content, a lively lyric dancing on her tongue and bouncing on the leaves of the tallest of trees, her heart soaring with each note she presented to her loved woodland.

With Feyre’s wishes in mind, Elain followed a path towards a grove, the humidity at her destination perfect for the birth of deep pink roses which best complimented Feyre’s complexion.

She crossed the sturdy old bridge that allowed passage over the river, her cottage’s mill no longer audible from where she stood.

“Hello, Mister,” Elain greeted the white, wild bunny, its twitching mustache smelling the air twice before hurrying on fast jumps towards her, a cupped palm of berries awaiting the animal’s eager mouth, allowing her to scratch its head “You’re rather famished this morning, aren’t you?” she asked. The bunny agreed with what seemed like and affirmative ear twitch before her furry friend scampered away to a nearby bush.

Then, singing about poets and kings, Elain continued her path through the meandering trees, her basket filling with dark, juicy berries - a few of them already staining her lips red - and multicolored flowers.

A bold, red little bird landed on Elain’s extended finger and enchantingly sung with her. Its melodic chirping lacing and harmonizing to the girl’s sweet voice, their impromptu duet accompanied by the rustling leaves and the gurgling stream.

How wonderful Elain felt, surrounded by nature, connecting to the air around her as if it had birthed her itself, offering it her voice. Respectfully reaping the charming flora, she found on her way, breathing their scent, befriending the forest animals, and spinning on the tip of her toes on the soft soil.

As she stopped dancing, her skirts still swishing around her calves from the last of her twirls, Elain noticed a magnificent shrub of the blooms she had braved the woods for, jewel-bright pink petals shining under sunbeams, as if the tress had organized themselves to create a spot of light for such earthly beauty.

Right then, the strangest of things happened.

With her heart jumping to her throat, beating frenetically against her ribs, Elain noticed a beautiful horse. Saddled, with a gleaming chestnut coat, dark eyes downcast, calmly munching on the grass near its hooves.

It wasn’t unheard of, horses in the woods, wild or otherwise, they were not far from the main road, but that was not what made Elain’s skin prickle with alertness.

A well-taken care horse as such must have a rider nearby.

“Samson,” called a male voice “There’s not much left to go.” The horse shuffled his legs, huffing before turning its nose away, back onto the moss.

“There will be carrots,” the voice tried again, with a tone of simulated indifference.

Caught like a fish on a hook, the horse’s great neck snapped up, looking at its rider, as if expecting the vegetable all at once. Stoic as the pair of them seemed, Elain had the impression Samson was kindly spoiled.

Elain, who could hear the rich sound of the stranger’s voice, had not yet distinguished his form in the shade beyond the grove she entered, but following the stallion’s gaze she finally sighted him.

Oh, but what a beautiful man he was.

Stranger was tall and broad-shouldered, with an old, silvery scar marking the side of his face, slitting his brow and narrowly missing his eye - which seemed to be a disconcerting shade of brown. He had the most vibrant shade of red hair she has ever seen, dark like autumn leaves and silky like water.

He was the most beautiful human she has ever seen.

Stranger, however, had yet to notice her.

And as handsome as he was, Elain was clever enough to realize that a quick, silent escape was the safest option.

Slowly, she walked one step back.

The crunch of the branch beneath her foot echoed loudly, too loudly to be confounded by an innocuous wildlife sound.

Elain couldn't raise her eyes to look at him, attention glued to the sword holstered at his hip.

“Be not afraid, lady. I’ll take my leave in a moment,” Stranger said in a placating tone, palms deliberately upraised for her benefit.

The woods turned to music at the exact moment their eyes met.

A world-altering spark of recognition lighted in her mind.

A stranger in the woods, merry music, dancing fireflies, and singing birds, trees being led by the wind as if women in a ballroom, her vision spinning, and her body lighting up like fireworks. A hand on her waist, a choreography her body must have been made for performing, such ease it was to allow it to guide her away.

Dreams, she remembered, wonderful dreams which always kept her under her covers for a moment too long, always ending way too soon, leaving longing as a dent in her pillow.

Now he was right in front of her.

“I know you,” she whispered, words slipping through her lips like birds escaping a cage, her hands shaking.

He was dressed in well-made traveling clothes, dark pants, finely done knee-length boots she had only ever glanced upon whenever wealthier people crossed the town to check on their local businesses, but those deftly dressed gentlemen couldn’t have looked better than the man even with the priciest of fineries. Elain resisted the urge to press her hands to her cheeks, heated and pink from noticing Stranger only wore a thin, unruffled poet’s shirt, - his cape and hat using the nearby trees as hangers - its open laces revealing golden skin and wisps of red hair.

Elain had never felt self-conscious of her looks or clothes, the townspeople dressing similarly to her (even if Elain herself had one of the best sewing hands in their village). Her current outfit was a simple corset with boning made out of prepped hedgehog spikes, the plain fabric embellished with neat seams and picturesque figures Elain had stitched herself; a brown, light skirt - easy to wash and easier to hide soil stains - and, what now she deemed absurd due to the grime on her nails, no slippers.

“And I, you,” he answered as in a daze, hands falling limply at his sides.

“Do you hear it?” Elain made her voice firm, lifting he chin but with her knees slightly bent, ready to run.

“Yes, my lady,” he took a step, then two, until a stretch of his arm would land his hand on her shoulder.

But he didn’t move to touch her.

Elain swallowed, the breeze cooling her body, eyes downcast, legs now motionless and nearly failing her.

“Why won’t you let me see your eyes, my lady?” She couldn’t be sure, for she knew him not, but there was pleading in his tone.

“I’m afraid, my lord, that if I look at you, I’ll awake and leave this dream,” she whispered, surprised, but not fearful, of her words. “And you’ll fly away from my grasp,”

Suddenly shy of her newly found boldness, she turned her back to him.

“I’m-" She started, voice small.

“No, please.” Elain saw a shadow over her shoulder but wouldn’t dare to guess. “Forgive me for my requests, my lady, you need not give me anything, I-”

He sounded... embarrassed.

She found it endearing.

The song of the woods shifted to a village rhythm she knew well.

“Dance with me,” he called.

A gasp fell freely from her mouth, the ghost of a touch on her hand.

Slowly, she turned back to face him and realized her mistake.

His eyes were not brown, but a vibrant russet shade, complimenting his hair better. Elain had heard only the continent bred humans with the most varied and colorful bodies.

“I forgive you,” she mouthed, her throat no longer functional.

There were callouses on his palms if from holding reins or sword fighting, she couldn’t determine, but they were so gentle against her skin she barely put any mind to it.

A blast of sound surrounded them, as if the song recognized their meeting, rejoicing in their movements, magnifying their volume to ensconce the pair of them in a cloud of magic. Elain allowed her stranger to spin and lead her in the dance of her dreams.

She couldn’t help to laugh and smile and giggle as they swayed in impossibly rehearsed arrangements, his wide, carefree, delighted grin pouring sunshine into her chest.

Time turned to a growing bloom, following the natural, slow, unpreoccupied pace of life. A hundred dances thrummed with them while the small pointer of the square clock circled once.

At that time, the resounding, deep clang of the church’s bell chiming twelve times broke through the magic steering the couple.

Elain ceased her steps, the pang of reality downing on her face, awareness washing the enchanted fog in her mind.

She let go of Stranger’s hand, the melodies dimming to a quiet hum, tempting her as a distance siren song,

“I must go,” she told him, yet unable to move.

“So soon?” he asked earnestly, arms lovingly tightening around her waist, not caging, only a gentle embrace.

“Oh, please, I must have my leave. Your lordship certainly has somewhere to be. I don’t even know what to call you-“ she babbled in a rush.

Stranger pressed his nose to the sliver of skin above her neck line, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if she were a saint and he a devotee. Elain lost the breath in her lungs, head lulling back, her words cutting themselves short.

“It’s yours,” his lips brushed the slope of her neck, “My name, my heart, my soul. It’s all yours. I’m Luc-“

Hurriedly, Elain lifted his head and pressed her pointer and middle finger to his mouth, “You must not tell me your name,”

“I heard your voice,” he admitted, a portrait of hope in his face, gently grasping her wrist “I deviated from the road to look for the angel whose song I was lucky to listen. But the singing stopped, as it was never there in the first place,”

“The woods have a mind of their own” she whispered to herself, eyes roaming around as if searching.

“I found you once I let Samson rest for a moment,” he continued, uninterrupted, as though afraid she would vanish in a poof of light.

“Please, my lady. Can’t you see? One is never to deny a gift from the Gods,”

“Are you a believer, Stranger?”

“Now, I am,” he said, his gaze unfaltering, “Will you allow me to reveal my name to your Ladyship?”

“I’m no lady,” she said, taking her hand from the warmth of his, regretting it immediately, “I must have my leave,” How would she explain her tardiness to Nesta? Oh, how reckless she was acting.

“At least allow me to take you to your home, my lady,”

Elain knew deep in her gut as clearly as she knew the color of the sky and the name of her favorite flowers that he would never hurt her.

But her oldest sister warning echoed in her conscience, coiling its limbs around her, refraining her voice.

The universe, it seemed, understood her decision.

Samson let out a loud neigh, attracting her love’s attention for just long enough.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” she promised as he turned around to watch his horse.

And ran away, deep into the woods.

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Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, likes and comments make my day.

Special thanks to @moononastring and @silvergriff for hosting this awesome event, @separatist-apologist for being the kindest and most considerate beta reader I could ever hope for.

I’m building a tag list! If you want to keep up with my writing, let me know :))

I may or may not continue this? I really want to mesh this with a bunch of other ideas I have on my notes!!

#elucien #lucien vanserra week #lucien vanserra headcanons #lucien spell cleaver #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elucien fanfic #elucie fic #elucien fanfiction #acotar #sleeping beauty

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gobblewanker · 3 years

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So, uh, I've been pretty busy these last few days so I'm sorry for the lack of posts. But I decided to finally finish up an old one shot drabble I've had sitting in my phone since January. So, ye.

Hope you like Werewolf Stan.

Stanley was absolutely massive. Ford didn't have a good estimate as he was far less cooperative with him in this state than he was with the children, but he felt heavier than either of them in human form. That was only the most noticeable difference Ford could distinguish between him and a regular wolf though. His teeth were larger, seeming almost too big for his mouth, and the claws reminded him or sickles. His frame was sturdier, more front heavy, characteristic of a lone hunter rather than a pack based predator.

Yet despite all of that, there he was now. Lying stretched out on the floor in front of the TV and letting the two children poke and prod at him without as much as a warning growl. Like a very polite golden retriever.

Ford had expected tonight's excursion to end with him returning home to finish compiling his research on the effects of the full moon on wendigo migration patterns, comparing his new data with whatever remained of his notes from thirty years ago, and - if his paranoia allowed it - maybe even get some proper sleep in. He had expected observing the solitary and very territorial beasts without being detected to be the dangerous part. The one during which he might risk being attacked. He had not expected to be thrown onto the floor and pinned by a large creature covered in scraggly grey fur the second he entered the house.

He had deduced that it was a werewolf the second he looked into its far too human eyes. But hadn't spared a single thought as to who the person beneath the fur might have been. He'd been to busy trying to push against it's broad neck to keep the furiously snarling maw out of range of his own throat. Too busy cursing his own curiosity for compelling him to leave his family unguarded with a full moon high in the sky, and fighting against the raw terror that clawed up his back and whispered in his ear that this creature - this monster - had surely already killed Stanley and the kids when Ford should have been there to protect them.

In the end though, by the mercy of whatever good there was out in the multiverse, there would be no graves to dig and no next of kin to inform because appearing out of nowhere as if herself sent by some form of divine intervention was Mabel. Alive, uninjured, Mabel.

She cried out in alarm and rapidly descended the remainder of the stairs despite Ford's breathlessly shouted demands that she return to the attic and barricade herself along with her brother. Mabel did no such thing. With the foolish fearlessness only a child could posesses, she threw herself at the head of the werewolf, grabbed two small fistfuls of it's fur, and yanked. Shockingly, the beast did allow itself to be pulled back. If only the slightest bit.

"No! Bad!" She admonished firmly, as if she was handling a rowdy pet, rather than a monster the size of a small car made out of muscles and teeth.

Before Ford could move to put a stop to her suicidal overconfidence, she had somehow managed to plant herself firmly between her still prone great uncle and the werewolf. The large unkempt animal lunged at Mabel. Maw open and snapping at her neck. For a second, Ford could have sworn he actually felt his heart stop. But there was no blood or screaming. Instead, jagged yellow fangs caught the fabric on the back of her sweater collar. Tugging her back like a mother wolf grabbing a disobedient pup by the scruff of it's neck. She yelped as her backside connected with the floorboards, but showed no further signs of distress. In fact, as the animal worriedly shoved it's snout in her face with such force and hurry it nearly knocked her over, she giggled. Tiny hands pushing it away with little regard for how close her fingers were to it's teeth.

"Ew, your nose is all wet!" Mabel laughed.

Again, it was Mabel who broke the stalemate. Quietly pressing a hand to the werewolf's side and slowly stepping closer to Ford again. She didn't remove her hand from it's fur, letting it trail along with her as she carefully moved. As if the only thing keeping the creature restrained was her small hand resting reassuringly in its pelt. Ford was half convinced it was.

Ford was absolutely dumbfounded, but despite his fight or flight instincts practically screaming at him to get Mabel away from the creature now, it showed no signs of hostility at all. At least not aimed at the child. The second Ford attempted to push himself back up off of the ground a deep rumble tore from the werewolf's throat. It whipped it's head around, instantly alert again. Eyes blown wide and assessing, ears pressed flat against it's head. It took one markedly distrusting step to the side, very deliberately placing itself between Mabel and Ford this time. Never letting the man out of eyesight. Ford glared back, hoping against hope that rising to the challenge wouldn't escalate things. Faltering gave animals the confidence to attack: A painful lesson permanently etched into his skin.

The creature let out another rumbling growl as Mabel apparently stepped closer to Ford than it was comfortable letting her, but this time all it took was another firm but gentle reprimand for the growl to break into a low whine. It's eyes flitting worriedly between Ford and Mabel.

"It's okay." She spoke carefully, reaching out to take one of Ford's hands in her unoccupied one. The growl flared up again, even if just for a moment. "No. It's okay, Grunkle Stan. It's just Ford."

She pressed Ford's palm to the werewolf's head, between it's - too human, too sharp, deep brown - eyes. His fingers sunk into the fur, Mabel's small hand still splayed on top of his. His fur was thinning, missing in patches over gnarled scar tissue, and almost the exact same shade of grey as...

"Stanley?"

Recognition finally flickered in those familiar brown eyes. Only to almost immediately be replaced by horror. Stan pulled his head back swiftly and pressed himself low against the floor. He covered his face with two enormous paws, and let out a low, guilty, whine. Ford just watched in stunned silence.

Ultimately, Mabel had convinced both her grunkles to move back into the tv room, gone to wake up her brother, and insisted on settling down to watch a late night movie. No doubt all in a valiant effort to lift the tense atmosphere. So there they were now: Mabel was doing her best to braid the longer fur around Stan's neck, cramming every hair clip she owned into his wild mane, while Dipper lifted, squeezed, and turned one of his massive paws over in his hands, trying to make an accurate sketch of it. All while both children were half-laying on him like a scraggly pillow. Mabel had even brought her pet pig down from the attic, and despite what Ford had expected and feared might happen, even in wolf form Stan showed absolutely no inclination to harm what logically speaking should be a very natural prey animal. All he did was grumble, and shove the pig away with a padded foot when it began to nibble at his ear.

He was the very picture of self control.

And yet he'd attacked Ford.

His own brother hadn't recognized him. Had categorised him as a threat.

As Ford watched from the doorway as his small family settled down into the comfortably tired haze of domesticity, he wondered how he could have ever let something like this happen.

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #mabel pines #fanfic #not art #late night drabble #wrote this on my phone #but hopefully there aren't any big errors despite that

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assemble-revengers · 3 years

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Nexus Split

**Contains spoilers for Loki**

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2203

Prompt: “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

Author’s Note: I woke up and chose violence today.

Time was hard to grasp before this whole mess began, but it at least had some structure regardless of how ethereal it seemed. There was structure and a time and place and you just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time so it seemed when you also made a move to snatch up the Tesseract the second you saw Loki move in New York. That’s how you got into this mess and honestly there were many things you had regretted initially. For instance, why couldn’t you have minded your own business?

Well, if you had you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to meet Loki, and at the moment? That felt worth more than anything. It hadn’t started that way -- the two of you were practically at each other’s throats and when you weren’t bickering between each other you were being confused by the politics of the TVA and time in general.

In a wild turn of events you became an unpaid intern all over again. You supposed it was better than dying or “being pruned”. You still were confused as ever by the lingo and even though you had tried your best to pay attention to the onboarding process, but frankly you were still wrapping your head around the prospect of the TVA in general. How had no one even considered this being a possibility? Where did these people come from? It seemed that it just...was? But if that was the case, why was there an onboarding process?

Miss Minutes was terrifying -- she was just so...eerie and popped up randomly and honestly you just wanted a nap. Or to wake up from this bizarre dream.

The worst part was the notion of running into other variants, namely the fact that a variant that had been targeting members of the TVA happened to be a Loki-variant.

“Wonderful,” you retorted, interrupting Mobius with disdain, “There’s another one of him.”

The aforementioned god was sitting across a table from you and you weren’t entirely sure how he was taking the whole thing. According to him, the tesseract was useless here. A paper weight. Another beyond weird thing that the TVA brought.

“We should team up,” a voice interrupted your spacing out and it took you a moment to realize that the voice belonged to Loki. And he was talking to you.

You blinked a few times incredulously, “You have been nothing but cruel to me since we met. Why would I ever help you?” Honestly, the audacity of men.

“I am sorry about that, by the way,” he answered, “I was going through something.”

You couldn’t help the laugh you let out, covering your mouth immediately to try to mute the sound and avoid any more attention. “Aw, that makes it all better.”

There was no reason to hide your sarcasm, and he knew that. You could tell from the way he blanched for a moment before resuming his composure, obviously trying to turn on some godly charm or something onto you, “I was. I truly am sorry.”

“Loki, you stole the Tesseract, tried to take over the world and brought a bunch of crazy alien things into New York City,” you listed, counting off the things on your fingers, “And now because you went after the stupid Tesseract again, with a room full of Avengers I might add, I cannot return to my life which wasn’t that impressive, but at this moment? I kind of miss it. So, no, I don’t accept your apology.” He was silent after that and you went back to your mind palace spiraling about the logistics of what was happening to you.

It was not a great day for you. Week? Hour? Time was weird. It was even more weird when you were suddenly having to do research into the Loki-variant-assassin. Going through files and files of different instances in time was tedious. It was interesting in that some of the things had already happened, were going to happen, and were happening in places you had never even heard of. It was during this that you and Loki had begun to work more collaboratively.

In fact, the moment you guys had made the connection that it was apocalypses? You taught the god of mischief the importance of a high five. Or rather, never leaving someone hanging because you chased him down, yelling at him until he returned the high five before you even allowed him to present your findings to Mobius. The bond continued when you both were treated like unhinged criminals or starved, ravenous animals by pretty much everyone other than Mobius who was...friendly as ever.

You did not have a lot of options in terms of trust. While Mobius seemed genuine, there was no way you could possibly know. The issue was that the only thing that was any level of normal in your eyes was Loki which was...laughable, but he was from your timeline. The two of you were in this together sort of because at this point you wanted to go home and it seemed he did too after the whole semantics of this whole thing. Or maybe he wanted to take over the TVA. Regardless, it gave you some hope that he might be kind and put you into your timeline where you belong.

The feelings came out of nowhere. In fact, you hadn’t even realized it happened until there was a chance for you both to chase after the Loki-variant (or Sylvie as you would learn later) and before Loki went through the portal, he reached a hand out for you, Mobius yelling and you found your feet moving on their own accord, turning to mouth ‘Sorry’ to Mobius before grabbing Loki’s hand and rushing through the portal.

Sylvie was interesting and endearing and was someone you instantly found yourself drawn to. You felt sympathetic to her story, and maybe that was dangerous. Dangerous, but gave you another sliver of hope despite the fact things were bleak. Very bleak. Being on Lamentis-1 about to explode and everyone die bleak. Despite this, the two of you sat and chatted in your booth at the bar while Loki got absolutely hammered and even began to softly serenade you in what you assumed was Asgardian (this was after he sung to the whole room) and you found yourself pulling him back down to the chairs and pulling him into a hug while you laughed.

“Loki, I have no idea what you’re saying,” you giggled, pulling away from him, “But I think you’ve had enough.”

“Darling, I think I’m just getting started,” he answered with the smoothness of butter on a hot pancake. You couldn’t help the burning of your ears and the rest of the blush that began to dance across your features. Sylvie coughed. Moment interrupted (Thankfully? You don’t know). Back to the business of the world ending and no way out. Maybe that’s what let all of you decide to unload tales of the past. Yours was boring and...uneventful comparatively which led you to remain relatively quiet as both Loki and Sylvie talked.

Hearing all of Sylvie’s plight and what brought her to that moment had both you and Loki feeling empathetic. You felt anger that this whole this was allowed and deemed ‘okay’ by the TVA. An entity that really had no checks and balances as far as you could see. You pretended to ignore Sylvie and Loki bonding. You felt your stomach tighten. Envy was ugly and green really was never your color.

But that triggered the TVA rolling up and taking the three of you back. You weren’t sure what you were expecting. You weren’t expecting yourself to start fighting. Your restraints, the situation, the fact you were separated from Sylvie and more importantly Loki. You were utterly alone in your cell, screaming for them to let you out. The person interrogating you entered, tried asking you questions that you just couldn’t hear. Your head was swimming and it was almost as if you were hearing things like you were underwater. Fight or flight and apparently your entire being chose to fight.

