#but the image of pathetic contrition would then be ruined

[kiki-shortsnout]

If you're still taking prompts from the intimacy prompts list. 43 with IronStrange or Frostiron please! Love your writing! 💙💙💙

Hey! I've finally finished my IronStrange Bigbang!! So I can come back to my prompts! Thank you for waiting!

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Slight torture, Blood (nothing Graphic)

FrostIron: Head in lap.

***

Tony had been in this position before, more times than he was willing to admit. Hands bound behind his back, his wrists bleeding from where he’d been tugging at his restraints, his palms sealed together from the stickiness of his blood. The strain on his thighs and knees was a dull burn, a constant ache that never wavered, the grip in his hair ensuring he never sat back on his legs in a desperate reprieve.

If he could survive the torture of the Ten Rings, he could survive this. The arc reactor was already lodged in his chest, the frigid metal caressing the bone of his sternum. There wasn’t much more anyone could do to him, he was already in constant pain from the thing keeping him alive, could feel the shrapnel in his chest rattling with every gasp. Apart from taking his life, which he wasn’t sure he was fond of anyway, there wasn’t anything these kidnappers could take from him.

At least, that’s what Tony thought until they brought in Loki.

Bruises were littered over his high cheekbones, his split lip catching Tony’s attention and making him wriggle against the hand in his hair. He grit his teeth at the kick in the back of his thigh for his effort, not showing any outward pain.

Tony had seen lots of different sides to Loki over the last few months. The would be conqueror ensnared in a mind-controlling spell, a contrite younger brother, wanting to make amends with Thor but not knowing how to. There was the Loki who enjoyed pranking the Avengers, mischief, and humor dancing in his eyes, a Loki who read quietly in Tony’s workshop, finding a quiet freedom in being outside of Odin’s influence.

Recently, there had been the Loki who watched Tony when he thought no one was looking, a flirtatious lilt to his words when they talked, completely at odds with the shy Alpha who brought Tony gifts from other realms.

But, Tony had never seen this.

He could feel the livid rage in those green eyes, like fire on his skin, an intense fury that would make lesser men cower. Even Tony, who trusted Loki, tried to shuffle away from the gaze, scared he could see his weakness, his patheticness at being apprehended like this. His eyes shone bright like the magic he wielded, sweeping over Tony’s body, seeking out any injury, his teeth baring in a furious snarl.

Despite the situation, the tongue lashing he was no doubt going to receive if they managed to get out of here alive, shivers still teased over Tony’s body at the sound. He’d always fought against the idea of having a dominant Alpha, despised the thought that he needed taking care of, that he was inferior in any way, but Loki’s overprotective snarl and the dangerous look in his eyes was making Tony’s inner Omega purr and preen at the attention.

Now is not the time.

‘How the mighty have fallen,’ a silky, sensual voice wrapped around them, shaking Tony out of his fantasies about sexy, deadly alien Alphas. Breaking away from Loki’s stare, the ominous promise in it, Tony turned his head, trying to find the source of the voice. He wasn’t sure where they were, he’d already done recon as soon as he’d woken up in here, and the only information he had was that they were in some sort of castle, stone floors, stone walls, candlesticks on the walls.

Alright, not candlesticks, some sort of magical floating orb that was casting light around them, but he still doesn’t believe Thor, or Loki when they’ve tried to explain magic, so he refused to see them floating around like ghostly fireflies.

Loki didn’t answer, but Tony could tell from his expression that he recognized her, a growl thundering in his chest as he looked between whoever was behind him and Tony’s battered body.

‘My, my, what a beautiful Omega.’

Tony tried to look up, but the hand in his hair gripped hard enough to rip strands from his skull, and he understood that no eye contact was allowed. Green knee high boots entered the line of his vision, and a cool hand grasped his chin, yanking his face up. She was beautiful, all long legs and gorgeous blonde hair, looking like a medieval warrior princess or something. Tony knew that beautiful creatures were often the most dangerous ones.

He’d fallen for one after all.

‘Spirited too, I can see what he sees in you,’ she cooed down to him, nails digging into his cheeks, his blood oozing over her fingers. Tony heard Loki’s frantic struggle against his captors, the shift of leather dragging across stone.

‘No matter your beauty, you are still a pathetic, disgusting creature.’

It’s cute she thought her words will hurt him. He’d been called far worse, tortured to his breaking point before. This was nothing, his body being bruised? That was what happened when he got called to assemble. He grinned up at her, feeling a twist of delight low in his gut as the skin above her nose wrinkled at his blatant disrespect.

‘You do not understand mortals, you never have, never looked past your disdain of them,’ Loki finally said. ‘Leave him. He is worthless to you. It is me you want, Amora.’

Pretty name, Tony thought to himself, inhaling deeply as he tried to work out her secondary gender. Omega, interesting.

‘And what has changed that your view of them is now positive? I remember a time when you sought to enslave these pitiful creatures, and now you live among them, spurning my calls for help, the glory of seeing our enemies at our feet…’

Hell hath no fury like an Omega spurned, Tony chuckled, suppressing his cry as her foot connected with his ribs, sending him sprawling.

Alright, that one hurt.

‘I’ve been watching you Loki, and I do not believe your view has changed. You still see Midgardians as pitiful. It is a single mortal who has changed your outlook,’ Amora whispered, her heels clicking across the stone as she picked up Tony by the back of the neck, yanking him back to his knees.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, sister. Loki doesn’t think of me like that, trust me, I’ve tried to flirt with him, and he’s not interested,’ Tony laughed, running his tongue over the blood that coated his teeth.

He wasn’t lying. Tony had tried for weeks to show Loki he was interested in changing their friendship to something more. Short of pinning him down and scenting him like a crazed animal, there was nothing Tony hadn’t done to try and coax Loki into a courtship of some sort.

Loki hadn’t responded to any of it.

‘How little you understand. Loki has always had everything he’s coveted taken from him. He hides what he treasures most, even to the one he cares for. Don’t you remember, Loki? How we used to wreak havoc across the nine realms to cause your father pain due to his special treatment of Thor, his golden child,’ Amora hissed, tightening her hold on his throat.

Tony refused to react, ignoring the panic building in him as his body struggled to draw in a lungful of air, blotchy spots distorting his vision.

‘Leave him, Amora.’

There was no panic, no Alpha command in his voice. His words were concise, coated with a brittle frost. His gaze slid over to where Loki was kneeling, red bleeding into his eyes, his muscles bunched and tense, losing his grip on his magic, his Jotunn heritage blurring the edges of the Alpha he knew.

‘Careful, you’ll send him skittering away with that monster lurking beneath your skin,’ Amora taunted, moving to the side so they could look at each other, her hold on his throat never wavering. ‘This one is strong, isn’t he? I can see he’s in pain, you can smell it in his scent can’t you, the way he’s begging you to save him, the big, strong Alpha,’ she sneered.

Tugging him higher and off his knees, Tony struggled to get a foot onto the stone floor to support his weight, knowing his neck was going to snap if he didn’t.

‘What will it take to break you, hmm?’ she whispered, leaning towards him. Her sunshine blonde hair slipped over his shoulder, tickling his skin as she brought her nose to his unmarked bonding gland, scenting it. ‘What if I gave you to one of the Alphas who stole you, ruined you for him?’

He’d been threatened that in Afghanistan, one of many taunts to make him give up the Jericho missile.

‘Make sure they’re attractive, my public image will suffer if my bond mate is butt ugly,’ Tony answered, his tone considering even as he fought his restraints, the scalding agony of his lungs becoming impossible for him to ignore.

‘I will tear apart any Alpha that dares touch him,’ Loki spat from the other side of the room, his voice thick as if something was obstructing his throat.

Amora froze even as her lips brushed against Tony’s neck, her gaze flicking up to peer through long eyelashes at him, searching for something.

‘Do your worst, sweetheart,’ Tony challenged.

Pretty pink lips curved in an erotic smile. A hand splayed over his stomach, fingers walking up towards his chest. He could feel the tips of her sharp nails through his tattered shirt, and then she was tearing it aside, the azure light of the arc reactor lighting up the gloom of the room.

‘Found you,’ she taunted, finger tapping across the glass.

No matter how much he tried to keep his poker face, the sheer terror he felt when her nails plunged into his skin surrounding the arc reactor was exposed to them all through his scent, the sour scent of it pungent in the room, trapped by the stone walls and turning thicker by the second. Hating himself, Tony let out a high pitched whine, a frantic call for help.

Not there!