Per someone’s orders you were moved, you lit up the moment you saw Loki and soon you were joined by Sylvie. Your restraints were removed and your eyes began watering as you rushed to Loki’s side, grabbing his hand as he gave yours a reassuring squeeze, moving so that he was shielding you from the front. The next thing you knew and before you had a moment to process, Mobius was pruned in front of you and Loki moved to shield you further.

Surprisingly, you were not entirely useless in the fight that ensued, but couldn’t help but feel entirely out of your element. The closest you had ever been to being in a fight in the past was when you were five and some girl stole your crayons and had the nerve to try to eat them.

Your adrenaline was pumping when you turned to Loki a feeling like being shocked by a plug while also being burned by a pan that had been on the stove. You were confused, Loki was yelling something. You couldn’t hear. You reach for him, desperate to calm him down or maybe it was because you subconsciously knew what was happening and you were terrified. The hot, electric feeling spread across your body before what felt like you were dropped in ice cold water and suddenly...your eyes blinked awake. You weren’t at the TVA.

Instead, you found yourself on the run (you hated yourself for missing out on all that gym time because your cardio could use some work) from a cloud that ate things. You would learn that you were in The Void, the evil vacuum of the cloud was called Alioth, and that there were even more Loki variants. One was an alligator. He was your favorite.

Your Loki also turned up and you practically threw yourself into his arms in relief, “I thought I lost you, you idiot.”

“I could say the same to you, pet,” he responded, murmuring into the crook of your shoulder. Reunions had to be cut short after you introduced the other variants, (“And this Loki is an alligator! How cool is that! He’s my favorite of all of you, no offense.”) and now you were seeking shelter to hide from Alioth and...well survive you supposed.

President Loki and the other Lokis were...a lot. In fact, there were so many Lokis that you were beginning to get a tension headache trying to keep up with everything that was going on. Some of them seemed to recognize you, including President Loki that informed you that you were late and with the wrong people (“No? I don’t even know who you are?” “You will.”)

Reuniting with Sylvie and Mobius brought even more relief. Sylvie seemed to think she could enchant the Alioth. You protested quite a bit before she was able to convince you otherwise. There was a way out. You had a chance to go back to the TVA and sort things with Mobius. Maybe go back to where you belong. Maybe stay. You weren’t sure, but it seemed Loki, your-Loki was hesitating.

Mobius was opening the portal behind you to the TVA. You stood with your hand firmly within Loki’s, fingers interlaced as you bid Sylvie a small, quiet ‘good luck, you’ve got this’. You and Loki were right by the portal, a sliver from stepping in before Loki stops, pulling you so that you two were facing each other, your back to the portal.

“What’s wrong?” you ask concerned.

“I’m staying,” Loki affirms, “To help Sylvie, to...do this.”

“Okay,” you lament. You were staying too. You tried to move to leave the portal Loki gave Mobius a heartfelt hug, which ended up being a group hug since Loki wouldn’t let go of you. In fact, as soon as Mobius was released from the hug, you were engulfed into Loki’s arms where you practically melted. The hug ended far too soon, but Loki didn’t release you, holding your face in his hands as he pressed his forehead to yours. It made your heart warm and peace washed over you.

“Loki…” you sigh, feeling an entire lifetime of emotions flooding your system, “I…”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, “I know. I feel the same...but I can’t bear to hear it.”

“Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?” You inquire, voice cracking. You felt frozen in place as panic began to bubble up under your skin.

“Because you’re not staying with me,” he murmurs weakly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, “I love you, Y/N. Remember that, please.”

Before you could respond, you were shoved by a great force. You couldn’t even react as your grip was easily broken, your sense of balance knocked out from under you. Mobius had already stepped through the portal...surely it wasn’t still up? You landed on the ground, having been knocked off your feet, but you were no longer in the void.

You felt your heart shattering. You couldn’t even cry. He was gone.

#loki x you #mcu loki #loki x reader #loki x y/n #mcu x you #mcu imagine #mcu x reader

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ironmandeficiency · 4 years

Text

beach please

pairing: rex / reader / cody

word count: 6166

summary: once the war ended, you retreated to scarif for much-needed time to recenter yourself. rex and cody worry when you don’t answer your comms for days and leave coruscant to find you, fearing the worst. turns out you’ve just been drinking and partying, now sporting two new tattoos.

a/n: the self-created duke of scarif is jimmy buffett & i was inspired by his song “margaritaville” & “beach please” by kevin fowler.

canon changes: everyone listened to fives abt the chips & palps was discovered to be a sith lord. the clones were given human rights, a generously low locked-in rent if they lived on coruscant, and as much back pay as the republic could afford (not much but better than nothing).

“master y/l/n, there’s still so much to be done-”

“and you can have someone else do it. you must not be capable of recognizing the importance of reevaluating the way we interpret the code, or else this conversation wouldn’t be occurring.”

obi-wan blanched at the barely tamed fury radiating from your force signature. this was the second time in less than a year that he felt something so raging from your force signature, the time before this meeting being the aftermath of umbara. before the nightmare that was the siege on the shadow planet, it had been decades since you were angry enough about something to raise your voice to the council. it took a very great transgression to ignite your anger into something scathing and this meeting was doing exactly that.

the council was meeting to discuss the senate’s plans to have the jedi spearhead efforts to repair the galaxy and quell the revolts in areas that still wanted to continue the war. palpatine was manipulating both sides and if it weren’t for fives and kix, the republic would have been none the wiser when chancellor palpatine executed the order to have the clones murder their jedi.

“how are we going to guide the galaxy through the changing times if we’re unable to reevaluate our own beliefs and how the war impacted them? so many of our padawans were raised in this war, far different than how they should have been brought up.” your mind drifted to ahsoka and late-night conversations spent trying to make sense of the reality of war and how she’d been nothing but a soldier since she left the temple at fourteen. “the senate is not our responsibility nor our lead authority. we were their pawns once and despite seeing the consequences on geonosis, we let ourselves get wrapped in politics. think of what we lost because of it.”

eeth koth was deeply disturbed by your entire demeanor as well as the words spilling from your lips. if there was ever a jedi that made you want to leave the order, he’d be it. douchebag. “our duty is to the galaxy, to maintain peace! you can’t expect us to sit back and do nothing when people are struggling!”

obi-wan shared your sentiment but strived for more unity than polarization within the meeting. “but aren’t we struggling just as much as the rest of the galaxy? time must be allotted for us to heal the wounds of war before we’ll be able to successfully help others that are suffering, if that’s what’s agreed upon.” a few jedi nodded their agreement, masters plo and gallia among them. shaak looks close to being convinced but seems to still be hesitant to comment on her opinion.

“in order to help the galaxy, we must help ourselves. our emotions must be looked into with more than just the intent to throw them away at a moment’s notice. knowing why we feel the things we do can help us with far more than just our connection to the force.”

this was an idea that obi-wan has spent many years struggling with but it took the end of the war to guide him into believing that emotions aren’t the enemy, it’s how they’re utilized that counts. he explained this concept to his fellow council members and it was a sentiment you agreed with immensely.

saese scoffs at the mere idea of doing more with emotions besides dispelling them into the force. “that sounds a lot like allowing your emotions to cloud your judgement, master kenobi, something your lineage is quite popular for-” oh he crossed the line. saese was not about to talk shit about your creche mate and closest friend or his lineage and get away with it.

“no need to pardon my language, master, but it sounds a lot like you’re allowing your own emotional shortcomings and the bantha fodder you call intelligence to cloud your judgement.”

even mace was stunned at the verbal jab that came from your seat. kit had been mid-drink and it took him several seconds to recover from the way he choked on his water. you were normally calm and collected, a voice of reason amid the chaos. this time, however, you were at your limit. this was your cue to leave.

mace spoke up as you neared the door. “y/l/n, where do you think you’re going?”

“i’m going to heal and allow myself to enjoy the peace we gave nearly everything to obtain. if you want to join me, feel free to let me know.”

your robes billowed out behind you as the council meeting dissolved into chaos. you were convinced that if your seat was close enough to master yoda’s that you’d be sporting a few new gimer stick bruises. thank the force for the little things.

later that evening, you boarded your personal ship and set the coordinates for scarif. that was the perfect place to go as a jedi that didn’t want to be found by anyone that they didn’t fully trust. who would think to find a monk on a planet filled with booze, sex, and other carnal pleasures? a few comms were sent telling the recipients that you were going on vacation and to call if you were needed, giving them a new private commlink and vague hints at where you’d be.

scarif, here i come.

“she hasn’t commed us in nearly a week! what reason is there to not worry?”

“rex, she would have called us if there was something wrong.”

“you know as well as i do that there are still radical seppies trying to keep the war going. the kidnapping of a jedi would surely be cause to fight!”

cody sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. he conceded that you ignoring their comms was highly unusual, yes, but you weren’t the type to throw yourself heedlessly into danger like some of the other jetti they knew (cough cough, skywalker and kenobi). “no one in their right mind is going to think to look for a jedi on scarif, the place is too carefree and without a permanent stuck up its shebs.”

rex knew there was a valid point to the statement. he vaguely recollects general kenobi’s mild yet humorous complaints about the “uncivilized, booze-blooded” inhabitants of the beach planet. general skywalker’s only problem with scarif, it seems, was the fact there was sand nearly everywhere, the drunks and constant parties posing no issue to the younger jedi. the reason for his disdain of sand was never expanded upon.

“i’m still going to look for her, feel free to come with.” they were free men who had no one to report to, no one telling them where they could go or when to eat and sleep, so of course rex was going to look for you. with this newfound freedom cody and rex moved into a middle-level apartment together, nothing too fancy but quite a contrast to their former living spaces under the gar.

rex chose to join the police force on coruscant and quickly climbed the ranks, excelling in every task thrown at him. he was a force to be reckoned with, crime rates dropping rapidly within his first month.

cody hasn’t made a new career choice yet, the commander still trying to find his own path. he had tried his hand on the police force but he quickly realized it wasn’t his cup of tea and left rex to it. he’s helping with groceries and other living costs with his back pay despite rex’s protests for him to put it to better use (what better use is there for credits than helping you survive day to day? that’s what they’re made for).

they were given a ship by general skywalker -anakin, rex’s mind supplied; he had corrected them many times about not using the rank- that the man had modified himself because he “wouldn’t want any friends of mine flying around the galaxy in a piece of junk.” apparently any sort of ship/speeder/droid/anything not built and/or modified by the man was inferior in nearly every imaginable way. it was a kind and meaningful gesture that anakin was willing to go to such lengths to protect them, no matter how unnecessary. the war was over after all, there was no need to have blaster attachments on their civilian speeder.

“like i’m gonna leave you to your own devices, di’kut. of course i’m going with.”

“you better hurry and pack, i’m planning on leaving no later than 1800.”

sitting in the reclined beach chair with two margaritas, you haven’t enjoyed yourself this much in a long time. the togrutan brother and sister you met soon after your arrival had become dear friends in your two months on scarif, the three of you becoming a trio commonly seen hitting the best parties all over the planet. miek wasn’t as much of a party animal in comparison to his sister briel who was known for her wild drunken antics.

you had been there and lived in your small ship for a total of two days before they offered you a place with them. no one lived alone on scarif, they said, and it would be wrong to let you continue to be deprived of the peace the waters brought when it was lulling you to sleep.

meeting the duke of scarif during your first week planetside was quite an exhilarating experience, to put it briefly. duke buffett was an older man with hair as white as the sands he loved to party on day and night, one hand perpetually occupied by a drink and a guitar strapped to his back. he was known to play and sing during the parties he attended, his carefree attitude evident in his voice.

although no one would have guessed by looking at him, he was a fierce conservationist who would either have his guards fight anyone caught littering or, if drunk enough, would fight them himself. you’ve held him back a time or two when he clearly wasn’t in shape to do said fighting and helped ease the situation back to a fun normal.

now you weren’t a heavy drinker by any means, but your tolerance was better than most because of your connection to the force. this made you a favorite drinking buddy to many of the planet’s permanent inhabitants and tourists. of these numbers was the duke himself whom you would sometimes humor by opening drinks with your lightsaber. it was a splendid game that won you diplomatic immunity (apparently he can do that) on the planet after two weeks of jedi party tricks and fight-preventing.

time had become even more of a social construct than you had believed it to be before the war. there were parties going on at all hours of the day and night and the concept of solitude was forgotten. everyone here extended a hand to each other, friend or not-yet friend (there were no strangers on scarif, just friends you haven’t made yet). what little pain felt was carried by all until it was so faint that it seemed to heal itself. the waters healed, you had no doubt in your mind.

the sun was high in the sky when the ship landed next to yours behind your current residence. you were, of course, not home to know where it landed but you did see said ship flying overhead as you relaxed on a blanket next to briel and miek. maybe they were lost, but you had confidence that someone on the island would help them in what they need. this was the way of scarif, after all.

you were distracted by the drinks in both of your hands, alternating sips between the two. you were outfitted in a flowy summer dress that had ridden up a smidge too high while you were lounging on a reclined beach chair. briel was rubbing - lotion? sunscreen? - something on your exposed thighs as you relaxed, enjoying the way the breeze felt on the moisturized skin.

this was the best decision you’ve ever made, coming to scarif. eventually you were going to leave, yeah, but that was a problem for future you. for now, you were going to enjoy the endless sunshine and copious amounts of alcohol that aided in your relaxation.

they had seen the docking bay protruding into the sky like a gundark among loth-cats and decided instantly that you weren’t going to be there. you had told them ages ago that the vibes (you used that word a lot to describe force things to them) that came from industrial buildings bothered you terribly. something along the lines of wearing on your psyche, if they remembered correctly. instead, they flew a little lower than they probably should have to search the ground for where you landed your ship.

it took longer than they would have liked it to, but your ship was eventually found behind a medium-sized hut not too far from one of the many beaches. cody found just the right angle to land next to it and not hurt either shuttle, not trusting rex to touch the controls (his vod was a terrible pilot).

both men decided that even if scarif was a peaceful planet, they still didn’t know what to expect, so they equipped themselves with their blasters and lower armor before leaving their ship. first order of business: check to see if you were in your ship. if you weren’t, they could cross that bridge when they got there.

just as they were beginning to open the ramp, a man emerged from the hut and began to storm their way. he was togrutan, with yellow skin and lavender stripes on his lekku and montrals.

“hey! you two! what’s your business with that shuttle?” he sounded like he was ready to fight them about the ship, which worried the brothers, but he slowed his advance when he noticed the two blasters pointed in his direction. good, this guy wasn’t a complete di’kut.

cody was the first to lower his weapon, quick to take the diplomatic approach. rex followed suit but didn’t soften the intimidating stare he threw at the man. there was a reason your ship was there and they were going to stop at nothing to find out why. “we’re looking for a friend of ours, she hasn’t answered our comms in over a week and we were worried, it isn’t like her to not reply. last we talked to her she was here on scarif.”

the togrutan paused for a moment, inspecting the appearances of the men (clones, his mind told him, the telltale armor and near identical faces hiding nothing) in front of him.

the blond had an air of confidence about him, an almost dangerous sort of confidence. his armor was painted with a shade of blue that was pleasantly similar to the waters he just returned from, pieces of it chipped from what he supposed were rough times in battle. his jaw was set, hand hovering above where he holstered his weapon seconds before.

he didn’t appear to be bloodthirsty, just protective; who he wanted to protect, however, was still a mystery. there was a passion in his eyes that wasn’t even mildly held back. he seemed to be skilled in channeling that passion into his every thought, every action. with a note to himself to not get on this man’s bad side, he switched his focus on the blond’s companion.

miek’s gaze shifted to the other clone and quickly decided that he liked this one better. there was an extremely intimidating scar along the side of his face, yet this one seemed far less willing to shoot him on sight. he still has a grit and presence about him that told miek that this one wouldn’t hesitate to fuck your shit up if need be, but he had tact (thank the stars one of the clones had a sense of discretion).

he could tell that this one had some sort of authority over the blond, clearly serving as a high percentage of the other’s common sense. miek’s mind, after analyzing the men thoroughly, gives names for the men before they introduce themselves. “you must be the famed rex and cody! come, i’ll take you to the shoreline!”

he gestured for them to follow him and was genuinely shocked when instead of doing as he suggested, he was tackled to the ground. miek spit away everything that had gotten into his mouth, unable to move when one of the men pinned him down. this was officially miek’s worst day in over a decade.

he caught a glimpse of marigold stripes on leg armor just over his shoulder, confirming the identity of the man on top of him as rex. “how do you know our names?!” rex’s voice sent a shiver down miek’s spine (the blaster against his back also helped in that), and the togrutan reaffirmed his choice in his favorite clone: not rex.

“i’ve heard stories about you two! from y/n! i’m assuming you’re here about y/n, right?” the blaster was removed from his back and a little bit of the weight was taken off him. he must be saying something right. “she’s been staying with my sister and i, and i promise you she’s perfectly safe!” rex moves his weight completely off him now, allowing miek to stand back up but not move more than a few feet away from him.

“where is she?” cody’s voice was hauntingly low, nothing about him betraying his tension except for the hard glare felt like lasers. he had the same desire, same yearning to protect someone - that someone miek now knew was you - and it burned brighter than a hundred suns.

“last i saw her was thirty minutes ago on the shore with briel, my sister. i can take you to them if you would kindly not threaten to shoot me again. my name is miek, and i would say it was a pleasure to meet you both but then i’d be making myself a liar.” he had no idea where that bit of snark at the end came from but it seemed to sway the clones to his favor. why it did, he had no clue, but at least he wasn’t getting shot.

they walked silently for a few minutes, the two troopers beginning to slightly admire the view while keeping eyes on miek. it was a beautiful planet, there was no denying that. you were surely enjoying yourself in the sunshine, always finding a little bit of time to bask in the nature of whatever planet you ended up on during the war.

it was strange to cody, not feeling eyes on him as he walked with rex on the beach. when he would accompany general ke- obi-wan on trips to the temple or into the streets of coruscant, he constantly felt the eyes of many on him. they would be expressing curiosity, shock, disdain, or something in between, and cody could feel every bit of it. here, it seemed, no one cared that he was a clone. no one was leering at him for walking too close to them or for just breathing the same air as them. cody was blissfully able to blend with the people here and he loved it.

he was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice when miek had come to a stop in front of a small cluster of reclinable chairs. a large umbrella provided the area with a patch of shade and a smidge of reprieve from the sun’s blistering heat.

“see? she’s perfectly fine.” miek’s voice broke their precious silence. “i’m assuming you both can find your own way back to your ship, so i’ll be headed off.” miek left them quite quickly and rex guessed (with a bit more amusement than was warranted) that it was because he nearly shot the man on more than one occasion minutes earlier.

“cody! rex! when did you two get here?”

a familiar voice drew their attention and it took them a second longer than it should have for them to realize that yes, you were the one lounging in front of them as if it’s all you’ve ever done in your life. you were extremely relaxed and your posture conveyed your state perfectly, two margaritas perched in loose hands, both half-empty. an ivory summer dress flowed loosely around you, the front hiked a bit too high for the men to keep their imaginations under control. that wasn’t even acknowledging the neckline of your dress (or lack thereof) that made their throats a bit dry and minds slip into the gutter.

rex and cody cleared their heads after indulging the images for a second, the latter clearing his throat before replying, “just a few minutes ago. you haven’t answered our comms in over a week. rex had the idea to come and visit to see how you were doing, so here we are.”

that was really sweet of them to check up on you, you thought with a smile. you felt a bit guilty about not answering their comms. normally you were careful to reply to theirs and every other message you received soon after getting it, but as stated earlier, time has become a social construct that didn’t really matter while on scarif. you gestured for them to sit, and they took the open chair to your left. they didn’t bother laying back, just sitting shoulder to shoulder in the same chair with their eyes on you.

offering them both half-drank margaritas was a subconscious action on your part that surprised you. what shocked you even more was the fact they accepted the drinks with soft, fond smiles. kriff you missed them, how you’ve been able to go this long without seeing them was beyond you.

you smiled warmly as you introduced your boys to briel, who was smirking a bit too widely than would be deemed safe (you didn’t notice this, seeing as you were too busy drinking in the sight of your boys and the way the sunlight made their eyes glow). her eyes drifted to your thighs as she put in very little effort to hide a laugh. dark clone trooper eyes decided to see what was so amusing to the togruta, and they choked on whatever words they were contemplating.

on your thighs were rex and cody, left and right respectively. or, more accurately, on your thighs were six-inch tattoos of rex and cody.

both men were in quite show-offy poses, appearing to have the intent to make them look like pin-ups. the lower half of their armor was equipped but they were shirtless, faint details of scars and sweat appearing to glisten in imaginary sunlight.

cody’s face was set in a smolder the likes of which would send half the women in the galaxy into puddles at the commander’s feet. his dc-15a was held aloft in his right hand while his left arm was holding his helmet in place in the crook of his hip. his left foot was stepping on a small heap of droids which brought his knee up a bit, and he was facing the inked rex on the opposite thigh.

rex’s wild smile could catch the soggiest piece of kindling alight with the allure and charm it held. his eyes were sparkling with a pleasant mirth not often seen in the man. both hands wielded his trusted dc-17’s, the right blaster pointed at the droids under cody’s foot while the left was pointed in the air, blaster bolts coming out of both. his helmet was under his right foot, jaig eyes almost peering into your soul and welding marks visible from his customization of the phase 2 helmet.

commander and captain are both beginning to flush at the art in front of them. they were flattered to see drawings of themselves look so dashing, and seeing it on your body roused feelings they had spent years repressing. their biggest question now was whether their likenesses on your body translated into something more on your end.