His body crumpled to the floor as the pressure on his neck vanished, shuddering pain coursing through his shins as he fell forward, his face taking the brunt of the fall. The memories of terror and agony he felt at Afghanistan left him deaf to the fight around him, the blurring figure of Loki ferociously attacking their captors nothing more than an afterthought as he curled in a ball to protect himself.

‘Stark.’

Tell us how to build a Jericho missile!

‘Stark!’

The hell did you do to me?

‘Anthony!’

That is an electromagnet hooked up to a car battery, and it's keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.

Hands fell on his back, and he yelled, rolling on his back to fight, succumbing to his basic instincts in his fear. His lips drew back in a snarl, ready to bite whoever touched him.

‘You are unharmed, Tony, beloved, trust me.’ A wrist was thrust in front of his nose, ignoring the way Tony latched onto it, attempting to bite chunks from his skin. ‘Breathe in, scent me, know who I am,’ the voice instructed, and he could smell crisp snow, permeating the fear gripping his brain.

I know this scent.

‘That’s it, beloved, breathe, regain control of your mind. You are safe, Amora has fled, and I will never let any harm you.’

Tony could feel a hand covering the arc reactor and instead of recoiling from it, his instincts made him lean up into it, knowing this person would protect him. He breathed the scent in deep, the primal part of him knowing he was safe. When the panic had subsided, he looked up into unfamiliar red eyes.

‘Loki?’ he rasped, his words aggravating his abused throat.

‘Do not let my appearance scare you, it is still me. I will regain control of my magic…in a moment,’ Loki conceded, dropping his gaze to look at Tony’s throat.

‘I’m not scared, not of you,’ Tony blurted.

‘Kind words. I know how I appear,’ Loki said in a clipped tone, reaching around Tony’s back and ripping apart the restraints. Tony whimpered in relief, his back sagging to the floor as he brought his hands up. Loki’s eyes blazed ruby as he gently grasped them, bringing them to his face so he could examine the damage.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ Tony argued, delirious from both the pain and the scent Loki was emitting. He wanted to drown in it, wrap it around himself like a blanket and never surface. Even with his body protesting, the tenuous link he had on his consciousness, darkness lapping at the edges of his mind, he managed to put his head in Loki’s lap, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘You, Anthony Stark are a foolish, remarkable creature. Stubborn, brave thing,’ Loki muttered, pulling off his cape to drape on Tony, his thumb smearing across the blood on Tony’s wrist.

‘I’ll take you away from this wretched place once I’ve got better control of my inst…magic,’ Loki amended. Tony liked that Loki’s instincts were going haywire around him, that this gorgeous Alpha was keeping hold of him in case any dared to attack.

‘I’m sorry, that this happened to you,’ Loki whispered at him, stroking a blue hand through his hair.

‘Don’t be, it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to-’

Loki’s growl ripped through the air, making Tony flinch at the force of it, feeling like he could be torn asunder by the noise alone.

‘Sorry, my behavior is inexcusable. My instincts are hard to control when I’m around you, they always have been,’ Loki snapped, forcing his gaze away, the hand in Tony’s hair stopping.

‘I don’t want my Alpha to control himself when he’s with me. I know this is the wrong time to be asking…but was what any of she said true?’

‘What did you call me?’

‘My Alpha,’ Tony said easily, feeling his head droop as his body began to succumb to the pain.

‘Anthony,’ Loki growled, bending over to hold him close. ‘We will speak of this once we return.’

Tony nodded, going limp in Loki’s hold, his last thoughts about how he would tell Rhodey he was going to mate an alien Alpha.

***

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[xadoheandterra]

Series: The Burning of Solheim Title: The Path Untrodden Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII Characters: Prompto Argentum, Ignis Scientia, Cor Leonis, Gladiolus Amicitia, Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gilgamesh, Ardyn Izunia | Ardyn Lucis Caelum, Verstael Bisithia Tags: 10 years older!Prompto, Prompto and Gil the ongoing comedy, Noctis wants to fix it, angst and hurt and probable comfort, miscommunication effectively for EVER, Ardyn is Ardyn, Ardyn is not a happy trash man, Ardyn and relationships Summary:  Solheim was the height of civilization long enough that their ruins were ruins over 2000 years ago, and still had the power to function in the time of the King of Light. They should’ve realized something was very wrong the minute Prompto remarked on the lights being on, and yet no one was home.