“nice to finally meet my friend’s muses,” briel quips, “it’s hard to get her to talk about something that isn’t you two when she’s plastered.” she pauses a moment, thinking of her next words and chuckling to herself. “she’s barely spent three consecutive days completely sober since she got here, which means that you two are almost all she talks about.”

this deepened the heat in their cheeks as you playfully swatted at briel’s shoulder. “that is not true!” a moment of silence. “wait, what day is it? that miiiight make a difference.”

rex chortles at the admission. “glad to see you enjoying yourself, cyare. but kix would be enraged to hear that you’ve been drinking nearly every day for two months, and we can’t exactly blame him.” he grinned as he took an experimental sip of the drink you gave him. it was stronger than he expected, but it had an underlying sweetness not often found in margaritas. he liked it.

sitting up, your dress covered your ink as you expertly drank from the margarita in cody’s hand while he still held it. the commander sent you a soft glare, wondering why you didn’t just get a new drink but enjoying the moment nonetheless. “kix shmix, his face isn’t on my thigh so i don’t really care what he has to say right now.” you lean toward cody and rex before whispering, “you didn’t bring him, did you?”

all three of them guffawed at the question, you joining their laughter solely because of how happy the joy radiating from your boys’ force signatures made you.

calling them your boys had become second nature after mere months of fighting beside them. you spent an inane amount of time with them during planning and actual combat, and were just as much their general as their actual generals were (despite you not carrying the honorific). any free time was spent with one or the other if available, but if they were both occupied you would make your way toward the barracks and join a few games of sabacc.

there were nights you’d spend in the barracks with either battalion (depends on which group you were assigned to at the time) and be welcomed there as if you were a fellow clone. they taught you to play sabacc and you enjoyed playing with them despite the fact you had the most rotten luck with the game.

winning didn��t carry any weight when you were able to spend time with rex and cody, shamelessly basking in the way they always seemed to have some sort of physical contact with you every moment possible. when rex and/or cody returned from whatever responsibilities held them earlier, the men were quick to relinquish them a seat next to you with a sly grin.

their vode noticed the affection shared for the jedi on sabacc night number two and didn’t hesitate to spread word of it around to the rest of their battalions and beyond. on the nights you accompanied them on trips to 79’s, men under rex and cody both (read: fives and boil) made sure that the rest of their brothers and the occasional civvie knew that you three were off-limits to anyone but each other. you were their jetti & they were your captain and commander, no one would get between that even if it wasn’t decided among those in question.

“nah, he’s kept his head in his work. he just got his civvie medical license, started his own private practice on naboo.” rex was extremely happy for his brother, although it was strange to not see him nearly every day. it took a while before he was used to the lack of vode around him at all moments, but cody has been a massive help with that transition.

cody nodded before adding onto his brother’s statement. “and besides, we’re not that cruel, cyar’ika.” you grinned at the endearing tone, choosing that moment to snag another drink from the glass in cody’s hand. he swatted at your hand gently but didn’t put up a fight otherwise, just smiling at how carefree you’d become.

during their comms you did sound at peace, and the times where you’d appear via hologram to him your posture was less rigid than it was during wartime. scarif was good for you, cody knew this. the knowledge of your happiness, however, couldn’t prevent selfish thoughts from returning to the front of his mind. thoughts of you leaving scarif with him and rex, lighting up their apartment better than the sun with nothing but a smile were pipe dreams he indulged in when nightmares of war caught up to him.

“y’know,” you began, “no one would ever tell me what that word really meant.” the men froze, trying to play it off. they were saved only by the fact you kept talking. “none of the men ever gave me a straight answer, just saying that it was something you say to someone you trusted. i even asked duchess satine about it when i was on mandalore. she asked who was using the word and when i told her it was you two, she just grinned like a tooka with a rat tail hanging from its mouth.”

duchess satine was most definitely going to be receiving a gift in the near future.

briel chose that moment to speak for the first time in a while, crossing her arms behind her head. “i’ve never been to mandalore nor heard a lick of what i’m guessing is its native language, but you’d have to be a fool to not guess its meaning by now.” her words were directed at you but they made the men sputter.

“what is that supposed to mean, brie?”

“seriously? please tell me you’re kidding.”

briel was absolutely incredulous. how could a member of the highly revered jedi order, known for the wisdom of its members, not read between the lines? they were giving her plenty to work with in terms of evidence of their affections that they weren’t hiding very well, how did you not know?!

silence followed her words and she came to the startling realization that you were, in fact, not kidding. “look at them, these two adore you! they followed you here like stray tookas when you didn’t comm them enough.” the men didn’t even bother looking offended as they were called out by the togruta. they were scared you’d be disgruntled at the blatant show of care for you but briel wasn’t done. “sithspit y/n, you got tattoos of them because you said you missed them so much!”

hold on, rewind, what did she just say?!

“you… missed us?” rex’s voice was softer than anyone had heard it be in a long time. part of him aches to throw his drink over his shoulder and take you into his arms with no regard to the outside world, yet he restrains himself. this could very well be a trap, an illusion or extremely detailed dream the likes of which he’s never experienced.

then again, how would that explain his mind creating a taste for something he’s never had before?

he concluded that this was indeed real, and he very well could do exactly as his heart desires if he let go for just a moment, just long enough for the contents of his glass to seep into the sand and his calloused hands to roam your exposed skin.

but he also remembers long talks with his ori’vod about their mutual affections for you. how selfish and uncaring it would be for him to try and keep you to himself after spending so many nights lamenting with cody about the way you made them both feel more human. the way you tethered them to sanity when the war threatened to dispose of what little control they had over themselves or their fates, the softness of your fingers intertwined with theirs whenever you had the chance. both men would contemplate the way you’d taste as you downed several shots at 79’s or cups of the contraband moonshine brewed by the men, wondering how much would be the alcohol and how much would be you and wishing that they could find out.

it would be a betrayal far greater and even more despicable than that of palpatine and the republic, and rex didn’t think he could handle losing the respect of his ori’vod no matter what was given in return. not even you.

the togruta woman officially lost the last speck of patience she held for the clueless, lovesick trio, groaning that she gave up as she left them to their own devices.

you were confused. why would you not miss them? did those years of fighting next to them and caring about them and loving them not translate to the idea of missing them when they were gone? yeah you were a little tipsy when you got your tattoos, but that didn’t change the facts as to why you got them: you wanted cody and rex by your side and moments spent without them were moments spent unhappy. they were your boys, the two reasons you kept fighting in that cursed war instead of returning to the temple with your tail between your legs at the first sign of combat.

cody downed his margarita with a solid gulp before taking your right hand in both of his, face twisted almost identically to his brother’s while processing the information you presented. he marveled in the familiar grooves and calluses from battle that were beginning to soften, thoroughly enjoying the fact he didn’t have to hide anything from you or the rest of the galaxy about the love - cody was sure now that this was indeed love - he held for you and you alone.

“is that true, cyar’ika?” cody’s voice was sickeningly hopeful. he’s never allowed himself to hope, knowing that diving too deep into desire could lead to consequences tantamount to death. hearing you stumble over your words as you admitted to loving him, loving him and rex both in the same capacity, cracked the last mask of stoicism he had in his reserves. his mouth was smiling but his eyes were wet, and anyone who didn’t know him would think the man was karking mad.

you weren’t as focused on your boys as you would have been any other moment, too busy trying to figure out what you said for cody to ask about and oh. holy shit, i said all of that out loud. then, a brief moment of clarity. i said every bit of that, but they’re not leaving. they’re instead moving closer, taking my hands in theirs and then- “have i ever lied to either of you?” your heart once again overpowered your brain, taking over your vocal chords and bringing voice to your thoughts.

rex nestled his glass into the sand before going to his knees in front of you, eyes sparkling from both the scarif sun and unshed tears. “you could never, ner’jetti.” he rested his chin on your knee not blocked by cody, his subconscious deciding to nuzzle his head into the hand that had come up to his face.

within seconds, the clunky armor had taken to the sand. they didn’t startle at the sudden exposure to just their bottom blacks because they could feel the soft humming of the force around them, knowing that it was merely you making them more comfortable. you were pulling them toward you and into your reclined chair, rex’s chin in one hand and cody’s hands in the other. they were quick to take a hint, immediately moving to either side of you to lay on their sides, facing their jetti with soft smiles.

rex made quick work of wrapping an arm around your waist, face burying itself into the crook of your neck as best he could. he inhaled your scent, the familiar ozone that came with the force mingling wonderfully with scarif’s ocean water and the tropical drinks you’ve been keeping yourself busy with.

cody tangled one hand into your hair, fingers softly moving as he rested his other arm slightly above his brother’s. the hand touching your waist softly stroked your side as he let his eyes drift closed, the force wrapped around him like a blanket of protection.

no one spoke of love in the hours you spent wrapped in each other’s arms in that uncomfortable-for-three-people chair. the admissions and conveyance of all the love held between the three of you was saved for the privacy of their ship. cody and rex worshiped you and you did the same for them, no one allowing there to be a single doubt as to where your hearts belong.

#star wars reader insert #star wars fanfic #star wars imagines #star wars the clone wars #star wars #captain rex #captain rex x reader #captain rex imagines #commander cody #commander cody x reader #commander cody imagine #captain rex x reader x commander cody #poly rex x reader x cody #commander cody x reader x captain rex #beach please #this is fluffy as hell #i refuse to ship him with qui-gon #ct-7567 #cc-2224

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glapplebloom · 3 years

Photo

BONUS ARTICLE AND SPOILER WARNING!

@RiseFallNickBck

I make it no secret I am a fan of the Powerpuff Girls. I got every original episode on DVD, saw Dance Pantsed and even enjoyed most of the Reboot (yes it has problems but there are things I do enjoy about it). But when I heard about the Live Action Reboot even I think it was a terrible idea and reading the supposed leak proved I was right. If this leaked script was indeed true, it would explain the re-working they’re doing for the pilot. So this post said that it is unsalvagable. I’m willing to give it my best shot. To add to this challenge: I am keeping the cast the same. And I’m not going to just use my own version of the Future PPGs.

First, for this, I would animate most of the opening to be cartoon representatives of the cast. This way, people will know this is a new take on the Powerpuff Girls off the bat. Inspired from the PPG movie, we see the Professor looking at Townsville and wanting to bring something positive in this town. The a recreation of the opening, you know, the Sugar, Spice and everything Nice bit. Then the Narrator talk about how they were successful, showing a montage of them fighting all sorts of villains. Also showing them slowly maturing and changing their costumes to reflect their personalities. Then puberty hits.

Two things I am going to keep from the Pilot script is Blossom doing some serious studying and Buttercup being a cheating lesbian. Like my own future PPGs I do believe Blossom being the serious one and Buttercup being the wild one makes the most sense. But for Bubbles, they want her to be Hollywood yet making her more like Brittany Spheres at her worse. So I’m going to make her more focus on that. She was tired since she was doing numerous interviews with various magazines. So when they confront Mojo Jojo, who is human, they’re not at their best.

Mojo does his thing, but because they were tired they messed up. Instead of tackling Mojo out of the giant machine like always, they tackled below it, With Mojo’s last words, he curses the Powerpuff Girls before dying, either by the machine being destroyed via explosion or the head falling down, crushing him (this will depend on the twist ending). Now with blood on all their hands and not because Mojo tried to be a hero by attacking the girls, they all take this differently. Blossom has PTSD since she feels she’s responsible for it. Buttercup, who you think would be excited about it, is horrified. And Bubbles being so focused on the spotlight ignores it by saying “that’s right villains! If you mess with Townsville ever again expect the same!”

After that statement, there are no more villains in Townsville. They either quit or left Townsville. The Professor, who is not trying cash in on them, sends them to therapy to help them deal with it. Bubbles is in denial, Buttercup is getting better, but Blossom needs more of it. And when they turned 18, they felt it was best to move on. Buttercup is a traveling hero now, saving the day where she can and sleeping around when she can’t. Blossom graduated college, got the job at the Biotech Firm in Boston and has a boyfriend with Clive. She still goes to therapy and she is seemingly better. Bubbles went to Hollywood to cash in on her fame. No blonde drunk here. The Professor? Well, he is dating Sara Bellum after the Mayor lost and she was out of a job. She now works as an office secretary while the Professor is still doing his thing.

Currently being the Mayor is one Jones (played by Jojo’s actor). He is up for re-election and seems to be losing his chance at a second term. So he comes up with an idea: bringing back the Powerpuff Girls to Townsville. Even after the girls left Townsville has been pretty safe (at least to the the public’s knowledge) so he figured them coming back would give his campaign a boost. Around the same time, the Professor began to notice that there is an unusual concentration of high frequency technology happening recently. He fears that Darkness is coming back to Townsville and decided to call the Powerpuff Girls. Buttercup is a little worried but is alright. She promise to call the girl later. Bubbles sees this as an opportunity to get a chance in the spotlight, so she informs the media about a PPG reunion and gets her camera crew and agent. Blossom panic attacks as Clive reminds her of her therapy. Blossom calms down and decides to go see. It can’t be too serious she thinks.

When Buttercup arrived at Townsville’s Airport, Bubbles is there with her cameraman and manager. They take an uber as they catch up. When they arrive at Townsville, the media is there since Bubbles informed them. Buttercup tries to get pass them but Bubbles embrace them. Especially a little girl who seems to be a fan. While Blossom is her favorite, she is excited to finally see them all in action. She asks for a hug, Bubbles goes in (thinking it’ll be a great camera shot), a caterpillar crawls up from around the girl to Bubbles, Buttercup flicks it, Henrietta said it was her pet and Buttercup rushes Bubbles inside. Blossom was already inside, sneaking in with Super Speed since she doesn’t want to have another panic attack. With the Professor there they he makes a claim. Blossom faints

Meanwhile, we find out that Henrietta was an evil genius. She wanted that caterpillar to crawl into Bubbles’ head to control her. And with all three together, she continues to want that power to herself and makes a move. Sometime later, Blossom recovering from her panic attack. She does not want to return to the Super Hero life and the others are accepting yet still needs her help. They promise she won’t have to fight but they still got to investigate. Drake thinks that if they can find the source he can take care of the rest since technology is his thing. Though they decide to humor him since despite being a scientist he hasn’t have the best track record for detecting things. And it gives the three girls to catch up beyond bitmoji.

They decided to go to the Cano: the bar that’s located to the old inactive volcano that no one previously used. The owner is Butch who had a thing for Bubbles but she broke it off to presume her acting career, so he has a grudge. He’s cool with the other two. The girls catch up for a bit, Buttercup eyes Macy for a brief moment, they drink. Maybe too much as the three are different levels of dazed. Bubbles is making out with Butch while trying to find the source of an evil lab (at least she thinks she does), Buttercup is okay talking to Macy and Blossom is calling Clive while a little drunk. That’s when this guy who was Henrietta’s neighbor and being a little too aggressive. Buttercup does not take this well.

After being escorted out of the bar (with the exception of Bubbles because she is trying to milk it for the camera) Blossom was commenting on how the guy had yellow eyes which Buttercup dismisses. With the computer stuff, they wrongfully suspect a charging station to be the culprit. They return back home unbeknown that it was indeed Henrietta’s Evil Laboratory underneath it. She has an army of caterpillars and decided to send them after the girls. If they can’t get them themselves, they’ll get other people. Back at the home, they relay their discovery to the Professor. He could have sworn but eventually settled that “maybe technology is advancing faster than he thought”. He invites them to stay the night but Bubbles and Buttercup got arrangements. Blossom stays, hoping to get some more talking.

With Bubbles, as the Cameraman gets some shots of the city for B-Roll, Bubbles and Ace (her manager) look over the footage. As he praises her, Bubbles notices there was a kid there. Before she can recognize who it was, their van got hit by another car. It was four people with yellow eyes. Bubbles goes in for the attack, taking it easy since she knows she can beat them easy. But as she knocks one out, she notices a small caterpillar coming out of their ear. As soon as it went back inside, that person gets back up. As she sees this, another tries to sneak up on her to place one near her ear. She’s too fast and makes the connection. So one by one she KOs a person and crush a caterpillar. With one remaining, they decided to take their own life by snapping their own neck. Bubbles breaks down. With Mojo, she told herself it was his own fault since he was a bad guy. But this is an innocent person who got killed to get to them. Ace comforts her telling her that it isn’t her fault. He even suggest to forget the filming and go see her sisters: because if this happened to her the others have to be in danger too.

At Macy’s place, the two are making out, not noticing the caterpillar getting closer and closer to them. That’s when Bubbles comes in. Thanks to the Friend Locator she knew Buttercup would be here. Buttercup goes to see Bubbles as Macy gets infected. Bubbles is hysterical trying to tell Buttercup what is happening but Buttercup isn’t understanding. That’s when Macy hits her with a lamp. Bubbles punches Macy and finds the caterpillar and crushes it. Now getting it, the girls go to see Blossom. At the PPG House, Blossom is getting some one on one time asking for relationship advice from Sara Bellum. Unbeknownst to the two of them the Professor walks out the door. Sometime later, Buttercup, Bubbles and Macy arrive to inform them of what’s up. They went to see the Professor but finds out he’s gone. Not suspecting the worst (probably thinking he’s getting dinner), Blossom examines the remains of the caterpillar and realize its a mind control device. And after Bubbles show them the footage of the girl, Buttercup realizes something isn’t up. That’s when Sara calls them to the living room.

The news are reporting that Townsville is having a rampage and the Professor is claiming to be the one behind it. They see the yellow eyes and Blossom makes the connection that he’s under mind control. Bubbles realizing the danger rushes out the door to try to stop it. Blossom is hyperventilating as she can’t get back out there. Buttercup tries to convince her but decides to leave her be since she can’t let Bubbles do it alone. That’s when Sara comes to talk to Blossom some more. Blossom discuss her therapy session and all the issues she had with it. Sara makes a comment that calms Blossom down and makes her realize that she needs to help (basically have Sara be the Young Blossom). Meanwhile, Bubbles figures that since the civilians are standing in water, they can give a small electric shock to stop the threat without killing them. Henrietta then shows up making the threat to kill the Professor if they don’t stop. Bubbles wants to save him but Buttercup can’t keep the telephone pole up without her. The Professor falls. Blossom saves him and knocks the Caterpillar out of him. With no where to turn, Henrietta calls all her Caterpillars to come together to create a giant armor for her and the Powerpuff Girls fight her.

After a lengthy battle, the Citizens cheer for the Powerpuff Girls as Blossom admits that she did miss this. Sometime later, Clive hears Blossom plans and while he hopes she would change her mind he understands. The Mayor Jones arrives to thank the girls and hope they continue to stay. And the Professor thanks them for saving him. But Blossom feels that despite how evil Henrietta was, there was no way for her to have the funds to create such a laboratory and suggest they continue to stay to figure out the true mastermind behind everything. Bubbles and Buttercup accept as the Powerpuff Girls are back together once more.

The episode ends with Jones revealing that his real name is Jojo and he is the one behind everything. This is because Jones is really the Son of Mojo and he wants revenge on the Powerpuff Girls.

And that’s how I would rewrite that supposed leaked pilot. It may not be huge improvement since I kept certain things similar, but I do hope it shows that it could be better. My goal is to keep the humor parts separate for the serious parts and inject some more action. But if you have any thoughts, feel free to make your own version of the pilot, one that would most likely be better without the limitations made already.

#PowerPuff Girls #Twist of Fate

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marril96 · 4 years

Text

Once Upon a Time

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: An encounter with a homicidal witch forces Rowena to confront painful memories.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

Getting roped into helping Sam and Dean out with a yet another case wasn't how you'd planned to spend your afternoon, but it wasn't as if you were in a position to say no. Rowena, ever the helpful puppy (she resented the remark), said yes before Sam had even finished the question. She was prepared for a job as soon as her phone rang with his name flashing on the screen. So, as her girlfriend, you went with.

In all fairness, Rowena told you you didn't have to go. It seemed like a simple enough job; a witch case, if hex bags left by the victims' bodies were anything to go by. She could handle it without an issue. But you insisted on accompanying her. After all, the two of you had a deal — if one was headed into a possibly dangerous situation, the other was to go with as backup. No ifs. No buts.

The Winchester were well aware the two of you were a package deal. It wasn't an issue. In fact, they welcomed all the help they could get. Even if you had to force yourself into providing it.

The truth of the matter was, you hated hunting jobs. If it were up to you, you and Rowena would cut all contact with the brothers and their friends and live out the rest of your days holed up in your little home, leaving only on occasion for world-exploring vacations. It wasn't that you didn't trust your girlfriend; you did, sometimes more than you trusted yourself. You knew she could handle things on her own. She had, after all, done so for centuries, and would for many more to come. She was one of the most powerful witches around. If there was anyone who could wipe the floor with humans and monsters — even archangels — alike, it was her.

But the prophecy of Rowena's death at Sam's hands was still there. The two were friends (even if Rowena's pride opposed using the word), but accidents could still happen. Just because he didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to kill her, didn't mean he couldn't do it. You felt much safer being there with her than letting her out all on her own.

Sam was as good a man as a hunter could be. He treated Rowena well. He seemed to care about her as much as she cared about him. He was kind to her. Respected her. Valued her skills. Never talked down to her or mistreated her. Those days were behind them. Were it not for the prophecy, and, truth be told, for the fact that, as powerful as she was, Rowena always managed to get herself into trouble of some sort, you would have no issue staying behind.

So you put up with it. You bit your pride and helped out to the best of your ability. The sooner things were dealt with, the better; four helping hands were certainly better — faster — than two.

As far as cases went, this one was fairly easy. The witch was quite powerful, had done a good job at masking his presence, but it didn't take Rowena long to track him down. Latching onto a source of powerful magic was easy enough, and so was pinpointing its location. With her power unbound, there weren't many things that presented an issue.

This witch may have possessed great power, but he was no match for Rowena.

The house he was residing in was quite lovely. It was big, luxurious, built for power, for privilege, for envy of guests and passersby. It looked no different than the other houses in the neighborhood. This was a place of wealth, of power, and it showed.

As expected, the witch had protected his home well; it took Rowena half an hour to disable the wardings and magical booby traps he'd installed. Or the majority of them, at the very least. She warned you and the Winchesters to be careful. Sneaking into a witch's house was tricky business. Just because the coast looked clear didn't mean it was. For all you knew, the entire damn house was a giant trap.

Sneaking in was easy. Far too easy for this sort of monster. Which should have been a clue, a warning for you to be careful, but, instead, you let your mind wander to your home. Your warm, safe home. Where you would go soon, after all this was over, and you and Rowena would spend the evening cuddling in bed and teasing each other. Just a few more minutes, and you would be in the Impala, then at the bus station, and then at home. Sweet, sweet home.

Were you not absent-minded, maybe you would have noticed the witch's approaching footsteps, light as a ghost's. Maybe you would have noticed him sneaking up on Sam and Dean and hissing out a spell to throw them against the wall and incapacitate them. Maybe you would have noticed his hands reaching for you before finding yourself tangled up in his arms that held you against him in a firm, snake-like grip.

He was tall. Not quite as tall as Sam, but close enough. His body was lean, all muscle, thick and strong. He smelled like a strange mixture of spices — or rather herbs — and cologne; witch and man in one. Before you could utter a spell, his hand was over your mouth, fingers digging into your skin, manicured nails biting crescents.

"Don't even think about it, Rowena," he said as Rowena mouthed a spell, English accent deep in his voice. Posh, almost charming — almost, for every word of his oozed malice, cruelty. He sounded pleasant, but there was a note of something dark, something dangerous hiding behind it, creeping underneath the surface like a prowler. "I don't need incantations to get my magic working. I just have to think it, and…" Following his will, a painting slid from a wall. Fell down into a heap of splintered wood and glass. He chuckled, smug, too pleased with himself for his own good. "I'm not an animal."

Good for you, you thought, wishing so bad you could say it straight to his face. You get a fucking gold star.

Rowena swallowed. Held her head up like the queen that she was, proud, powerful. Not losing her cool for a single beat. "Let her go."

It was a command that left no room for argument, though you had no doubt the witch would try. Something told you the man had always been a rebel. Even when it worked against hs favor.

"What would be the fun in that?" His hold on you tightened. You groaned, uncomfortable, struggling to breathe. "I've got to say, you've changed quite a bit, Rowena."

Rowena swallowed. Sucked in a breath and put on that face you knew well — one of deception, of protection. A mask to shield herself from the world, from the danger that lurked around. From unpleasant memories she wished would stop plaguing her mind.

So she knew this witch. Why hadn't she said anything? Why had she kept/ it a secret?

"You remember me, don't you?" the witch said. You couldn't see his face, but you could picture a smirk as big as his pride adorning it. "It's been — what? Two hundred years? That's quite a while, but in sure you remember me somewhere in that clever little head of yours."

Rowena forced a smile. "Like you said, it's been a while."

"Really? I never forgot you."

Her eyes briefly connected with yours before falling to her feet. Color drained from her face, her usually rosy cheeks washed out, white as old, tattered sheets. Her fists clenched, knuckles taut, pale from the pressure.

The witch licked his lips, and your stomach turned with disgust. He said, "I remember you quite well. I admit, it was a bit hard to recognize you at first. You've gone through quite a change. What is it kids call it these days? A glow up. You've had a glow up."

Rowena avoided his eyes.

He continued, "Still, wasn't too hard to figure out it's you. See, I knew you were hunting me. I know all about you. Well, all about these two chuckle heads—" he gestured to Sam and Dean, who were glued to the floor, magic holding them down despite their resistance, "—but through my research on them I stumbled across you. You've done a good job at keeping a low profile. Gotta hand you that. But you've still got neighbors, and they love to talk."

Great. As if spreading rumors around wasn't enough; now your neighbors had snitched on you to an unhinged witch. Maybe a curse on the neighborhood was in order. There were a few you wanted to try out, if you managed to get out of this mess unscattered.

"I'm a bit disappointed, though," the witch said. "I mean, really — hunters? You're working with hunters? Seriously?" He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "And here I thought you were running from them. How the tides have turned." A beat, then, "At least your girlfriend's cute." His fingers tapped your cheek. "Does she know about us?"

You frowned, confused. What did he mean?

Rowena swallowed.

"She doesn't!" The witch all but beamed. "You didn't tell her? And you still brought her here? How could you, Rowena? Don't you think she deserves to know?"

You groaned, trying to get curses and insults out. Hating that you couldn't.

"I know, right?" he said condescendingly. "I'd be mad, too."

You weren't mad — not at Rowena, at least. Whatever it was that had happened between them, you were sure she had good reasons to keep it hidden. She was a flawed creature, bratty, dramatic, but she was a good girlfriend. She didn't lie to you. Would never do anything — not on purpose — to harm you or your relationship.

"What was it Catriona called you? Raggedy Ann?" The witch pretended to ponder on it. "Not so raggedy anymore, are you?"

Catriona Loughlin? He knew the Loughlins?

"I knew you were hot. She and her brothers laughed at me when I told them about us, but there's proof right here—" he pointed at Rowena; at her curls that fell down her shoulders like streams of silky fire; at her white blouse with one button undone, leaving just enough for a taste of naughty thoughts; at her dress pants and pumps, which teased imagination, let it run wild "—I was right. You are hot. When you take a bath."

Rowena flinched as if struck. Grit her teeth. Squeezed her fingers into fists so hard the skin of her knuckles turned white as the bone underneath it.

"Catriona told me I should've fucked a pig instead. Would've been cleaner." The witch shrugged. "Maybe so, but I didn't really mind the filth so much. It was disgusting, yes, but you more than made up for it. Y'know, I think you're one of the best I ever had. I can say that without shame now." He licked his lips. Closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the memory. "You were exquisite."

"Motherfucker!" you exclaimed — or tried to for it came out as a distorted mumble. You son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you! If only you could say it. If only you could scream it, loud and clear, straight in his face as your magic gnawed at his skin, tore him apart from the inside, fueled by the rage that boiled with you. A rage that twisted and coiled and burned like a volcano nearing an eruption. That begged to be let free to swallow him, to obliterate him.

You pushed against his arms, tried to tear free. Tried to sink your teeth into the soft, meaty flesh of his palm. But no matter how hard you fought, he kept you in place with ease. His laugh, a mocking, taunting melody, rang in your ears.

"Easy, girl. No need to be jealous. It was a long time ago. But do tell, is she still excellent in bed?"

"Fuck you!" Another mumble.You hated it. Hated yourself for being so weak to fight him off, to free yourself from his deadly grip. I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you, you sick, twisted mother—

"I'll take that as a yes."

Rowena swallowed a lump in her throat. Held her head up, brave face on. "You know what they say. Why fix something that isn't broken?"

"True," the witch agreed. "True. She's a lucky girl."

At least one thing he was right about. He had no idea how much; how lucky you were, how privileged, to be with Rowena.

"God, you were so great. So tiny, but so skilled. I thought you'd just do it to get it over with, but you enjoyed it as well. I saw it in your eyes. You were having so much fun."

She flashed that smile that feigned nonchalance and hid the turmoil, the utmost hurt coiling inside of her. "It's a shame you didn't put in nearly half the effort. It was an encounter for mutual benefit. I'd done my part. You…" She clicked her tongue. "There was plenty left to be desired."

The witch's hands stiffened around you. His heart jumped, the vein on his neck thudding loudly against your scalp. "Such a tease, aren't you?" he said in nonchalance you would have bought as genuine had you not felt his body's reaction to Rowena's comments. Everyone had a weakness. He might have pretended otherwise, but he wasn't invincible. Magic couldn't protect him from wounded pride.

"I'm serious, Janus," Rowena said, and meant it. No more pretend. No more lies. "I've had plenty of partners, and none have been as… inexperienced as you. Was I your first? You poor dear. I'd say it was an honour, but it truly wasn't."

Janus gulped down a lump that blossomed in his throat. "You're real funny." Rowena shrugged innocently. He looked down at you. "Is she always this funny?"

She's absolutely hilarious, you wanted to say. Instead, what came out was a gargle of words that didn't resemble your uttered "Fuck you" in the slightest, though you were pretty sure the look on your face have away exactly what you said.

"I do believe one thing," he said. "You've had plenty of lovers. Even back then you reeked of usage — along with general filth. You'd given birth, hadn't you? I could tell." He winked. "Trust me."

Rowena, bless her, took it in stride. "So you say."

"I'm not lying."

He was. You could feel it.

"Okay," Rowena said with a shrug.

He grit his teeth. "I'm serious."

"As am I."

"You're more confident than you used to be. That little ragdoll that showed up at my door was weak. Her favourite word was 'please.'" He smirked. "God, I loved that 'please.'"

"She's had centuries of growth," Rowena said. "You're right in that she was weak. She wasn't proficient at using her wits. But, as you've already established, she's changed. She's smarter now. Have you heard of a wee thing called distraction?"

"Wha—"

The word fell silent in Janus's mouth as a gunshot, loud, deafening, echoed. Blood gushed in a spray of crimson, staining your shoulder and cheek. His hold of you loosened and you instantly wriggled out, pushing him off. His body collapsed like a sack of potatoes, limp, motionless. Red seeped out of/out his temple, staining the fine, white carpet underneath him. Filling it up, making it swell with it. His eyes were wide open; they stared up, into the ceiling, into open space. Into Heaven and Hell themselves.

"You okay?" Sam asked, a gun clutched tightly in his hands.

"I-yes," you stammered. Your ears were ringing, but you weren't injured. You weren't harmed. You swallowed a large breath. "That was… intense."

"Good shot, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam nodded with an awkward smile. His eyes shifted to Rowena. "Are you okay?"

A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she quickly smoothened her expression into one of pride, of utmost dignity. "Never better."

The brothers bought it. You knew better, but decided to keep it to yourself. There would be time for talking later, when you were alone, and, preferably, away from a corpse.

"Are you sure you're okay, Y/N?" Rowena asked, and that was sincere. She looked you over in concern. A mother cat appraising her young, checking them for injuries.

"I'm fine." You squeezed her hand in emphasis. Her fingers tightened around yours, held tight. An unspoken promise that she was there, that, no matter how hard it was or how badly it hurt, you could count on her.

You appreciated it. You needed her. And, more important than that, she needed you. Parts of her past were a touchy subject; to have it dredged up in front of everyone so casually, used as a weapon against her… It had to hurt. She pretended it didn't, but you knew her better than that.

The brothers had taken care of the body in a matter of minutes, and it wasn't long before the four of you were on the road, heading straight for the Bunker. The ride was silent to an almost uncomfortable degree. Dean made a few quips here and there, annoying Sam. Finally, sensing the gloom in the air, he put on some music you weren't a fan of, but you still appreciated something to focus on. Something other than that horrid man's hands holding you in place as his wicked tongue tore into Rowena. It was the last thing you wanted to think about.

You laid your head on her lap for the reminder of the trip. Instinctively, she started caressing your cheek. Rubbing your shoulder. Running her fingers over your skin in invisible doodles. A little game you appreciated, you craved more than ever. I cherish you, every touch said. I love you. Your heart swelled with reciprocation.

Not many words were exchanged at the Bunker, either. The two of you wanted to head home, but the brothers convinced you to stay for the night. It was late, they said. You were both tired and needed rest. It was a hard fact to argue with, so you accepted.

The room they gave you was small and cosy. Nothing special in terms of decor, but good enough. Perfectly acceptable for a sleepover. It wouldn't be fair to complain; you were guests, after all. The brothers were doing you a favor.

You'd just gotten out of a shower, clad in one of Sam's old shirts that fell to your knees like a dress, when Rowena said, "I didn't enjoy it."

She was on the bed, in an oversized shirt herself, having had her shower right before.

"What?"

"Janus. I didn't—I didn't enjoy being with him. I had to."

"You don't have to ex—"

"You deserve to know the kind of woman you lay in bed with every night." Redness rimmed her eyes. She blinked the tears away, willed them back. "After the Loughlins threw me out, I went in search of a new hideout. The British Men of Letters were after me. I was weak and scared. I'd heard rumors of another powerful witch residing nearby, so I sought him out."

A nervous smile flickered over her mouth.

"At first, like the Loughlins, he wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn't the kind of witch he was interested in helping. But when I made him the same offer, he accepted."

"Rowena—"

She shook her head, cutting you off. "It was horrid, but I did what I had to do to survive."

You knew that. She'd done plenty of things to ensure her survival. Some horrible, others less so. What mattered was that she lived. You couldn't fault her for that.

"It only happened once," she said. "I was out of there as soon as I felt it was safe."

"You haven't done anything wrong." People did all kinds of things when they were desperate. Stupid things. Reckless things. Heartbreaking things. That didn't make them bad. It just made them human.

That was what Rowena was — human. Underneath all her protective walls and the magic coursing through her veins, she was still a woman. A human being that felt and hurt and bled just like anyone else.

A moment passed in silence. Then, "He's not the only one I did it with. There were others."

You'd figured as much. Three years ago when she'd first told you about the Loughlins, you suspected there was more to the story. That there were more times where she was desperate and scared and alone, and she had no other way to survive than to bargain her body. You never brought it up; it wasn't your place to ask about such intimate, painful details. It wasn't your business. The last thing you wanted was for her to think you were judging her.

"You have to understand, I wasn't always this powerful. Sometimes I just needed to survive, and I did."

"I know," you said firmly, with all the conviction you could muster. Your eyes found hers, locked with them. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah." You settled next to her on the bed. Reached for her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong. They took advantage of you."

A good person would have helped her without asking for anything in return. A good person would have given her food and shelter, exchanged a few kind words with her, listened to her plight. Would have befriended her, protected her instead of taking what they wanted. What the circumstances had forced her to offer.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be?" You knew she had a past. As far as things went, this wasn't the worst she'd done. Not even close. "I don't care what happened before. It's not like you cheated on me."

That prompted her to chuckle. "I suppose not."

You smiled. "You're my girl. I love you no matter what."

You loved her when she was nothing but a wicked witch who loved no one but herself. You loved her when she killed people, innocent and guilty alike. You loved her when she ruined and destroyed everything in her path. When she thought of you as nothing but an accessory, a poor, wee witch following her around like a puppy, desperate for her to teach her the ways of magic. You loved her when she changed, and when she suffered, and when she tossed and turned in the night as nightmares plagued her dreams.

You loved her through everything, and had taught her to love you back.

Her past couldn't change that.

Rowena's cheeks flushed with color. "What have I done to deserve you?"

"You're you." That was more than good enough for you.

A tear spilled down her cheek. "Bloody sap."

"Hey, you started it!" you teased.

She scoffed. You shrugged, nonchalant.

She squeezed your hand. After a moment of silence, she said, "I love you, as well."

"Who's the sap now?" She shot you a glare that had to have killed before, and you laughed. "You're so precious."

And you loved her for it. So much. Too much.

The past be damned.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @theeasterbilby @midnight-lestrange @oster-hagen @impala-1979

#rowena #rowena macleod #rowena x reader #spn #supernatural #fanfiction #my fics

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ladyloveandjustice · 4 years

Text

Winter 2020 Anime Overview: Toilet-Bound Hanako-kun

Ok, so let’s get this out of the way first, 1. I adore this story so much and 2. Toilet Bound Hanako-kun has a horrible, horrible English title that is not actually at all representative of the story’s content and I have no idea what happened when it came to the team choosing that name. To the average English-speaking viewer/reader, this name 100% implies gross stuff and bathroom humor, and there is none in this show.

A Japanese reader on the other hand, would be more likely to recognize the name Jibaku Shounen Hanako-kun as a spin on the classic ghost story “Hanako-san of the Toilet” only A BOY THIS TIME WHHHHA?” Basically, the story goes that a girl named Hanako in a red skirt haunts girls’ bathrooms in Japanese schools and if you knock on the third stall and call “Hanako-san” three times, she’ll appear. She might grant you a wish or pull you into Hell or something else, it varies.

(Her Wikipedia image, aww.)

Anyway, I dunno why the English title didn’t at least go with “Toilet Ghost Hanako-kun” or something that would have gotten the premise across even a little better (HE NOT TECHNICALLY BOUND BY THE TOILET EVEN, HE CAN GO ANYWHERE IN THE SCHOOL GROUNDS THE BATHROOM IS JUST HIS HOME BASE), but our boy Hanako haunting the girl’s bathroom only leads to broad jokes about our heroine being tasked with cleaning the bathroom and “dude you really shouldn’t be in here” comments, it’s pretty incidental.

Now that THAT’S out of the way, let’s talk about my LOVE FOR THIS STORY

Hanako-kun tells the story of a “regular” high school girl named Nene Yashiro, the mischievous and mysterious school ghost she befriends, and all the other weird monsters, exorcists, spirits and curses they encounter. It’s got a gorgeous, colorful bold aesthetic and art style that combines gothic and cute! It has a great mix of humor, intrigue, angst and fantasy action. basically if you love ghosts, monsters, Japanese mythology and legends, supernatural-human relationships, supernaturally fueled angst and drama, stories about trying to fix an unfair system the world has set up, wistful romance, a good shoujo manga with a Lot of Feelings (yes this is a shonen technically I’ll explain that later), weirdo dorks becoming friends AND MUCH MORE...this story will have something that will resonate with you. It’s got a lot going on, and it’s a ton of fun.

Hanako-kun is really one of those surprising stories that fits right into a hole in my story-loving heart I didn’t realize was still there, or that I’d actually been carrying since childhood. I love ghosts, see, and have since I was a kid!!! I knew this, but I kinda forgot how intensely I love them until this show reminded me again??? That’s because regular ghost stories/mysteries/whatever- I like them, but they don’t quite do it for me in the way more character-driven ones exploring the nature of being a ghost and humans and ghosts trying understand each other etc do. Stuff that really gets into the tragedy AND the fun fantasy aspect of ghosts, and plays the long game with it- and Hanako-kun scratches that itch perfectly.

Getting a little bit deeper into the premise of Hanako-kun, Nene is a very brave and sweet but not-all-that-bright girl (or, to put it more bluntly, she’s an idiot in the best way) who has a lot of romantic fantasies and insecurities and is VERY focused on them. After hearing a rumor at school that “Hanako-san of the bathroom” will grant wishes, she wishes to be able to confess to her crush and finds out its actually a weird ghost boy her age named Hanako haunting the bathroom! A lot of things happen, and she ends up cursed and bound to Hanako-kun, but also ends up slowly forming a friendship.

Turns out Hanako is the ghost in charge of the “seven mysteries/wonders” aka seven powerful supernatural entities that haunt this school (he’s number seven). These apparitions only supposed to terrorize students a LITTLE, because apparitions need to have rumors spread about them to remain in the human world.

(‘HAVE YOU HEARD?’ Oh hey shadow girls from Utena see you’ve moved to a new school.)

The rumors also generally dictate how powerful and dangerous the apparitions actually are- but SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS is changing the rumors around the school and making the apparitions go berserk and actually harm humans. So Hanako needs a human assistant to change the rumors and help him calm and seal the apparitions! That’s where Nene comes in.

Hanako himself is a very fun character- he’s very chaotic and revels in his whole “ gremlin ghost” persona, and is upfront about being a bit of an asshole. BUT he also makes his kindness, often good intentions and the fact he’ll have his friends back when it counts obvious from the beginning. B U T! He’s also got darkness and hidden depths to explore, and a lot of his persona is affected and masks deeper issues!

Our ghost boy is genuinely A TAD unstable deep down (as in he straight up has several untreated PTSD symptoms and that’s as disastrous as you’d expect) and packing some serious tragic backstory, as you might expect from a kid who died young and carries around a butcher’s knife, and it’s gonna come back to bite him and and all who care about him hard.

Especially when an overly enthusiastic exorcist named Kou Minamoto shows up! Kou is another one who’s very dumb and very good, a wannabe-shonen-protag with a heart of gold and strong sensitive, domestic side. He rounds out our main trio. Also he gets a tragic, emotionally intense relationship with yet another ghost boy that sings to my heart.

(Yes Hanako’s helping Nene to do the thing)

You may be able to tell, this story has INTENSE good-shoujo vibes despite technically being a shonen in a way that I love- it’s story very driven by big emotions, a variety of fucked up and tragically complex relationships, teen hormones running wild, etc, and it’s just delicious.

Nene is the normal-person-audience-surrogate-girl in a way that is more common for a shoujo protag, and the way her emotional connections to everyone, her sweeping romantic fantasies and her interiority are consistently in focus when she’s there- yeah, she’s definitely a plucky shoujo protag, 100%. And I’m all about that!!!

One thing I especially appreciate (though this comes across more strongly in the manga than the anime thanks to the anime rearranging things) is when Nene finds out about Hanako’s Heavy Baggage, she actually takes some time to herself to consider whether she can handle dealing with someone with these intense issues as a kid who’s never encountered stuff like this before- it’s not assumed by the story that the Sweet Girl is Obligated to help the Tragic Boy. I go into more detail about this part in this part here, but it’s that kind of attention to Nene’s needs that makes her role in the story work. Hanako and Nene and everyone’s struggles to get the hang of and properly navigate honest communication and mutual support in relationships are often really great and real-feeling

The story has a lot more things I love packed in to it- a dorky-but-still-deeply-unsettling villain gang who’s screwed up interactions are just as fun as our protagonists, yokai, A CURSED LIBRARY, some great ladies in addition to Nene, meditations on the nature of life, death, themes about fighting nihilism, and so on...I could seriously go on forever. It’s good stuff, and there’s lots of good weird supernaturals to meet.

The story’s also got tons of intrigue! The overarching plot and Hanako’s Mysterious Past is still in the process of unfolding, but it’s been great drama every step of the way! As mentioned before, the story also really relies on funny character dynamics, interaction and development to carry the whole thing and balance the drama.