“We need to find Ardyn,” Prompto said into the tense air the following morning. Noctis eyed him blearily with a pillow hugged tight to his chest; Gladio sweat-soaked from his morning run, leaned against the door with his arms crossed and Ignis seated in one of the chairs with a can of Ebony in hand.

Cor sat next to Ignis, leaned away from Gilgamesh who cleaned a blade on the second bed in the small caravan. Gilgamesh didn’t even look up as Gladio and Ignis traded looks, or how Cor watched him with lips pressed together. Prompto waited for someone to say something—anything. No one spoke up, and so with a groan of frustration Prompto threw his hands into the air.

“Come on!” Prompto cried out. “Don’t you guys have any shit to say?”

Nothing—until Cor sighed heavily and mumbled something about Lucis Caelum’s and bullshit and then clearly uttered, “He’s the Chancellor of Niflheim. You would put Noctis at risk.”

Noctis shrugged and buried his face into the pillow. What he said was muffled enough that no one could quite understand him, but Prompto still tilted his head in the blue-black haired man’s direction with a faint frown.

“Noct…” Prompto said, voice soft, and Noctis raised his head lightly to look back with his face just the slightest bit pinched and Prompto—Prompto couldn’t identify the feeling that curled in his gut, but he didn’t quite like it.

Gilgamesh set the blade down and breathed out heavily enough to flutter the long white locks of his hair and spoke his words with care. “Ardyn is not the man we knew.”

“Bullshit,” Prompto snapped out. “I refuse—”

“He changed,” Gilgamesh uttered sharply and Prompto went silent. “He changed, Silver. The Gods gave him his Path and he walked it willingly.”

Prompto shook his head, forcefully, and hissed between his teeth, “Yeah, he saved lives but I refuse to believe some nonsense about him changing from it.”

“Even you saw—”

“I saw a man grow sick!” Prompto snapped out, loud enough into the silence and loud enough to draw Noctis fully away from the pillow with brow furrowed. “I saw a man grow tired! I saw a man suffer under his ideals and suffer from the points of difference from his brother! I saw a man who felt so assured that the Gods would provide him aide—that his marriage would be the catalyst he needed, that the Crystal would keep him safe—and I saw a man who had no idea he would walk into his Confirmation alone and betrayed!”

Gilgamesh quieted, and then look away for a moment. It was odd for Prompto to see the normally stiff man for all his talk of duty seem so contrite. Prompto breathed heavily, and startled when Noctis reached out and grabbed his arm. For a second Prompto stared at the young face of his friend, stared at a face he could barely remember, and then Noctis bowed his head.

“We’ll make it right,” Noctis said, voice soft and firm and Prompto felt something in him choke. “It needs to be made right.”

Cor sighed heavily and leaned forward, onto his knees. After a second he scoffed and gave a bitter sort of laugh. “If only Regis could hear you say that.”

Noctis looked to Cor. “Why?”

Cor looked back and said, “Because you sounded just like your mother.” For a moment no one said anything and then Noctis straightened his back.

“See, Prom?” Noctis said with a grin not quite as forced. “We’ll make it right.”

Ardyn frowned lightly at the reports Verstael forwarded his way. He grabbed a hand around the Atissian wine that he’d taken as a drink within the confines of his room at the Leville as he worked through the data and the reports from three separate MT Technicians. All of them lined up together and sold the same sordid tale—and it had to be a lie. Ardyn’s hand tightened on the wine glass hard enough it could crack.

“I’ve had them interrogated separately and still their story remains the same,” Verstael’s voice rang out from the phone that Ardyn had laid out onto the table, the call settled into speaker so that he could read and focus at once.

“Yet they do not describe this unmentionable, ancient horror,” Ardyn drawled out, voice faintly edged in bitterness. On the screen Verstael rolled his eyes, the wrinkled face pulled tight into a scowl, but Ardyn did not care.

Three days; for one week the boys remained in Lestallum by all reports, and then nearly five days earlier they moved from Lestallum to Old Lestallum and there they remained until the past three days. They’d begun to move, finally, and yet it remained so frustratingly far from Cape Caem. Ardyn could not tell what the blasted boy-king thought he was doing. What motivated this new tour of the Lucian countryside? A drive around Duscae and Cleigne, up into the Vesperpool—yet not south toward Cape Caem with the ship that inevitably awaited them.

“What of the dear Commodore?” Ardyn questioned. “Has she had anything to say?”