The anime itself does have some pacing issues bc they crammed a lot into the first season and rearranged some stuff- an entire two chapter arc was skipped and was unlikely to be covered in the anime and some parts are noticeably rushed. I still really like the anime and it’s a solid adaptation. I love how much of the manga’s detailed aesthetic it managed to keep as well as the amazing voice acting and it made a few small but important additions. But there are some notable bumps- of course this just led me to go binge the manga (up to volume 12 is legally available digitally) and BOY DO I NOW LOVE THIS STORY EVEN MORE.

Now obviously, just because it is Exactly My Shit in a lot of ways doesn’t mean Hanako-kun is the much quested for “unproblematic fave”, there’s several caveats you should probs be aware of- its shoujo vibes also mean some classic shoujo ~Problematic tropes~ and a couple shounen ones.

THE LIST:

-Just as a general content overview thing: if this wasn’t clear the show deals heavily with death, body horror and other horror aspects. There’s heavily implied suicide and abuse and so on- as mentioned, the main character is traumatized and shows a lot of symptoms of PTSD, and Nene has to struggle to navigate her relationship with him because of this, as does Kou.

-Hanako himself has the whole ~loveable pervert~ and ~slightly possessive shoujo bad boy~ schtick going as part of his mischevious persona. In the anime so far, he never actually gropes or comments on not-in-his-naughty-mags-people’s breasts or anything of that level thankfully, but he’s very flirty, clingy, will loudly bring up porn, fond of the ol’ *says something that purposefully sounds sexually possessive* HAHAHA U THOUGHT I MEANT SOMETHING DIRTY RIGHT LOL ACTUALLY I DIDN’T.”

(My unnecessary ‘this part is kinda interesting!’ ramble: Nene always lists “sexual harassment” among Hanako’s flaws (she loves listing them), but doesn’t get visibly uncomfortable with his flirtiness or seem to mind it most times, which at least makes the whole thing more tolerable for me.

(since she doesn’t seem to mind that part and its clear he does it bc of actual affection for her, it’s actually p. cute how huggy he is.)

The one time it does cross the line and genuinely upset her, it’s treated seriously, Hanako is genuinely regretful and apologizes. That’s one of my fave moments in the story and the way it’s handled is well done.

This incident that he’s honestly pretty socially clueless as kid who died young and a lot of his bravado is to cover that up and keep people at a distance- this is a trope into itself that can use unpacking but I do at least appreciate that this is a considered character trait that’s part of his whole messed up package rather than something that thrown in there Just to Be a Fanservice Trope. (Especially since the manga confirms he never acted particularly pervy while alive, further cementing this is an affected persona).

-There’s a running gag around Nene’s insecurity over her thick ‘daikon shaped’ ankles and boys treating her badly for it.

One one hand, her body image issues are relatable, on the other, it feels cruel and annoying just how much the show finds ways to bring it up and humiliate her over and over again.

(My unnecessary “this is part is kinda interesting” ramble:The one thing i did realize that despite bringing it up constantly, we at least have no “i’m going to do this to lose weight” or “go on a diet” rhetoric,like this is just part of Nene’s body type and she knows she can’t change it? Which is kinda interesting. And I’ve spotted what might be foreshadowing something plot relevant’s going to happen with her ankles (I DON’T KNOW HOW, BUT GOD I PUT NOTHING PAST THIS STORY) so uh yeah??? either way it’s not good tho)

-”Obsessive and twisted love” is a running theme in this story, and while it’s generally acknowledged as unhealthy, it can be played for comedy in a way that could make viewers/readers uncomfortable. There’s a couple characters who’s entire thing so far is “obsessively in love with this one person” (and the one only focused on in the manga so far is one of the least interesting characters tbh ugh)

-The antagonist of the show is a member of a main character’s family, and the manner he acts towards pretty much everyone, including (and really especially) his family member, verges on seductive. This is presented as deliberately unsettling and treated as a marker of how unstable and scary he is- and though the backstory between them hasn’t been fully delved into, it’s pretty much all but confirmed he abused this family member physically and emotionally.

-The story has like, A LOT of queer subtext and pretty-heavy queer coding for one character especially, but the few times queerness blatantly comes up in the story, it’s played as a joke in the “haha that’d be kinda weird” way (aside from the rando boys who have a crush on Teru, handled pretty neutrally). It’s not as malicious as a lot of animanga can get (ONE MANGA INCIDENT ASIDE), but it’s something to Be Aware Of, and it makes it clear we’re unlikely to see subtext rise to text and makes some moments feel baity.

-And probably more I might have missed! The manga also has Some Shit in addition all the Good Shit that hasn’t been adapted yet, an early arc has Hanako crossing a serious line etc.

BUT despite how messy it is, I think it’s clear I have a lot of love for this story. In fact, I wouldn’t trade away a good chunk of its messiness (DEFINITELY SOME JUST NOT ALL), it kinda works for the characters and works in the “this story really feed my inner teen” way. Some of the trashy parts are exactly My Trash, basically.

So, I knew I’d ramble on for a while when I talked about his show, but if you’ve read this far, thanks, and I hope that means you’re gonna check out and maybe enjoy this story, bc i need more people to join me in Hanako Hell.

#toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #jibaku shonen hanako kun #winter 2020 anime #anime overview #hanako kun #nene yashiro #yashiro nene #kou minamoto #minamoto kou #yugi amane #amane yugi #my reviews

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elisende · 4 years

Text

Predators (2/2)

Characters: Halsin/OFC Rating: M Warnings: Attempted rape/noncon Words: 3330 Halsin knew so little it often shocked her.

She recognized, when she took him on, that he was unfledged. But his ignorance was vast and hungry.

Gods knew the boy had appetites. For knowledge, for every last scrap of food. For her body. She was not flattered: she knew she could be just about anyone, man or woman, elf or human--even a dwarf, he was indiscriminate.

Most of all, he was hungry for connection. She did not ask what had become of his people but trusted he would tell her in his own time.

He was not shy of speaking. Nor of asking, endlessly, about all subjects. What is the name of that bird, why is it called so, does it remain in the forest through winter or seek warmer climes? Why?

In desperation, she wrote to her Circle and a month later a moose trotted into the clearing laden with bulging packs of scrolls and a few codexes.

Provender for your mind, she explained. Halsin was dubious at first but his natural curiosity got the better of him and now he spent most afternoons curled up in the branches of a downy birch reading scroll after scroll, as insatiable a reader as he was a lover.

He wanted her every night, every dawn. He wanted her when she bent over the cookpot preparing their lunch and when they walked the woods. She refused him four times out of five and still they lay together twice a day. Dalia was exhausted but not displeased; he was an apt student in all things and by nature generous.

Her pupil’s progress in the six months under her tutelage was impressive even by her high standards. And true to his word, he’d given her no cause to regret her decision to teach him.

Yet he was still unformed. Still unconscious to the grace and nuance of nature’s dance. And still angry.

“Teach me how to take a wild shape,” he demanded one sun-washed afternoon in the clearing. Dalia, never idle, was picking through some useful herbs they had collected that morning in the woods, sorting them according to which she would dry, which she would distill, and which she would pack into oil.

“You are not ready,” she said, not looking up from the herbs in her lap. “You have the ability”--and he did have magic, wild magic, in him--“but without the proper discipline you could be overcome by the animal’s mind. More than a few novices lose themselves entirely in the transformation.”

He scoffed. “You still underestimate me. You’re not my mother or my nursemaid, so stop trying to protect me.”

She glanced up at him. He sat rigidly against an oak’s trunk, beetle-browed, ready for a fight. Hungry for one. Any number of retorts leapt to her mind but she allowed herself only a neutral hmm before going back to her herbs, bearing the quiet fury of his stare without further comment. The silence, when he stalked off into the wood, was sour with unspent anger.

He returned at nightfall with a roe buck slung over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Halsin said, and though his words were plain, she could see his self-recrimination in the taut line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He’d simply turned his anger inward on himself. It was pitiful to see, like a falcon hanging from its jesses.

She nodded. “Your anger will be your downfall one day, left uncontrolled. But I accept your apology, any road.”

They made a stew with rosemary and juniper berries and a bit of wine that had lain unopened for decades at the bottom of Dalia’s trunk and miraculously had aged into a lovely vintage.

“Where is it from?” Halsin asked, looking wondrously at the dusty bottle. “I’ve never tasted such wine.”

And it was special, among the finest she’d had in her six centuries. Smooth and sculpted, full on the tongue, bursting with ripe black fruit. She hesitated before saying, “It’s an Evermeet vintage.”

He looked up at her, curious, but Silvanus be praised, he didn’t ask the question he’d asked so many times before.

Dalia gratefully changed the subject. “Hakka did whelp this year, after all.” She took another sip to savor the exquisite wine, then continued. “Four pups. She’s hidden them up on the ridge, in the little bluebell hollow.”

His eyes lit as they always did when discussing the forest’s wolves. He liked big predators, the great bear Sage notwithstanding--he still held a grudge for the scars that scored his brow. “That’s wonderful. Are they Thorn’s pups? She’s hiding them from Hatha?”

The wolves’ amorous entanglements were even more complicated than that of a wood elven village. Hakka and Hatha were sisters and bitter rivals for the affections of Thorn, one of the leading males in the pack. He was a young, brash hunter, uncommonly large. Dalia couldn’t help but see the resemblance and noted Halsin’s affection for the wolf with some amusement.

“Mm,” she agreed. Her head was already a little light from the alcohol. With wine this good, it was easy to overdo it. She set her cup on the table and turned back to the stew, scraping the bottom of the pot. “You’ve been most helpful with my work in this wood.” She smiled to see him glow with silent pride at her rare praise. But it was not empty: despite his ignorance, he was observant when he wished to be and had discovered much that she had missed.

“Your work won’t ever be finished, will it?” he asked softly. The firelight flickered in his eyes and with his wide, sensuous mouth ever so slightly open, she felt a heady wave that had little to do with the wine.

“No,” she admitted. “It won’t be. It’s an indefinite posting.” And one of her choosing, though she didn’t say so. She knew he could sense it.

“Why?” he asked, yet again. Always why. She sighed in frustration.

“For once, do not concern yourself with why,” she said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone with a gentle look, a touch of her hand. He didn’t push further.

They ate, finished the bottle between them, and lay together in the quiet of the glade through a gauzy haze of alcohol, beneath the spreading branches of a grandfather oak and the dim light of the stars. As Dalia slipped into her trance of sleep, she warned herself that such things couldn’t--wouldn’t--last. And ruthlessly quashed the feeling of sadness that followed.

Halsin rose early and once he was gone, Dalia lay on the grass with her eyes open, feeling a rare malaise. The birds sang as sweetly ever, but somehow there was less music in their voices.

Later, she would look back and wonder if it was an omen.

She was bathing in the stream when a bellow echoed across the glade. It came from the heights of the ridge above, distant but unmistakable. Halsin’s booming voice, roughened with rage.

Without thought, she pulled her robe on and grabbed the ax from the wood chopping block outside the hut. Its grip was comforting in her hand as she sprinted barefoot into the brush and up the side of the long, wooded hill.

She slipped through the brambles, eschewing the winding deer path to cut straight through the forest to the sound of her lover’s cry.

Other voices joined in. Human voices. More screams and the sounds of battle chilled Dalia’s blood. A wolf bayed. Fear made her fly the last hundred yards, heedless of the tearing thorns or lashes of tree branches. She emerged into the wolf’s territory brandishing the ax above her head, ready for any foe, human or beast.

But the fight was already finished. Two hunters lay dead on earth soaked red with gore, eviscerated, and beside them, panting, were Halsin and Thorn, his lupine counterpart. Both with death in their eyes and blood on their faces. It dripped from Thorn’s muzzle and Halsin’s strong hands.

“What have you done?” she cried. Halsin’s wide eyes met her gaze; he was still in the grip of his blood frenzy.

Then she saw the den: the wolf Hakka and all of her pups, throats slit. For their fur, perhaps; or maybe simply for sport. Humans needed no greater justification to kill a wild thing. Bereft of life, the pups looked thin and insubstantial, little more than furry rags. Hakka’s sightless eyes rested on them even in death, the young she’d given her life protecting.

She whispered a quick prayer to Silvanus, to absorb their bodies back into the earth to seed new lives in this forest. But even as she spoke them, the words rang hollow.

“They were laughing, when I came upon them,” Halsin said. His voice was thick with hatred as he stared down at the two humans. These, too, Dalia commended to the Oakfather, though silently.

“You have done a truly stupid thing,” she said, not even trying to mollify her tone. She felt a fury rising in her to match the boy’s. Beside them, Thorn growled; she stilled him with an outstretched hand and he whimpered, sniffed the corpses of his mate and pups.

“Two fewer miserable poachers in the wood? Silvanus himself would praise me. I’ve eliminated a threat to nature.” And infuriatingly, the wood elf truly looked pleased with himself.

“And what happens now?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

“Now the wood is peaceful once more.” A blackbird cautiously resumed its song in a nearby tree and Halsin raised his hand as though his point had been proven.

“And when these men’s village mount a search? Will they see justice in this scene? Or will they see an outrage that demands revenge?”

Halsin opened his mouth but she pushed on, “Who suffers then? Not you or I but Thorn and his pack. At best, they will be driven off from their home. And at worst every one of them will be hunted down.”

“I didn’t--”

But her anger was still building. She threw her ax into the earth beside her. “It will not end there. Without any wolves in this territory, the deer will proliferate. They will strain the resources of the forest to its breaking point and many more will needlessly die. It will take a century for nature to right itself, all for a moment of satisfaction, of righteous anger.”

She looked directly into his eyes. There was no remorse in them, though some doubt. “You’re a traitor to nature, not its defender. You are not one of us. I was wrong, to think I could teach you.”

Halsin’s hands became fists. He might well have broken and tried to hit her. But instead, he screamed a wordless howl of rage and despair that rang across the hillside, stilling the birdsong.

Dalia turned her back on him, her failed pupil, and on the pathos of the young wolf mourning, and walked slowly, stiffly back down to the glade.

She did not expect she would see him again in this life.

Time could mend any wound; Dalia had lived long enough to know the truth of that.

She went about her days in rote, knowing through wisdom hard-won that she would once again appreciate the sun’s warmth on her skin, the taste of a wholesome meal, the sound of the stream’s unending flow. But even as she tried to take heart in the inevitability of healing, a small voice insisted that she had lost everything. Again. That life was little more than an exercise in losing all that mattered, concluding with her own mortal end.

Those thoughts mostly came in the dusky evenings when she sat alone at the hearth (she could not bear to sit at the table where they had shared their meals) and the fire died to back ashes for lack of motivation to rekindle its flames.

If she had dreaded his coming to her door, begging her forgiveness, she need not have worried. For he did not come.

But a moon after the killings, she returned from a walk deep into the forest where she’d helped a colony of bees find a new home--the most mundane tasks gave the most pleasure, these days--and found other visitors in her glade.

Instead of striding over to greet them, she watched from behind the grandfather oak. They were five: all strong human men, well-armed. Though that didn’t necessarily mean trouble. The humans often went armed into the wood, fearful as they were of its denizens. Of nature’s power outstripping their own.

Her hut door was open and it was apparent they were waiting for someone inside. Heat rose in her at the thought of unseen hands rifling through her things.

Against her better judgment, Dalia stepped out from behind the tree, drawing herself to her full height.

“Why have you come to my glade? And why do you trespass in my abode?” She glared between them, doing her best to look intimidating but not an immediate threat. Their beards hid their faces and made them all look the same. Or perhaps they were related--all humans looked alike, to her, particularly the men.

“Two of our own went missing in this wood,” said the taller one with the grey beard. She pegged him as the leader; humans usually organized their social and political structures around seniority.

“They’re not in my hut,” she said coolly. The men glanced between one another, doubtful. “I’ve not cooked them for breakfast if that is your worry.”

“She has a witchy look about her,” said one of the younger, yellow-bearded ones, as though she were not present.

“I reckon she’s a hag in a fair disguise,” said another of the young men, looking her dead in the eye as he spoke. He made some gesture of religious protection.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. But she was already evaluating her combat options, weighing her chances. They were just looking for an excuse to attack, she could sense. But she had little chance against five of them--and more, perhaps, inside. They were skilled hunters with good weapons: spiked greatclubs, crossbows, a city-forged longsword.

The greybeard smiled a smile that didn’t reach his chilly blue eyes. Death was in them, and grievous violence. “Have you seen them, lass, or nay? We would like to know.”

Dalia struck first, for the slim advantage that surprise might grant her. Vines leapt from the earth to ensnare the two young hunters closest to her as she ducked behind a fallen tree for cover from the volley of arrows that followed.

They shouted to the men inside and her heart sank when three emerged from the hut. She would not survive a fight against eight, even with all her magic, even with the wood itself to aid her.

But nor would she surrender.

She took the shape of the wolf, fire burning in her marrow as her bones snapped and bent to the canine form. Her thoughts became simpler yet more exigent. The wolf mind was made for bloodshed.

Emboldened by their numbers, one of the young hunters was already sneaking around the edge of the fallen tree. She tore his throat away in a thrilling rip, the wolf relishing the sensation of hot blood gushing from the severed flesh in her mouth. Another she took with a swipe across the gut. A third managed to slash her hip with his sword before she downed him. And then an arrow caught her between the ribs and she collapsed into the grass, reverting to her elven form.

The pain was not so acute now and that was a mercy. But her horror--the horror born of a sentient imagination--was far worse as the remaining humans loomed over her.

It was not difficult to imagine what was on their minds. Torture, rape, death. Perhaps in that order.

As they argued with each other over some triviality, she struggled to crawl away but the greybeard hunter stopped her with a kick to the arrow sticking out of her side. She cried out as pain radiated through her body, nearly stealing her consciousness away from her.

The greybeard’s hateful face loomed over her again. “Tell me,” it said. “Where are they, witch?”

So they had decided she was a witch. The druid took a shuddering breath that sent shards of icy pain through her chest.

“Dead,” she said. Her words were watery from the blood that had begun to fill her lungs. “Not by my hand.” The greybeard snorted; he didn’t believe her.

“Where? I’ll give you a quick death.” His blue eyes looked earnest; so earnest, it could almost be true.

She told him about the bluebell hollow on the ridge, the sheltering briars. He nodded, satisfied. Then motioned to the other men. So it was to be rape first.

Dalia closed her eyes, searching for any final measure of fortitude or magic. But she was drained of everything, even resolve. The sky seemed to be growing dimmer, though she knew it to be only midday. She was dying, she recognized distantly. Along with her sorrow and dread of what was to come, she felt something like relief.

Then the bear entered the glade. It was no bear she recognized, not Sage or one of his kin that ranged the unpeopled southern reaches. It was a great bear, though, and towering more still for its rage; it blotted out the sun when it stood on its hind legs and let out a roar of fury. It swiped the skin from the face of the man on her back, tearing him from neck to navel, showering her in the warmth of his blood.

Weapons were useless against him. Gasping beneath the weighty corpse of the hunter, she watched as the bear gored and slashed his way through the remaining five hunters. The greybeard, last to die, foolishly begged the beast before succumbing to its snarling teeth, red-tipped as bloodied daggers.

There was something familiar in the set of the bear’s shoulders and when it turned to her, she could see it in his eyes.

“Halsin,” she said. Even speaking his name filled her body with relief. Peace.

The name summoned him back to himself. Her apprentice shifted back to his shape and ran over to her. “I can heal you,” he said, even though they both knew he couldn’t.

“One day,” she said, grasping the foresight that came to her, unbidden. “You will be a great healer. But not yet.”

His features twisted in grief. “I’ve failed you again, then.”

“Never,” she sighed. She was powerless to resist the shuddering cough that sent a rictus of pain through her dying body. “Nature claims us all back, eventually. Today is my day. I am ready.”

Halsin bent over her and wept. He made her as comfortable as he could and settled her on his lap next to the stream so she could listen to it as she faded away, still looking up at his face as she departed the mortal realm for one of spirit and air.

Her amber eyes became sightless and Halsin closed them for the last time with the brush of his hand. He felt an emptiness that seemed to be shared by the whole wood, which had gone silent save for the senselessly burbling stream.

He would bury her, in the coming days, beneath the grandfather oak that had so often sheltered them, to feed its roots with her blood and bone and magic.

And when he arrived in the Circle at Dancing Falls, some months later, no one would question his haunted eyes, his quiet fury, his knowledge and skill in the ways of the druids.

Halsin would be just another novice, albeit a precocious one who could already take a wild shape. A bear, whose rage returned with every transformation, bringing him back to the glade, to the locus of his greatest regret.

#halsin #bg3 Halsin #fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfic

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brightlycoloredteacups · 5 years

Text

Set Up

Fandom: Vikings

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless x OFC

Warnings: None for this chapter

Tag List: @salt-is-a-terrible-currency @salimahbicharara-comun

Brynhilda shifts on her throne, uncomfortable despite the soft padding. Becoming Jarl had not been the point of killing the previous one. She’d only been looking to send a message, yet somehow, the entire town now saw her as their de facto leader. Something wasn’t right about that.

Looking out at the great hall, she’s surprised to see so many familiar faces. She’d revealed her game plan only a week ago, and already her tiny little village had swelled three times its original size. Men and women, young and old, new soldier and army veteran, all of them looking forward to fighting for her. She nearly chokes on her emotions...well, at least her laughter.

With allies come enemies, she understands that, but she doesn’t know what to make of this particular situation. On the one hand, she’s highly amused, on the other, slightly disturbed. She knows this will only add to the rumors that she’s Odin’s chosen. But, really? She looks at the fabric in her hands, the Sleep Thorn had been stitched into it. She wondered what Floki the Boatbuilder would make of it. He had a special connection to the gods, he would’ve had a great deal to say. Suddenly, she misses Kattegat, misses funny old Floki and the girls, she even misses the cranky old medicine woman that refused to treat Ivar because of his temper.

“Lady Brynhilda?” Alf says, nudging her shoulder. Brynhilda blinks, brought to the present, oh, right, she’s supposed to sentence the traitor. “The Sleep Thorn,” She mutters, tracing the symbol with the pads of her fingers. “Not very effective, was it?” She looks up at Alf. He looks as amused as she feels. “No, lady, it would seem it wasn’t.” They look at the man who’d done it. “Jarl Brynhilda,” A rather rough looking man walks up to her, she only knows him as Arrow. He was the first to greet her back home, and the first to pledge his allegiance to her cause. “I say we kill this traitor and send his head to Boggvir,” mutters of agreement flow through the long house.

Brynhilda stands up, walks down from the dias, and stops in front of the man. “Why would we do a thing like that? Boggvir wouldn’t even recognize him.”

“My lady?” Arrow asks, unconvinced of her statement. Brynhilda begins to stalk the man that tried to curse her, round and round she went, taking in every detail. “You aren’t acting out of loyalty to Boggvir, are you?” The man struggles against his binds, snarling unintelligibly at her. “You're acting out of revenge for your brother.” The shock that Brynhilda remembers him is evident on his face. It’s quickly replaced with a smile, he speaks. “I didn't think you'd remember.”

“Yours is a hard face to forget.” Brynhilda straightens, looking at her confused men, she didn't feel like explaining that the one before her had been after her since she helped Falki take over. “The way I see it, you have two options. Choose your death, or choose to work with me.” The man spits at her, snarling once more in rage. “Why would I work with my brother's killer?”

Brynhilda turns from him, sitting back on her throne. Damn, this thing was hard on her back. “You and I both know I was a mere pawn in Boggvir's army, his best warrior yes, but a pawn nonetheless. I got Falki and her troops into your village, I killed your fighters, but I did not kill you brother. If I had, I would have been the new Jarl.”

He squirms in his binds, considering her words. What she said was true, even her enemies knew she was not in the habit of lying. Still, surely years of anger and hatred didn’t shift from one target to the next. He straightens, giving her a haughty look. “You may call me Dofri.” Well, she’d been wrong before. It’s stupid to trust someone that just tried to curse her. She’s an idiot, she knows she is, but there’s something about him, something in his eyes. He’d never before considered working to kill the true target of his revenge. Maybe Falki had been unattainable to him until now. She knows she’s just making up an excuse to trust him.

The way she figured it, the benefits outweigh the risks. She needed someone with a desire for revenge, some like her, that would stop at nothing to see it through. And, if she had to be completely honest, he reminded her of Floki. “Dofri” she motions for someone to cut his hands loose, “Welcome to my army.”

Those that visit Brynhilda's feast hall swears it’s a place of unsettling magic. Not exactly gloomy or bright. Not cold or hot. Not comfortable or uncomfortable. A charge was ever present in the air, making one aware of the unearthly quality Brynhilda exuded. Unseen things crawl around the place, whispering in the ears, telling the listener that they were safe, cared for. The only catch was Brynhilda herself had to be in a good mood.

Part of the magic of the place was that the feeling in the room changed with her feelings. If she was angry, the urge to drive your axe into the skull of your greatest enemy became almost too great to resist. If she was sad, you felt as though your heart had been ripped through your chest and eaten by a wild beast. If she was happy, you felt as though you had the strength of the gods themselves. The moment you left the feast hall, the cool air hitting your face, you felt dazed and confused. Why had you been subject to such alien feelings?

Only adding to the atmosphere were the plants hanging from ceilings, growing in pots in the corners, covering the windows with their leaves. Dorfi the Poisoner, a strange man you weren’t exactly sure was even a man, had made himself at home. He had no house of his own, no relatives he could rely on, so she opened the feast hall to him, and allowed him to do as he wished, within reason. Most of the plants were harmless until mixed into the right concoction. Dofri could make you a healing draught that helped you fight like ten men, or a poison that made you bleed from your ass. Many were unsettled by that fact, all but Brynhilda, it seemed.

Dearest Bryhilda, wild, untameable Brynhilda. She was the topic of much conversation. Alf had his suspicions that Brynhilda didn’t exactly belong to the world, she was to ethereal, too much wild energy danced about her. It didn’t help that to add to her mystique were the legendary stories. She’s killed a hundred men on her own, she survived the bite of the most poisonous snake in the world, she survived being Blood Eagled. Of course, she always brushes the stories off with completely plausible explanations. Those hundred men she killed on her own? It had taken her a week, and even then she’d gotten lucky with a rock slide taking out half the force. That snake bite? The poison didn’t get too far into her system before she had been treated. The Blood Eagle? Hadn’t been completed before an army attacked.

She may be a living, breathing, legend, but she was humble. That's why people flocked to her banner. Or perhaps it was because she was kind. The people in the village had been starving thanks to the previous Jarl’s greed, but now, they had rations, enough to last them through the winter. And with the promise of a good summer’s planting, the harvest should be more bountiful. Either way, in just a few short weeks, Brynhilda’s popularity was skyrocketing. Which surprised her, if her constant look of annoyance was anything to go by.

Alf listens to the conversations around him as was his task. Brynhilda needed to divine the moods of her people in order to be successful at ruling them. She needed eyes and ears everywhere. He knew Dorfi had also been given the job, but there had to be other men and women about. Two men couldn’t share the burden of ten. If Alf knew Brynhilda like he thought he did, and he was fairly confident in his assumptions despite knowing her for such a short period of time, he knew that she was keeping the other people that worked under her a secret. She was the only one that knew all the plans. Everyone else was kept in the dark in the event of a capture, or worse, a betrayal.

The most amusing talk was that of how animals reacted around her. She had two ravens, and wherever she went, they went. One was cheeky, always playing with her hair, her clothing. Always talking to her in its own birdish way. It was fond of mead, often drinking from Brynhilda's cup. The other raven was stoic. It either stood still on her shoulder, or the best place to watch over her. You got the feeling it was always watching over her. It too drank from her cup, but very sparingly. Mostly, it ate meat from her plate.

Pigs were excited by her presence, they followed her whenever she passed by a pen, what’s more, they obeyed her when she gave them an order. If she found any strangeness in that little fact, she told no one.

Alf looks up to try and find her, desiring her biting wit to end his boredom. She sat in a corner, a raven perched on either shoulder. She’s still, looking more a menacing statue than a young girl. He can clearly see the exhaustion on her face.

She woke up before dawn to the crowing of her ravens, trained relentlessly, ate like someone four times her size, then trained more. She ran through the forest, uncaring of the potential hazards, she hunted, bringing in the best kills and sharing it with her men. At night she learned all she could from men like Alf and Dorfi, medicine women, even the greenest soldiers she pestered with questions. She maintained that you could learn a great many things, so long as you though to ask.

So yes, Brynhilda was wild, but she was kind, she could be brutal, but only if you pressed her. Mostly, she was curious, and infuriating. He thinks back to their previous conversation.

“You need to consider the dangers of attacking during winter.” Alf cautione. This had been an argument ongoing since the announcement of her plan. He knew she was pressed for time, but her plan was downright suicidal, “And you need to consider the advantages.” She argues. “Brynhilda, you want to keep your men, not freeze them.”

“Quick attacks,” she says, “on the two port cities. Here and here,” she points them out on the makeshift map. “We walk the ice, attack from the harbor where they least expect it, when they least expect it. Just before dawn, when it's darkest. Everyone will be asleep, confused.”

“Alright,” Alf says, seeing she isn't going to be persuaded, “Suppose it works the first time around, do you honestly think it'll work the second time around?”

“I considered it,” she says, nodding, “We can split the army in two, attack at the same time.”

“Who can you trust to lead the second half of your army?” he couldn't think of anyone he'd trust, not even the men who watched her grow up. “You,” came the obvious reply. Alf has to register her confession for a while. “Me?” She nods. “You owe me for freeing you,” she points out, “that's why you hung around for so long.” Damn her, she read people too well. “Do this for me, and your debt is repaid.” Alf huffs, this was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she did have a few good points. After a long while considering his options, he heaved a sigh, “Alright,” he says, “I'll do it.”

#viking #ivar the boneless #ivar's heathen army #ivar x brynhilda #brynhilda's saga

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loopy777 · 5 years

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Peter parkers main 3 love interests is generally accepted as Gwen Stacy, Mary Jane Watson and Felicia Hardy/Black cat. Taking your favorite/best written portrayals of each of them as a starting point, what would you say is the biggest strenghts and weakness of each of them as a permanent Romantic partner to peter on a romantic writing level, and a overarching plot writing level?

Hm, this might get complicated. I guess I’ll take it character by character.

Mary Jane

MJ is my preferred romance for Peter, and my favorite portrayals of her are the Spectacular cartoon, the Ultimate comics, the Renew Your Vows AU, and the mainline comics- in that order. (I also like Michelle from the MCU, but I don’t consider her Mary Jane Watson. Michelle just happens for share a nickname with her. For some reason.) The thing that I think helps MJ rise above the rest if that I don’t consider her to have been created as a love interest. Yes, I know, she was literally created to be the Veronica to Gwen’s Betty, but that’s the thing- she wasn’t really intended to be the winner, from what I’ve read. She was meant to be a challenge, a brief diversion, and only accidentally wound up as the winner due to the chaotic nature of comic book production.

As such, MJ has a resilience that most love-interests don’t. Even when she wasn’t dating Peter, the character was able to stick around and continue to develop. She was able to leave the narrative for a while, possibly with no intentions from the writers for her to return, and yet she did and extra layers were added to her character as a result. Even now, her marriage to Peter was sold to the devil as part of a writer agenda to make Peter swingin’ and single again, and yet she’s stuck around and the character has continued to find places in the story. What hasn’t killed MJ has made her stronger, and if she was always intended to be the Final Girl, then I don’t think she would have gotten the opportunities. Sure, it’s a messy history of character development and retcons if you look at it in detail, but that’s true for any comic book character that’s passed through multiple hands and lasted more than a decade.

Within the story itself, I like when MJ is spunky and able to roll with Peter’s life as Spider-Man. I like when her career, whether it’s acting or something else, is only a modest success if a success at all, to fit with the whole Everyman theme of the Spider-Man stories. I’m fine with her feeling stress or angst because of Peter’s heroing -- after all, Peter gets so angsty about he quits every five years or so -- but I do want her to generally buy in to the whole thing; if she’s in love with Peter, she’s in love with the dedication that makes him use his powers for others. I also like when she’s portrayed as an old hand at dealing with the superhero life and gets to meet the other heroes, despite not having powers. It can be contrived when she gets involved with Peter’s adventures, but I do think it can be a great angle, as she can provide even more of an Everyman perspective to the proceedings.

(I haven’t played the PS4 game, and I recognize that making MJ a reporter is an easy way to get her involved, but as I’ve said before, I always feel like making the Love Interest a journalist is rip-off of Lois Lane. I’d like to see a bit more creativity in such things. Personally, I someday want to pitch a ‘Mary Jane: Agent of SHIELD’ book to Marvel where she works in SHIELD’s public relations office in New York.)

In terms of personality, I think the Spectacular cartoon nailed exactly what I want. The show didn’t get to the really juicy stuff of a romance with Peter or her knowing his secret identity, but her every scene felt perfect to me and she really did add a nice dynamic to the cast. I think the Ultimate comics captured a good depiction of the character dealing with her background as an abused child from a broken household, but I think it missed the mark in the whole ‘Brainy Janey’ thing where she was supposed to be a nerd like Peter. It felt like little was done with that, and Peter still eventually emerged as smarter than all the other students anyway, so I’m not sure what the goal was. I prefer the idea of MJ putting on a facade of a Cool Extrovert to cover her angst.

Gwen

Gwen is odd to me in that I mostly know her as Dead Love-Interest Walking. The only times I feel like I’ve experienced her as a real character are the Spectacular cartoon and the Ultimate comics, and my understanding is that neither captures the character as portrayed in the comics. Comics Gwen was the acerbic rich girl who evolved in a sweet rich girl. Ultimate Gwen was a punk rock rebel with a sense of justice. Spectacular Gwen was a sweet nerd who pined after Peter. (I don’t remember much about Amazing Gwen, other than the moment of her death and her glaring dad.) All of those are a bit different, but I feel like the only thing they all have in common is that they’re a girl who Peter falls for before he eventually marries MJ.

To that end, though, I think that’s enough to define Gwen as something of a fantasy. She should be The Ideal Love-Interest, which is not to say that she should be some kind of flawless angel, but she should be what most people’s fantasy should be of a great girlfriend for Peter. She should be a smartie like him, and either be sweet enough for them to be natural buddies or else spiky enough for them to be rivals with romantic tension. Or, like Ultimate Gwen, she should be interesting and living an exotic lifestyle but Good in a way that makes her uncomplicated for Peter to love.

And, in the end, the romance with her should always fail. Perhaps due to her death, or perhaps due to other factors if we don’t want her to be Dead Love-Interest Walking. Either way, I think she should be the precursor to Peter’s true love interest, with whom he has a messier romance that eventually becomes a perfectly-fulfilling endgame. Gwen should be the person we all think we’re going to marry when we first start dating, but later comes someone else and a more adult connection where we end up with someone we never would have imagined when we were young and naive.

Felicia

I hate to say it, but Felicia should be Catwoman. She’s the naughty, slightly dangerous lady who’s super sexy and is always offering an exciting time. She’s the love interest for the superhero side of Peter’s life, a wild fantasy of leaving all the concerns about Peter behind and just being a fun adventurer all the time with a hot cat-chick by his side. But, because such fantasies are always false, there needs to be a problem with Felicia that ultimately makes her a poor match for Peter. Usually, it’s her morals, where she’s fine with theft or violent revenge or other compromises that Peter himself fights against.

Ironically, the version of Felicia I’m most familiar with is nothing like this. That’s the 90′s cartoon, of course, where she’s mostly a version of Gwen Stacy. There’s a bit of it when she becomes the Black Cat, but her grand romance was with Morbius, and my memory is fuzzy enough that I’m honestly not sure what the short-lived romance with Spider-Man was really like. Honestly, I’d look at the animated Felicia as more what to do if anyone wanted to give Gwen superpowers. XD

But as far as my ideal depiction, I like a Black Cat who’s a thief, but not a full baddie. She should walk moral line and sometimes cross over, but not in a big way. (I’m not really a fan of Dan Slott making her a full crime lord who wants revenge on Spidey, but I admit I didn’t read the storyline. I hear it worked pretty well in the Silk comics but didn’t otherwise make a whole lotta sense.) She should be flirty and sassy and clever. I like when she comes on so strongly and so quickly that she flusters Peter. And I also like when she has superpowers, because that more firmly puts her on that side of things, as compared to someone Peter could bring into his civilian life. Peter’s civilian life should always be in conflict with his life as Spider-Man, and his love-interest should always play into that dynamic.

#thekingofwinterblog

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such-fun · 6 years

Text

Fic: Half As Much Loki x Reader 1/1

Half As Much

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Spoilers for: Thor: Ragnarok and Doctor Strange

Summary: Asgard hadn’t been your home since Loki fell. Now you call New York City and it’s Sanctum home.

Tags: @markusstraya @ivertha @buckybass @ageekybookworm @deadlywinters @petlaufeyson @poseidon29 @thephenomenonalkingofthebrogues @barnesandrogery

You weren’t sure quite how long you had been on Midgard. Time had taken on new meaning since you found yourself drawn to the Sanctum and it’s masters.

On Asgard, one had little regard for time and it’s awing power. It’s hard to notice it’s effects when you lived as a god and endured for millennia. But time was precious here. Something to be manipulated and folded and twisted to your desire.

You imagined Loki would have found it fascinating. After getting over his inherent disregard for all things mortal.

“You look pensive,” Stephen commented, and you granted him a rye smile.

“A familiar look to be sure,” you mused. He was an interesting one, this Doctor Strange. Equal parts magic and science made him a puzzling subject to study.

When you first arrived at his doors, you were tempted to dismiss him. You were, after all, a sorcerer who spent over a thousand years in the tutelage of some of the greatest teachers in Asgard. Frigga had been more than just a mentor, she was the closest thing you had to a mother. The day she became your mother in truth had been tumultuous but even in her worry she had welcomed you into the family.

Yet here you sat, on a far off world, a fallen queen. Motherless. Husbandless. But not quite alone.

“I find myself remembering today,” you sighed, tired and resigned. “Something feels wrong. Or right. I can’t make sense of it.”

“You sense danger?” Strange wondered, on alert. He had learned very quickly to trust your intuition.

“No?” you replied, unsure of yourself. “No,” you added more confidently. “I sense…a reckoning. An end. And possibly a beginning.”

“How ominous of you,” he half smiled and you gave a small laugh.

“I am nothing if not incredibly vague.” His rich chuckle made you smile.

Life after Loki’s fall had been turbulent and confusing. You grieved, taking comfort in Thor’s offer of a shoulder to cry on. But soon the truth emerged, of Loki’s heritage, his betrayal, his attempt to destroy Jotunheim and even his own brother.

The Allfather had been kind after all had been revealed. He knew of your love for his troubled son. And that’s what he was, Odin’s son. Blood did not make a family.

You were technically one of the family now. Loki, having assumed the throne as the Allfather laid in the Odinsleep, had said that the King needed a Queen. That the people needed a Queen. That he needed you.

That had been the tipping point.

Duty had always meant little to you. It was easy to be dutiful. It required little work or thought. But when Loki whispered his need for you at his side…you were unable to refuse his plea.

You always wanted to be needed. To actually be wanted. And despite all your flirtations and dalliances with the younger prince, you never truly thought he meant those loving words he would murmur while you were entwined.

His silver tongue had stilled. You felt truth in his words. And you would forever feel betrayed by them now.

Loki lusted for power. He loved his mother. And he used you.

While the royal family counted you as one of their own, Thor your most fierce protector, the people had turned. You were no Queen, simply an untrustworthy remnant left behind by the would be King. You were unwelcome outside the palace.

So you asked Odin permission to leave. You brought shame on your people. And no matter how hard he, Frigga, and Thor fought to convince you, you felt you had no place on Asgard.

You had found refuge in Kamar-Taj when Loki appeared again. You wandered outside the Sanctum to stare at the news coverage. He looked a shell of his former self, hair grown long and wild, face gaunt and pale. It was the picture of him, chain and muzzled like an animal, that sent you back to the shelter of the village.

That was not the Loki of old. There would be no reunion. There was nothing left to reignite.

Your move to New York City was Strange’s doing. He was it’s new Master, the new Sorcerer Supreme. You had developed a kinship. You shared secrets of the Asgardian masters, he taught you how magic truly made you one with the universe. You were unwilling to let go of the one friend you had in this world.

You didn’t know what became of Loki. You could have discovered the answer easily, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask. He was no longer the boy you held in your affections.

Stephen didn’t know of your connection to the god who destroyed New York. He didn’t push you to reveal your past. At least not after his initial volley of questions. Everyone had secrets, saved for only the most intimate connections.

As your mind wandered, Stephen’s became laser focused. You recognized the expression on his face as concern. And fury.

“What is it?” you inquired urgently, sitting up rigidly at the library desk.

“Trouble,” he said with a quiet roar. And he called you ominous. “Stay here,” he demanded before departing swiftly as his cape gave a decisive snap to attention.

“Well that’s not going to happen,” you muttered with a roll of your eyes. You may not have been one of the regarded warriors of Asgard, but you were no wilting flower. You and Loki had trained side by side both physically and in sorcery.

You followed his levitating form to the study in 177A Bleecker Street.

“…All right, Wizard. Who are you? Why should I care?”

You froze at the familiar voice. It couldn’t be.

“…I have some questions for you. Take a seat. Tea?”

“Thor?” Your voice shook and you reluctantly shed a tear. It had been so long since you had seen family.

Halfway lowered into his seat, Thor stood with lightening quickness. Turning, he saw you and his face brightened with his wide smile.

“It has been too long!” he boomed as he reached you in two strides, pulling you into a massive hug.

You buried your face into his neck and hair, lingering in his comforting embrace. He felt like home.

“You know each other, I take it?” Stephen interrupted, bemused.

“She is my sister!” Thor announced, and it tugged at your heart. Still family after all this time. “By choice if not by blood.”

“Then you know Loki,” Strange frowned in disillusionment, turning to Thor. “I keep a watch list of individuals and beings from other realms that may be a threat to this world. Your adopted brother, Loki, is one of those beings.”

“A worthy inclusion,” he admitted with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“Then why bring him here?” Stephen demanded. You blanched.

“Loki is here? And free?” you shook your head in shock.

“We’re here to find my father,” Thor said softly, giving you a sympathetic eye. His father, you noted, not their father.

“So, if I were to tell you where Odin was, all parties concerned would promptly return to Asgard?” You looked at the Doctor incredulously.

“Promptly,” Thor promised.

“Great! Then I’ll help you.” Stephen clapped his hands in agreement.

“You knew Odin was here and said nothing?” you turned on him.

“I have to tell you, he was adamant that he not be disturbed,” he tried to smooth things over. “Your father said he had chosen to remain in exile,” he turned back to Thor.

“My father is no longer in exile. So if you could tell me where he is, I can take him home,” Thor bargained, you could hear the strain in his voice. He was so tired.

“He’s in Norway,” Stephen replied bluntly, “waiting for you.”

“All right,” Thor nodded, “I suppose I’ll need my brother back.”

“You’ve had him trapped?” You whispered.

Strange shrugged nonchalantly, circling his hands and opening a portal.

Loki, in all his glory, came falling out, landing with a thud into the Sanctum floor with a shout.

“I’ve been falling for thirty minutes!” He growled, twisting his head to glare at Stephen.

“You can handle him from here,” he said dismissively.

“Handle me?” Loki snarled, pulling himself to his full height. “You think you're some kind of sorcerer? Don't think for one minute, you second-rate...” he threatened as he unsheathed his infamous daggers.

“Enough!” you intervened, stepping in front of the fuming god of mischief.