Verstael sighed heavily. “Ardyn, you know that I have no inclusion or control over the army or it’s mercenaries. You will have to ask that boy you’ve taken to traveling with for answers from her.”

“Jealous?” Ardyn questioned, tone light, even as his gaze tracked to Verstael’s horribly old face with sharp golden eyes.

“Hardly,” Verstael scoffed. “What you deign to do in your time is upon you. As long as it does not interfere in my work I could care less.”

“Are you certain of that, my dear?”

“Completely.” Verstael’s gaze was a baleful one, full of age and frustration that brought a smile to Ardyn’s face. “When will you return to Gralea?”

“Once my work here is completed, you have my assurance,” Ardyn said. “I will be back in time for your little pet project. Promise!”

“If that is all, then? Or do you have more things to waste my time with?”

Ardyn waved a hand with a murmured, “No, no, Verstael. I will call you if I have need of you.” The line disconnected as Ardyn returned his gaze back to the empty reports with a frown. The best he could get out of the mess had been that this ‘ancient horror’ wielded too many blades to be human, or so the Technicians thought from what little they could see in the distance.

“I wonder…” Ardyn tapped at his lip and leaned back in his chair, coat around him like skirts and wings as he stared at the map that accompanied the reports. All of the attacks had been around Taelpar Crag, within at least twenty miles of the place all told. Ardyn swiped one finger across the screen to toss aside the map and the written reports in favor of the few photographs they had captured. These were grainy, pathetic sort of things with poor visibility, but then Niflheim seemed to lack much of the same technological advances of the Kingdom of Lucis.

One picture forced Ardyn to pause, finger hovered over the screen as he stared into the grainy image of a being with spectral arms that fanned out from a back like wings. “Ah…” Ardyn breathed, golden eyes suddenly bright as every part of him seemed to still and writhe all at the same time. “Gilgamesh.” His hand squeezed reflexively around the wine glass until it shattered as ichor black tears dripped from his eyes, skin suddenly too-pale too-sick. His voice had a much more guttural quality to it, too, more of a growl than anything.

“I wonder what drew you out of your little cavern, old friend,” Ardyn said, tone light, even as his lips curled up with a snarl. He let go of the ruins of the wine glass and shook out his now soaked hand. The other grasped his hat and tugged it low and onto his head as he ducked his gaze downward and pushed himself up from the plush chair to stand.

Atissia and the Tide Mother could wait. Ardyn had a cave full of the dead to interrogate.

Ardyn could remember the room in which they stored the Crystal in Civitas Lucii. A tall tower that Somnus would spend decades building upon, that his descendants would build upon, until it formed the foundation of Insomnia’s Citadel. Then it was stone and marble and near thirty years of work, blood, sweat, and tears with carpets in pale reds and blues with a view of all Civitas Lucii, open archways that were to eventually house windows and furnishings. Ardyn could remember how he stumbled into the room, limp controlled and back stiff. He could remember how the people whispered—how Somnus leaned hunched in the shadows alongside a marble pillar, head ducked low and brow furrowed.

Aera stood before the Crystal with Gilgamesh at her side. She smiled when Ardyn entered the room, yet now thinking back upon it he wondered if that smile ever reached her eyes. When Somnus revealed his treachery, that the kindness in his brother’s heart had fully fallen into the bitterness and fighting that they devolved into over the years, it hurt in the ways that it didn’t hurt. Ardyn could remember feeling faint enough as it was; he’d traveled the time from Steyliff Grove in the Vesperpool all the way to Civitas Lucii alone, with barely any chance for rest in the dark as his blood burned black and his pains increased tenfold.

What Ardyn couldn’t remember was Aera’s face. Had she known? Had Gilgamesh? His Shield had stood with hand on Aera, held her back—or had Ardyn imagined that? Perhaps Gilgamesh played to the hold of his beloved Aera, played to keep her away until it was time for her to fall into unnecessary sacrifice—to spill her blood and her magic so that they could be the catalyst for his chains in the darkness. At any case the memories were a mess, swamped in inconsequential things from the people he’d devoured in fits and spurts after he found himself awake from Angelguard.

“And what does it matter?” Ardyn murmured to himself as he flung a wrist covered in purple-black magic infested Scourge at the Spirit that stood in his way. He watched near dispassionately as the bones crumbled to dust and the body it inhabited forced the spectral form into release. He watched how the Spirit flew backward and into the wall, then crumbled and burst into little lights, only to disappear into the aether. “He made his choice, did he not?”