Loki stopped short, his wide eyes deceiving his suddenly passive expression. Loki always took strides to hide his true feelings. You weren’t surprised to see his face go blank at the sight of you. A small part of you hoped fora more passionate reaction, but you never truly expected it. “So this is where you have hidden yourself all this time.”

“You’re one to talk, Liesmith,” you fired back. Thor took a pointed step to the side. Stephen watched in that intense way of his.

“I did not flee to another world, one full of mortals and mediocrity,” he sneered.

“No, you just let yourself fall into oblivion,” you reminded him. “You fled, same as I.”

“And tried to rule Earth,” Thor added in helpfully. You snorted incredulously. Loki glared at the blonde. “And later faked his death.”

“Are we done comparing so-called crimes?” you crossed your arms angrily.

“He also exiled father,” Thor jumped in again with a raised hand, as if asking his turn. “And impersonated him on the throne.”

“Will you stop ‘helping’?” Loki hissed in irritation.

Thor held up his palms and shut his mouth, much to Loki’s relief.

“How exactly do you know each other?” Strange asked suspiciously. “Thor did call you his sister, after all.”

“She is my wife, you talentless ape.” The Doctor looked dismayed, and you found that it hurt to disappoint him so.

Loki finished glowering at Stephen and turned his anger to you once more. “I demand the room,” he declared decorously and Strange choked down a huff of frustration.

“This is my Sanctum,” he reminded you all.

“Then you know your way around. Kindly find the door,” Loki said through clenched teeth. “You too, brother.”

“I suggest we give them a moment,” Thor mock whispered, putting a hand on Stephen’s shoulder to lead him out. The Cape of Levitation smacked his hand away. You overheard Thor wonder, “Is there anything breakable in there?” as he escorted a very reluctant Strange out of the study.

“Why are you here?” Loki pressed.

You took a moment to finally take a look at him, now that you were without company. He appeared much improved, even stylish in his black suit, though you still preferred his leathers. But you supposed he would be, considering he was fraudulently living the life of a king.

“You came looking for your father. I came looking repentance,” you stated frankly.

“And what could you possibly have to repent for?” he jeered. “Being lover to a monster?”

“Being complicit in the betrayal of the crown,” You jabbed back. “Did you think only you were held responsible for your actions? I assure you it was not so. The people saw me as a traitor. And the Allfather looked at me in pity. We thought you lost to us. I saw no reason to remain a pariah in my own home.”

“I can’t imagine how that feels,” he snapped. “Did you even mourn before you fled to your half-rate, so-called enchanter?”

“He’s not mine,” you rolled your eyes. “And we grieved. Thor was inconsolable. I—I lost the man I loved.”

“Such sentiment,” he said in disbelief.

“You may be incapable of feeling love for anyone but your mother, but I am not.”

“She’s dead,” you could hear the actual sorrow and regret in his voice. “Thor let her die. Didn’t you know?”

“I’ve had no word from Asgard since I left,” you stammered slightly. “I’m so sorry, Loki.”

Whatever anger you had was absent in the face of this news. Frigga had been a mother to you as well and you felt her loss acutely. Part of you resented Odin, exiled on Midgard and couldn’t even break his secrecy to tell you the Allmother was gone.

“She wasn’t my real mother,” he tried to wave away your concern, but you took a step forward and held his face in your shaking hands.

“She was your mother in every sense of the word,” you cried. “And mine as well. Don’t belittle her memory like that.”

Loki, struggling to keep his composure, allowed himself to bask in your touch.

“What happened to us, Loki?” you allowed the tears to stream down your cheeks. “We were more than lovers, we were friends. You meant the world to me. You may have not felt as strongly but I thought I meant something to you.”

“You think me so unfeeling?” he lamented.

“You haven’t shown me different,” you sighed, dropping your hands. “All the times love slipped from your lips there was a smirk, a look. Something to tell me it wasn’t true. At least not all true. They call you Silvertongue for a reason. You lie so prettily.”

“You never believed me?” he appeared almost contrite.

“Once,” you revealed. “When you asked to marry. But then I realized what you said,” you smiled sadly. “You needed me. Not that you loved me. Or even wanted me. Just need.”

“Just?” he lamented.

“Need is different than love. You know this,” you chided him. “It’s desperate. Need makes you use people. Love makes you selfless. You would do anything for them. You were always too selfish to be selfless.”

“I’ve changed,” he argued, threading his hands through your hair and holding you almost fiercely.

“You masqueraded as your father to steal the throne,” you denied him. “That isn’t change. It’s just more lies.”

“I’m trying,” he countered, a near manic glint in his eyes.

“Are you?” you implored. “Or are you behaving because Thor made you?”

“Truly,” he exclaimed, bringing you close and resting his forehead against yours. “I am not the same man you called Silvertongue. Not completely. I am flawed, resentful...vulnerable, and a bit of a fool.”

“A bit?” you allowed yourself to smile.

“But of course,” he returned with that grin that always made you a little weak in the knees. “I’m also dashingly handsome and wickedly charming.”

“That you are,” you murmured so softly he almost didn’t hear you.

“Come with us,” he entreated.

“Loki…” you drifted off cautiously.

“We are here to find Odin,” he continued in a near rush of words. “To restore him to the throne. Things will right once more. The people no longer fear me, nor would they fear you. We can begin anew.”

“Because you still need me?” you wondered out loud.

“Because I want you with me,” Loki replies openly. And for once you saw no trace of that beautiful liar from before. “Because I love you.”

“Gods, you are wickedly charming,” you both couldn’t resist a laugh.

“Is that a yes?” He studied your eyes anxiously.

“Let’s find Odin,” you gave in with a watery smile. “And take things from there. Husband.”

Loki, filled with genuine hope for the first time in centuries, pulled you into a gentle but loving kiss.

“One question,” he muttered between kisses. “Can I be the one to tell the useless children’s magician that you’re leaving?”

#loki laufeyson #loki #loki x reader #loki odinson #thor #odin #doctor strange #stephen strange #reader insert #loki imagine #avengers imagine #doctor strange imagine #marvel imagine #loki fanfic #thor odinson #fanfiction #marvel #the avengers

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a-gay-bloodmage · 5 years

Note

🐇 What animal would they say best represents them? (For all your kids 😃)

This was a super fun one to work on! Thanks so much for asking!

Okay listen, I know this took a while lol I’ve been pretty busy…! It doesn’t help that I spend forever working on asks, anyway! I just love to ramble! But, after twenty-two days of intermixed not-working and oh-holy-shit-I-need-to-finish-that-ask, it is done! Fourteen individual dorks and their animals!

I actually have my Wardens’ and Inquisitors’ “Spirit Animals” on their Ref pages (here for Wardens and here for Inquisitors!)

((From this post!))

I am putting this under a “Read More” link because, well, you’ll see why…

Redren, Fallow Deer I chose the Fallow Deer for Redren not only because it ties into his childhood and the deer of his home village, but because of the wildness that the Deer represent. Contrary to most interpretations, the gentleness of the Deer isn’t as tied into him as other aspects, namely the skittishness, wildness, and spirituality. The redness of the Fallow Deer ties into both his long orange hair and his blood magic, as well as his concerningly fiery temper. Redren’s personality and how it relates to the Deer is surprisingly spot-on, and concerning the antlers, sure, just like Redren, they can be a little intimidating and used in a fight, but, also similar to Redren, they can break if put under too much pressure…

Andrea, French Poodle I decided to go with the Poodle because, like, come on. Not only are they associated with vanity and beauty, but most people see them as dainty, feeble, and cowardly. These views, while widespread, are more misconceptions than anything. Poodles are an incredibly intelligent breed of dog, underestimated and capable of far more than most believe at first glance. Andrea, even though she most certainly doesn’t look like a warrior, is a political genius and a loyal, loyal bitch.

Orest, Coyote It took me a long time to settle on the Coyote for Orest. The Coyote is usually thought of to be cunning and wicked, but the more I looked into it, the more I liked pairing Orest with the Coyote. Coyotes are associated with traits such as honesty and a captivating personality, of truth and finding joy in the simple things in life. The Coyote’s laugh is loud and full of life, and nobody can claim that Orest’s is any different. The association between the Coyote and a lot of Native American cultures was also a large determining factor, as the Dalish are so heavily coded as Native Americans and Orest’s character design is unquestionably Native-based.

Faelyn, Lop-Eared Rabbit I love Faelyn’s connection with bunnies, and so does she. She loves rabbits, especially the lop-eared ones. Faelyn is a little jumpy, spontaneous, and certainly a positive force to have in your life. She also fits into the “fertile” aspect of the Rabbit’s symbolism, as she’s obsessed with weddings and babies and happy little domestic lives. She’s small and her ears flop a little and her front teeth are a little overgrown, but she likes her features. She’s grown into the slur that people have always called her, turning “rabbit” into “Bunny”. Also, she’ll flop over onto her back and let you kiss her if she likes you enough.

Hundir, Ram Well, the Ram fit really well for Hundir. The Ram symbolizes power, force, drive, energy, virility, protection, and fearlessness, and Hundir’s got all of those except, well, the fearlessness one. He’s a little… sheepish. God, I’ll show myself out for that one. I love the parallels between the two, especially since Hundir’s an Aires. He really fits his horoscope. He’s most comfortable when in charge, but not in the spotlight, and would prefer to simply bash at things instead of trying to find peaceful alternative options.

Gemma, Badger She’s such a Hufflepuff, I swear. Not only is she very closely tied to the earth—being an Orzammar dwarf and all—but she’s adorable and could very easily rip a man’s throat out. She’s very confident in her own strength, even if she has moments of doubt. She’s loyal to those close to her, and willing to defend both them and herself. Coming from a world of kill-or-be-killed, both her and the Badger are very in-the-moment, constantly alert and two steps ahead of danger. But, as fierce as she may be, she’s still ever so fluffy and cute.

Mallory, Peacock I think the Peacock fits Mallory quite well. Despite the fact that fics I write containing him usually veer negative and a more than a little angsty, he’s really a fun, excitable person at heart, who wants nothing more than to express himself. Peacocks are associated with traits like freedom, self-expression, and attraction, and Mallory certainly doesn’t shy away from those. Peacocks are also closely tied to the myth of the Phoenix, and nothing says Mallory Trevelyan more than rising from the ashes of a depressed, disastrous, noble life and reinventing oneself as a loud, bubbly, makeup-clad sex worker.

Kiora, Sloth I was originally going to pair Kiora up with a cat because, well, of course, but as I looked more into it, she didn’t fit most typical descriptions. She wasn’t a cunning, shady, and mysterious kind of person. The Sloth fit her perfectly. Physically slow and relaxed, people tied to the Sloth are seen as diplomatic and able to adjust to changes with little fuss, with personalities that are kind and giving. Kiora’s patient to a fault, and passive to her own detriment. However, she moves, slow and steady, toward her goals, quietly and with so little show that people don’t notice until she’s already long gone.

Aelon, Lizard It was really hard to find an animal I best associated with Aelon. Most of the time, “spirit animals” symbolize virtues, and, as good as he can be, Aelon’s unfortunate amount of anxiety and anger and a million other things outweigh most of the common traits mentioned. However, I did find the Lizard to be a good match. Sure, he’s not great at “going with the flow”, but he is decent at handling things life throws at him, albeit with very little grace. He is willing to replace things from his old life with new things, and can face things head on, but would rather dart away to his safe space. He’s quick to run away, and getting a hold of him (both emotionally and physically) is incredibly difficult. And, well, he’s also very small and very cute despite being an angry little fella who would very much so like to be put down.

Ashavise, Fox It wasn’t hard to figure out Ashavise’s connection to the Fox. She’s cunning and shifty, always analyzing others and figuring the best plan of attack. She’s untrustworthy and always ready to run, but that doesn’t mean she’s in any way a coward—she just knows when not to waste her energy fighting. Of course, she isn’t afraid to make a fuss over something, and she’ll nip at people’s heels to get what she wants. However, she’s also very good at lying in wait, spending ages in anticipation for someone to let their guard down before she pounces. She’s not above lying and cheating at all to get what she wants. But, despite her more unsavory traits, she’s a fiercely protective woman who will do anything for her kits—whether they be dead or only partly dead.

Ademamar, Draft Horse It may be ironic, but Ade’s got a lot of similarities to the Draft Horse. Bulky and dense in more ways than one, Ademamar is more like the Horse than other animals reflective of his actual physique. The Horse is symbolic of freedom and power, but also limited by perceived obstacles. Just a shadow in the road can have him skittish and leave him unable to cross over it, even if the obstacle would be nonexistent for others. He may be able to pull an immense amount of weight and he may have the stamina to do it for a very long time, but once he falls, he falls hard, and finds it incredibly difficult to get back up. But, much like the Horse, all it takes for him to get back up is some food and a loving companion.

Harta, Cocker Spaniel She’s small, loyal, excitable, and a bundle of curly, curly hair, but Harta can be feisty and stubborn, too. An intelligent young woman, Harta’s eager to please and possessive over what’s hers. She’s small and full of energy, and her looks can be very deceiving. She can put on a sweet personality to match her friendly outer appearance, but she’s still got sharp teeth she can bring out at any moment. Not to mention, she’s part of quite the sizable litter of siblings…

Ozol, Frog First off, like with Ade, I recognize the irony of pairing up a character with an animal that is so wildly different from them size-wise. But pairing Ozol with the Frog made perfect sense. the Frog is a symbol of rebirth, renewal, opportunity, and healing. For someone who escape the oppressive Qun regime, Ozol was lucky to be someone blessed with the ability to not only get out, but to heal and grow from the experience, emerging as a better version of himself. Frogs are the first indicators of spring, singing out happily at a new, warm, and fertile world. Ozol counts his blessings every day, knowing that he was one of the lucky ones. He’s a good companion for long, troubling journeys, and prides himself on being a reliable guide, both along a trail and in life.

Semiha, White-Tailed Doe Having Semiha Adaar share a very similar animal to Redren is—if one knows how wildly different the characters are—strange, to say the least. Much like the Deer, at a distance, Semiha is tall and beautiful, she wields her magic beautifully and with immense skill. But, once you get close to her, she stumbles over her own two feet, drops her weapons accidentally, and fumbles over her words when faced with a pretty girl. But, even though she may be a little skittish at times, and tends to wish she could flee scary situations with all the grace of a startled, clumsy forest creature, she can stand tall and proud when the situation arises.

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starcunning · 6 years

Text

Suffer Me to Cherish You: 16 Nov

I had to get up so early to get this done. I could have slept in an hour because I forgot time zones existed, but oh fucking well. Enjoy Fanfest, everybody!

Previously: Week One, Week Two Previously: 11 Nov, 12 Nov, 13 Nov, 14 Nov, 15 Nov

Despite her diffidence, there was a sense of longing in the words. The grasses grew thick in the Emprise, waist-high on the dark knight and her charge, and Myste let the tufted heads of seed hulls skim over his open palms as they passed. Rhalgr’s Reach lay just beyond, where the ruined colonnade met a cave, its mouth framed in a facade of stonework. There was a white figure, stark against the shade, like some sort of perverse silhouette, who lifted his head as she approached.

“Where’s the other one?” X’khilo Nunh called. “Fray is … indisposed,” Shasi settled on. As she drew nearer, she lifted her hand just a fraction at the wrist, and Myste curled his fingers around her own. “Pity,” said X’khilo. “I could’ve grown to like him.” Shasi felt annoyance prickle up her spine, not sure if that were Fray’s reaction or her own. Whatever the case, it moved her to mutter, “The feeling was not mutual.” Clearing her throat, she spoke more clearly. “This is Myste. Myste, this is X’khilo Nunh.” “I’m her father,” X’khilo told the boy. Shasi only closed her eyes a moment on that statement. “It’s nice to meet you,” Myste said, very solemnly. X’khilo did not return the pleasantry, only stared back at the pair. “You never told me who he is to you,” he said. “Fray’s get?” Shasi bit back a laugh. “No,” she said. “An orphan from Ishgard. I’ve been looking after him.” She lifted her hand, extricating it from Myste’s, and clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him gently. “And he looks after me.” “It’s a shameful thing to raise someone else’s child,” X’khilo said, eyes narrowed as he averted his gaze. Myste looked wounded by that, and Shasi lifted her hand to the crown of his silver hair, shaking her head.

“Did you bring the rest of the tribe back with you?” she asked. “Come now, Shasi,” X’khilo said, with a grin that flashed too much tooth to ever really be friendly. “X’shasi,” she corrected. He ignored her. “You know that’s the council’s decision.” “Right,” she said, not at all convinced. “What did they decide, X’khilo?” “They decided that I should go first, see how settled things were, and then we could begin the process of emigration gradually.” “Of course,” Shasi said. “Well, I hope you know that for those too old or weak to make the trip on their own, I’m willing to hire a caravan to see to their safe transport,” she said, locking eyes with the Nunh. “I will.” “I left a linkpearl with X’rhinne, so perhaps I’ll get in contact with her to make arrangements.” “You can just call her Rhinne,” X’khilo said, rolling his eyes. She could, and she had done so often enough while in conversation with the old healer. But to do so in front of X’khilo felt dangerous, as though that connection gave him some path to her.

It had been weakness enough to suggest that Myste meet him.

“So what about this one,” X’khilo asked after a moment, jerking his chin at Myste. “Your little cuckoo.” “I want to help people,” Myste told him. “Ah, another of that altruistic lot,” X’khilo said, and Shasi could not fail to note the roll of his eyes as he said it. “Why should you do for others what they can do for themselves?” “The things I can do for you can be done by no other,” Myste pronounced. He seemed more confident when he spoke on the subject, standing taller. His excitement animated him, brought a smile to grave features, and Shasi could not help but to smile herself. “Is there someone from your past you’d like to see again?” he asked. “Someone you lost?” X’khilo Nunh simply stared at Myste, and then looked at X’shasi. “Seriously?” he scoffed. “Yes,” Myste insisted, all the confidence of a moment before shattered. “Yes,” Shasi echoed, more calmly. “I know it sounds hard to believe, but Myste can return the dead to life—at least for a little while. I’ve seen him do it.” “I’ll believe that when I see it,” X’khilo snorted. “Fine,” Shasi challenged, “then ask.” X’khilo narrowed his eyes at her, then turned his flinty gaze on Myste, his black-tipped ears pressed back against his skull. “I want to talk to her mother,” he said. “X’shakkal Halha.” “Is that—” Myste began, but Shasi cut him off. “Yes,” she said. “Do it.”

It still hit her like a punch to the kidneys when she heard a woman’s voice call Khilo’s name. Astonishment was written plain upon the aging Nunh’s face, and Shasi turned to follow the line of his gaze.

Picking her way through the grass was a miqo’te woman of about Shasi’s own age. Her hair was a tarnished silver, shaggy but short, tossed by the breeze that rippled through the grass. Her eyes were silvery, too, framed by the dark lashes Shasi had inherited from her. She wore a leather-reinforced bliaud, and from her ears dangled a pair of amethyst cabochons. Shasi lifted a hand to tug at the earrings dangling from her own ears, a fingertip tracing the silver figure inlaid over the stone. The very same gryphon rampant glinted on the woman’s earrings—the same earrings. Her mother’s earrings. But X’shakkal looked younger than she did in most of Shasi’s memories.

X’khilo recognized her in an instant just the same. “I didn’t think it was really possible,” he said. “I know,” she laughed. “I thought I would never see Gyr Abania again.” X’khilo stepped out of the shadows of the Emprise, into the sunlight and the tall grass. He stood a head taller than her mother, the long, fluffy fur of his tail blown about by the wind.

“Look how happy he is,” Myste whispered, sounding overjoyed himself. And Shasi had to admit it was true—she had never seen X’khilo look anything like this calm and content—he seemed always on edge around her, for some reason she could not fathom.

“I thought I would never see you again,” X’khilo said, leaning in to press his forehead to Shakkal’s. There was the briefest tremor, Shakkal’s ears swiveling back for just a moment before she leaned up to meet him. “You have me now,” she said. “What can I say to you?” “Explain something to me,” X’khilo said.

Shasi reached down to pluck up a stalk of wild grass, winding it through her fingers like a cord. The prayer beads from Fray’s funeral were still looped around her left wrist, and she unwound them a moment later, the soft clatter as she turned the beads about the circle lost to the wind. She felt an unease in her chest, not sure if it belonged to her or not.

“What is it?” Shakkal asked after a moment, straightening. She looked up at him with soft eyes—eyes Shasi had never seen in her mother’s face before. “Why did you leave?” X’khilo asked after a moment. Shakkal reached up to adjust the lay of the fur ruff about the Nunh’s throat, straightening his white leathers. Shasi knew the gesture, had been on the other end of it dozens of times—from the first time she’d put on the dueling jacket to the very last, the morning they marched on Carteneau. “You know why,” Shakkal said, looking away, not at her daughter but toward the eastern horizon. “You’re standing in the ruins of my reasons why.” “We would have been fine where we were,” X’khilo protested, closing his deep blue eyes. “The royal forces weren’t going to come all the way up the mountain just for us.” “You’re so sure of that,” Shakkal said, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in amusement. “Why?” “Because it’s been decades and they never came,” said X’khilo. “You can say that now with the benefit of hindsight,” X’shakkal told him, stepping back so she could run a hand through her hair. “We didn’t know it at the time. It seemed best to be prepared to fight,” she said. “To make sure others were given the same chance. We knew the art. It would have been selfish to hoard it.” X’khilo shook his head: “It could have gone poorly for you. For the tribe. Why give up the advantage?” Shakkal squinted at him: “It was war, Khilo,” she said. “We didn’t have the time to be that small-minded.” She took another step back. “You never taught it to me,” he said, looking away. He cast his gaze about, and it settled on Shasi for a moment. Myste stepped closer to her, and she settled her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What would you have done with it?” Shakkal wondered. X’khilo turned his face to hers once more, the scar upon his jaw twisting his frown into a scowl. “Defended myself,” he said. “From unjust challenge.” “If you could not keep the seat, ‘twere better you lost it in any case,” Shakkal said, the words falling carelessly from her lips.

Shasi could see the lines of anger write themselves upon X’khilo’s form, the way he drew his shoulders up and his ears swung back. His anger troubled her less than had all that passed before; the memory of that easy affection made Shasi wary.

“And what did your altruism get you?” X’khilo demanded to know. “Did it save your home, when the Black Wolf came to take it? Did it make your life any easier in Ul’dah?” Shakkal only stared at him, dumbstruck as Shasi had never seen her in her life. “Did it get you killed?” X’khilo pressed. “No,” Shasi protested from her place on the sidelines. Those hard eyes turned on her, almost black in their anger. She had not inherited them from him, nor her mother’s bewildered silver stare. “Maybe you got her killed instead,” he said. “If you want someone to blame, I’m as good a target as any,” Shasi told him, setting her jaw. Her tail twitched behind her, batting restlessly at the grass. “Stop it, all of you,” Myste whispered. “I’m sorry, Myste,” Shasi said, “but this has been coming a long time.” She lifted her chin and her voice: “I’ve asked myself the same question,” she admitted. “I’m sure everyone who lost someone at Carteneau has spent the last decade doing the same.” “She’s right here,” X’khilo said. “Did she kill you?” he asked, turning his gaze on Shakkal. “I don’t know,” she said, her shoulders shaking. “Did she get you killed?” “I don’t know!” “Why did you leave, Shakkal?” Khilo demanded to know, reaching out to take hold of her by the arms. “Why did you take our daughter and run away?” “She’s not your daughter,” Shakkal shouted back.

She wasn’t?

“But you knew that,” Shakkal added a moment later. X’khilo looked across the field at X’shasi, the force of his gaze like a physical blow. “Yes,” he said. “I knew. I just never understood why.” “I can’t give any answer that would satisfy you,” Shakkal said. “I know,” X’khilo said. Then he said, “If I ever see you or your little cuckoo again, it will be much too soon. I can’t believe you would do this to me.”

X’khilo’s indignation did not move her. His anger did not frighten her. She was much too much in shock for that, and the only sound that reached her was Myste’s sniffling. Shasi dropped to her knees, holding her arms out to him. X’khilo Nunh spat upon the ground as he passed them.

“I didn’t know,” Shasi whispered. To herself, to him, to Myste; she wasn’t sure, only sure then that it needed to be said. No one answered. “Mama,” she called across the meadow, “why didn’t you tell me?” X’khilo’s stalking footsteps receded into the distance, echoing in the cave that led to Rhalgr’s Reach. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Myste. “Forgive me.” “No,” Myste said, and Shasi felt as though she might crack in half again. “No, no, it isn’t your fault, we did not fail …” “I don’t know that we succeeded,” Shasi said, bowing her head to rest her forehead against Myste’s. “He will not thank us for the closure he found … if he found it at all.” “No, that is not his way,” Myste agreed. Shasi lifted a hand to brush her thumb over the boy’s cheek, wiping away his tears. A fresh spate fell, and a deep sorrow gripped her, echoed within by a second voice. “I wanted to speak to her too,” Shasi said. But she could hear the whispers of the abyss, and knew her chance had passed. “Forgive me,” Myste whispered. “I can’t hold onto them long after … when he ran away, he stopped thinking of her, and I couldn’t … what cruelty.” “Family can be … complicated,” Shasi said with a sigh. “You did nothing wrong, Myste.” “That’s not true,” he said. “I stole from you. Go on … reclaim that which I took. Make yourself whole, at least.”

It took her a long time to pull away from Myste, to push herself to her feet. There was no recognizable trace of her mother as she looked out over the landscape, only a dark wound in a sunlit meadow, seething with blackness. She gazed into its depths and swore she felt the presence of flame, flickering unseen. The taste of it on her blade was ash and ruin.

“You wouldn’t call her again if I asked, would you.” “It’s not wise,” Myste said. “Will you come with me a little ways? I want to say a prayer for her.” “There’s a shrine to Rhalgr in the Reach, isn’t there?” “Yes,” Shasi said, “and maybe I should go there, but I don’t want to just now. Rhalgr and I have always had a … contentious relationship.” “Then where will we go?” Shasi lifted a hand, pointing at the shape of a ziggurat where it broke the landscape. When she let it fall to her side again, Myste laced his fingers with hers.

There was no trace of the qiqirn that had taken up residence in the ruin at one point. Shasi wondered if that was because Clan Centurio had driven them out, or if Lyse had managed to coax them elsewhere somehow. She hoped it was the latter, but did not set much store by the thought. It was quiet for her visit, and that was enough.

“I came here once as a girl, so small I barely remember it,” she said. “We must have left here not long after.” “Why?” Myste wondered. She looked down at him. “I wasn’t always a dark knight. I don’t know that I always will be. I was sure I’d be a red mage all my life, but look at me now. But my mother … the art was important to her. And it was important to her that I learn it, too, even after we left. Especially after we left.” “Why?” he echoed, in the guileless way of curious children. “Because the art was born in Gyr Abania, and so was I, and she wanted me to have that.” “Do you ever regret it?” “No,” Shasi said, kneeling down in the dirt and laying her sword aside. “She taught me to defend the weak, and to offer my aid wherever it was needed. Especially if I was asked. So … in a way, you could thank her for the fact that you are here with me, too.” That seemed to make him smile a bit. “Then I will say a prayer in her memory too.” Memory. What a curious thing. Shasi closed her eyes with a sigh. “She seemed … different. Strange. She’s been gone a decade already, but I …” She shook her head, feeling the weight of her mother’s earrings as they swayed with the motion. “I always got the sense there was someone she missed, but … I didn’t dream it would be him. And maybe it wasn’t, if I’m not … if I wasn’t …” “We’re so many things when we’re alive,” Myste said. “And then death comes, and all of a sudden, we no longer exist …” “And the living are left to make sense of our contradictions.” Shasi took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

She could feel the sunlight on her skin, seeping too warm through the black of her gambeson. There was a gentle breeze, and she could taste dust with every breath, but there was the scent of growing things, the haze of late summer settling over her shoulders. Soon it would be autumn, as it had been when she had first crossed the wall. She felt so distant from the woman she had been then, untouched by love and loss, unhoned by grief. There was an ache in her chest when she thought of it—all those she had met; all those she had left behind. The terrible cost that had mounted all around her so that she could kneel in the dirt and think of her mother. She did not flinch from it.

Welcome back, Fray said, and it startled her so much she had to bite back a yelp. “What’s wrong?” Myste said. Shasi’s eyes snapped open, flustered. Don’t tell the boy a thing. “It’s nothing,” Shasi said. “Just a bug bite.” He looked at her so strangely that she had to laugh, and for a moment he joined in. “So many things,” he echoed, all the joy fled him. “Have we done more harm than good?” “Who’s to say?” Shasi wondered. “I hope we have,” he said. “You are still a good person. You can still be a good person.” Shasi didn’t know quite what to say to that. “I hope she would agree with you.” “One more … and then yours, isn’t that it?” “If you still agree to it.” “All the lives we’ve shattered … we can make them come together again,” Myste promised. All the wishing in the world will not make the broken shield come together again, Fray whispered. Shasi knew who she wanted to believe. As surely as she knew the truth. “I’d like to stay here just a little longer, and then we’ll go somewhere else. Find someone else. Alright?” “Alright,” Myste said. “Go and play. It’s good for a boy your age to go and play.”

Sunlight streamed through his hair, staining it gold as it streamed out behind him. Shasi watched from a distance, but all the ease had gone from her.

You know what this is, don’t you? Fray said. Tell me you’re not this blind. Shasi shook her head. “I think I’m starting to understand,” she said. A lie, however sweet, is nevertheless a lie. “Was she lying to him?” Shasi asked. “Is that what it was? Why? What have the dead to fear from the living?” What do you want me to tell you? Fray asked. Think carefully about the question. “Oh,” she said. Such a small word. Such a heavy burden. She could feel Fray’s frustration. Ware the penitent, for theirs is a compulsion all-consuming. “What should we do?” You won’t kill him. The thought seemed an affront to her. She didn’t need to say so. The only child you’ll ever have? You won’t kill him. “I could always adopt an orphan from the Brume, teach him the dark arts you’ve taught me.” That would require you to bring someone else into the hell you’ve made for yourself. “You know me too well.” I am you. “So what do we do?” You know what he is. Who else would you go to? Shasi closed her eyes and sighed. “No. No,” she said. Go on. Who do you trust with the knowledge of what you’ve done? Who do you trust with your grief? “Vesper Bay it is.”

#smtcy #x'shasi #fray myste #DRK job quest spoilers #original content #starcunning writes #ff14 #nanowrimo #myste ffxiv #x'shakkal halha #x'khilo nunh #i'm BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

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acre-of-wheat · 7 years

Text

Summer Blue 9

When Lexa wakes, everything is pain. For several eternal seconds she is awash in it-- each new wave crashing over her, rocking loose any grip she has on herself or her surroundings. It takes time and a straining effort before she can drag herself back to the shore of self-awareness, cataloguing the pain and naming it to gain some control over it. Lexa starts small-- the bruises and cuts on her knuckles, her skin pavement burned. Her nose hurts, the pain of the break radiating up around her eye sockets, even the flutter of her eyelids grating. The dull, aching pulse around her shoulder. The waves of nausea as her head throb the sense of spinning wild in the darkness. The breath-catching pain around her ribs that comes with every inhale.

She doesn’t know how long it takes to make peace with each part of her body, to acknowledge the damage and push past it. Once the physical pain is under control, once Lexa regains the ability to recognize her own thoughts, to hear them over the cacophony of hurt, there is another injury to acknowledge.

“Say it! Say that you killed her!”

It was like the beating she’d taken had cracked her open, spidering a thin but deep fissure in the many layers she’d put between herself and those memories, a canyon that exposed the various strata of reasoning she’d used to assuage her guilt.

Nia’s boot finds her ribs again, despite Lexa curling in on herself. She hears Indra and Nyko yelling, their words strangely far away, the only sound she can focus on is Nia’s vicious demands.

“I won’t stop until you say it!”

Costia had made her own choices. Lexa couldn’t have known what would happen. It couldn’t be Lexa’s fault because if it was how could she stand to go through another day.

“You killed my little sister and you’re going to pay for it!”

Nia’s next kick finds Lexa’s temple and she can feel the impact like lightning coursing through her skull, a shatterglass of pain.

All those reasons, all those lies, just so much dirt unearthed to get to the core of it-- that Costia was dead because of Lexa.

“It was my fault!” Lexa finally yells, because it’s true, because it was time to admit the betrayal, because what is there left to prove, lying on the asphalt, bleeding?

For a moment that knowledge transfixes her, a single point of pain in her body that everything swirls to coalesce around. It is more terrifying than the physical pain, worse even than the moments that she lay curled on the pavement, waiting for the next kick to come. Lexa’s control falls away, and she can’t hear her thoughts over the blood rushing in her ears, the breathe caught in her throat coming out in a hoarse whine.

Lexa waits for the next blow, almost welcoming it, but it never comes. She looks up from the arms she’d thrown around her head to create a protective cage around herself to see Nia, standing tall and panting, red hair stringy with exertion.

Nia spits, and Lexa can feel the hot foam of it on her skin.

“I should kill you for her,” Nia says.

“Lexa? Are you okay?” she hears a bleary voice ask, a hand suddenly at her arm, a warm touch on her skin.

Clarke’s presence, the concern in her voice, somehow makes it all harder, and Lexa makes a strangled noise that doesn’t sound human even to her own ears, like the despair of an animal in a trap.

“Lexa! I’m here, what do you need? What can I do?”

Clarke’s hands are at Lexa’s face now, running a thumb across her cheekbones and smoothing back tangled hair, and Lexa can feel the fear in Clarke’s touch, the worry for her. The weight of her care makes Lexa want to recoil, unworthy of it.

Lexa pulls her uninjured arm up, tugging Clarke’s hand away from her face, trying to break the contact, only to feel Clarke’s lips on her bruised knuckles, a kiss at each scrape on her palm, one pressed firmly at the pulse in her wrist.

“It’s okay,” Clarke whispers into her skin, “You’re safe here.”

At Clarke’s assurance the storm hits, and the caged whine in Lexa’s chest becomes a sob, the burn in her eyes now tears, the tension in her body turned to a shaking she can’t stop.

“I've got you. I'm here,” Clarke says, pulling herself up onto the couch next to Lexa, the pain that comes from being jostled worth the feeling of Clarke's body against her, the sharp throb in her ribs a fair trade for Clarke's arm across her, holding her tight. Lexa sobs and Clarke breathes into her ear, whispering her repeated phrase, a steady mantra; I'm here, you're safe, I've got you.

The words blur together into a soothing rhythm and Lexa doesn't know how long she shakes and cries, how many minutes or hours they lay together, close as bodies allow. It's only later she seems to return to herself to realize that the sobs have become a steady stream of silent tears, the shaking turned into an intermittent shiver.

Clarke still murmurs in her ear, and the mantra has turned into a string of babbling endearments; sweetheart, flower girl, dear one.

For a moment Lexa feels embarrassed, sure this stream of consciousness is meant for a brain that isn't registering it, that Clarke means it only as a generic comfort, and Lexa's quiet tears turn to soft gasps as, against all evidence, the fear that Clarke could not truly care for her overwhelms her.

“Shhh,” Clarke says, and kisses her ear, “I'm here, Lexa.”

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa finally manages. Her voice is reedy and hoarse and she can taste the blood in her mouth still, “You don’t need to do this.”

“Enough, Lexa,” Clarke says, “Just let me hold you.”

Lexa lets her, quieting her thoughts, trying to give herself permission to take comfort in Clarke’s touch, in her words, even if the rational part of Lexa’s mind knows she has not earned it. The pit that has opened up in her heart, the one that leads to Costia, remains open, but Lexa feels as though she’s backed up from the edge somewhat, no longer in danger of tumbling down into the depths of it, never to climb out again.

“Do you need anything?” Clarke finally asks, once Lexa’s breathing has evened out.

The question doesn’t register as quite literal for a moment, and Lexa spends a solid minute thinking about exactly what her soul might be lacking before her mind makes the connection that Clarke is asking about less metaphysical needs.

“I am very thirsty,” Lexa croaks, her voice cracking from the recent tears.

Clarke nods, “I'll be right back.”

Clarke’s shuffle off the couch hurts Lexa’s ribs, and leaves her feeling bereft, but Lexa pushes away those feelings as unearned. Clarke stands and stretches, and then lets her fingers linger on Lexa's arm before she leaves, padding off to the kitchen in the dimness of the late night, early morning blur.

Lexa takes a moment to study her surroundings, trying to stave off the emotional and physical waves that still push against her like slowly diminishing ripples.

She's in Clarke's living room, though Lexa has only a vague impression of how she got there. Pale blue walls, an immaculately steamed carpet, and precisely placed white furniture with perfectly folded knit afghans. Lexa realizes with a sinking sensation that her bloody and ragged body is nestled on one such pristine white couch. Lexa knows this is a summer home, but there is still a white brick fireplace dominating an entire wall. The room gives the feeling of being a show house-- staged somehow-- prepared for drama but not actually to be lived in.

When Clarke returns she brings a tall glass of water and a banana. She kicks at something on the floor, and Lexa cranes her neck to look down-- there’s a pillow and a nest of blankets between the couch and the coffee table.

Clarke helps Lexa sit forward to take a long drink, and then settles back onto the floor, cross-legged in her mess of bedsheets. Clarke has dark circles under her eyes and all the things Clarke has done for her in the past few hours make Lexa’s cheeks burn with shame.

“I'm sorry,” Lexa says as Clarke begins to peel the banana. Clarke gives her a warning look and Lexa thinks she had better specify, “I fell asleep after what you told me about your father. That was...rude of me.”

Clarke’s cheeks color as she abandons the banana to put her head in her hands, tussled yellow hair falling over her fingers. Her voice comes out muffled, “Don't be. I should be apologizing to you. I can't believe I did that. What a dick move.”

Lexa furrows her brow, then regrets it-- whatever was holding her split eyebrow together hurt at the pull.

“Why was it a dick move?”

Clarke turns her attention back to the banana, ripping off the last of the peel as she speaks, “It was a dick move because I was distracting you from your pain by making you focus on mine.” Clarke begins to rip the soft flesh into chunks, the intensity of her focus mashing the fruit more than anything, “It was a dick move because we don't even know eachother that well, and I shouldn't have put that on you.” Clarke digs at a brown spot near the end, her hands now mostly coated in banana paste, “It was a dick move because your friends were there and my mom was there.”

“Clarke,” Lexa manages to interject, and Clarke momentarily pauses in her mangling of the banana.

“Yeah?”

“Please stop saying dick move.”

“Sorry,” Clarke grimaces, “Want some banana?”

Lexa surveys the mostly pulped fruit on the coffee table, “Not particularly.”

“Too bad. You should eat some anyway. It’s a super food.”

“Alright,” Lexa says, and she can feel herself smiling.

Clarke seems to sense that actually feeding Lexa the banana would embarrass her into oblivion, so she places the least mashed portion in Lexa’s uninjured hand and simply stares at her accusingly until Lexa finally puts it in her mouth. Lexa chews slowly, and decides the banana was probably a good idea; her last meal hours and a beating ago.

There’s a moment of awkwardness; their bodies having been so close together before it’s like they’re unsure what to do with them now they’re apart.

“Do you want to watch TV, or something?” Clarke asks, fidgeting.

Lexa nods. She doesn't really, but everything hurts too much to fall asleep, and it is as good an excuse as any to stay up with Clarke.

Clarke grabs a remote from the top of a stack of magazines artfully arranged in a spiral, and Lexa has to stop herself from rolling her eyes as a panel above the mantelpiece slides back to reveal a massive flatscreen.

Clarke channel surfs for awhile, and Lexa catches Clarke giving her surreptitious glances every now and again, as if Clarke is trying to gauge her interest level on the sly.

“Whatever you want to watch is fine, Clarke. I’m not picky,” Lexa finally tells her after she catches her staring again.

“Fine,” Clarke says, “X-Games it is.”

They tune in just in time to watch a particularly brutal wipe out involving a ramp, a bike, and a rider all heading in different directions. Clarke 'oofs’ at the fall and even Lexa catches herself making a sympathetic grunt at the bad landing. The fall is replayed several times, slowed down and zoomed in on until the repetition makes the destruction look almost intentional, like a strange choreography.

They watch in silence, the volume turned low so that the commentating is just the silhouette of language-- recognizable as words but without substance. Clarke huddles in her makeshift bed, Lexa lays stiffly on the couch, inches and miles away from each other. Lexa doesn’t understand how they can have these moments of connection, these times where they seem to know each other longer than the few weeks they’ve actually spent together, and then suddenly spiral away into this desolate separateness; how grief and a history that should have long since healed keeps peeling them apart, like they are caught in different currents and the effort of working against them is exhausting.

Lexa watches Clarke in the flickering blue glow of the television, watches as light begins to come through the windows, bringing the room to a palette of blues and grays; colors that are weak, but gentle, and kind to Clarke’s pale skin, to the downturn of her mouth, to the line of her neck and chest as she sighs.

Lexa keeps watching, measuring time in the way that the colors in the room brighten, how the pale light changes intensity, making everything more solid. The brightening catches the gold in Clarke’s hair, casting every detail of her in sun, from the soft movement of her eyelashes to the outline of her artist’s fingers as she plays with a loose thread on her shirt.

It’s as an afterthought that Lexa realizes that the pain in her body has receded during her observation, like her focus on Clarke numbs the hurt.

At some point the channel has changed to a weather report, and Lexa dimly registers that today is supposed to be sunny, all trace of the calamitous thunderstorm from last night passed over them, moved on to some other small mid-western town while they are left in its becalmed wake, ready to repair the downed powerlines and pull the fallen branches out of the streets.

“I’m grateful you told me about your father, Clarke,” Lexa says, and she sees Clarke startle at the sudden sound of her voice. “You had nothing to apologize to me for.”

Clarke swallows and looks down, her brow furrowed, every change easy to catch in the sunlight she eclipses.

“I could say the same to you,” Clarke says, looking up at Lexa, blue eyes beginning to lighten with the day, “for whatever it was you were trying to apologize for.” Clarke reaches out tentatively, strokes one of Lexa’s bruised knuckles, “You don’t deserve this.”

“It was my fault,” Lexa says. She’d meant for her words to sound detached and rational, but, almost certainly due to exhaustion, she can taste how bitter they sound coming out.

Clarke’s face darkens, a look between anger and disgust, and she looks away as she shakes her head, “Jesus, Lexa. No, it’s not.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke, I meant--”

Clarke’s eyes flash darkly as she turns them back to Lexa, “Just don’t talk like that. I don’t know if it’s you being stoic or you’re trying to brush it off so you don’t worry me, but just don’t.”

Clarke holds her gaze until Lexa nods slowly, and Clarke’s stiffly held shoulders fall.

“I don’t know what happened, but when Nyko carried you in like that I was fucking terrified.”

Lexa opens her mouth to apologize again, but changes her mind, “I’m glad they brought me here. I’m glad you were here, Clarke.”

Clarke softens, “Me too.”

“I should tell you what happened,” Lexa says, and her chest hurts with the weight of knowing what would have to be dredged up to tell this story, “I owe you that.”

“You do,” Clarke agrees, “but not on an empty stomach. Can I make you breakfast?”

Lexa smiles, and the weight feels lessened, not like it’s any less heavy, but like it’s better supported, like it’s not something she carries alone.

“I would like that,” she says.

“What can I make you?” Clarke says, returning the smile.

“I will eat anything but bananas, Clarke.”

#clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa #clexa fanfic #summer blue

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