Three more came at him, and Ardyn tugged his blade free from the armiger and moved with a mix of warping, phasing, and slicing through the creatures. Gilgamesh had abandoned his duty as Shield, his Oaths and the whispers he’d made in the dark when Ardyn found himself at the lowest. Ardyn couldn’t be certain if the man had even abandoned Somnus in the end, although given the supposed exile Ardyn didn’t doubt that. Such a traitorous friend, Gilgamesh. He scoffed as he rendered the next three skeletal opponents to dust and ashes and Scourge.

“And now he deigns to walk the land he’d forsaken? What oddity, Gilgamesh, has attracted your eye I wonder?” Ardyn flicked his blade away as he moved further into the caverns. No doubt something drew the beast of a man out of his saturated home. Gilgamesh was inordinately stubborn—it made him a good Shield, until that fateful day with the fateful Confirmation on Ardyn’s shoulders, sham that it was.

Finally Ardyn reached the point past the bridge where Gilgamesh made his little foundling home. Ardyn wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips at the sight of the mess, at the cold river that ran past half and the slope half caked in shit and debris. It took him a moment to gather up the strength to push past what amounted to nothing more than squalor—and the disgust and bitterness that welled up at the thought of one of his left to rot in something so destitute. Inside faired no better, although Ardyn noted how Gilgamesh took to looting the dead given the varied trinkets that littered the man’s hovel of a home.

“How…quaint,” Ardyn mumbled. His Shield had become a hoarder of things, so utterly unlike the man from the years before. Gingerly Ardyn picked up a few small trinkets to inspect, to see where the mind of the man he’d once cared for had gone in the intervening years—and he noticed a pattern.

Lucian finery and jewels adorned in subtle skulls littered the place; Tenebraean signatory and Oracle Ascension coins from the lapse in time were piled together, separated by year. Ardyn ran his fingers over a few with wide eyes, surprised to see items that went back as far as Civitas Lucii—coins stamped with Somnus’ visage, with Aera’s—and then others with familiar faces. Ardyn stopped at one Ascension coin that held a face so similar to Aera’s, one he knew just as well.

“Nubis…?” Ardyn murmured, surprised. He had not realized that Nubis had been crowned Oracle; the boy had barely bested twenty last Ardyn saw him and seemed to have not a lick of the magical talent of his older and Chosen Sister. In fact if Ardyn were to be certain the young man had been utterly besotted with—“Ah,” Ardyn set the coin down as the thought crossed his mind.

Nubis had longed after the young Stella Nox, the Lady Tenebrae. Ardyn couldn’t believe he hadn’t quite seen it before—but then there was nearly two thousand years and who knows how many generations between them, and how was Ardyn to know the manner in which the Mils Fleuret came the Nox Fleuret? Let alone how they came to occupy a land whose name derived from the very vassals he’d once grown surrounded by. He’d long slept through that sort of history, and it wasn’t a history the world deigned to remember. Much how the world forgot him….

Ardyn stepped around the piles of trinkets and cocked his head in mild surprise at the sight of hoarfrost that coated what looked to be an otherwise mid-cooked stew. For a second Ardyn wanted to trail his fingers in the mess, feel the bite and sting of the dead that signaled Gilgamesh’s favored brand of magic, but he restrained himself. If Gilgamesh were still the same man underneath it all he’d not leave food untended for long—unless whatever called him forth from his cavern of exile held far more sway than the dinner he froze solid in the urge to catch it.

For a moment Ardyn wanted to reach into the core of himself, to grip tight along the bond to Gilgamesh and then rend it asunder—coat it thick in Scourge and tear it into twine no matter the pain he’d feel. Only one thing could draw Gilgamesh out like this, and since he’d been seen in the presence of Noctis—Ardyn ground his teeth together and turned. With a storm at his feet he moved swiftly from the cave, through the walls. Halfway mid-step he slipped into the Scourge and let it drag him along, out and away, until the burn of the sun touched him and staggered him back into form.

He could deal with this, Ardyn realized in the heat of the sun as he returned to the drop ship that carried him here. If Gilgamesh desired to bind himself to another King, while still within the service of Ardyn for a given means of that service, Ardyn could use this. It meant a few changes to the grand plan, but oh, perhaps he would even enjoy this better. A chance to live out more than revenge through surrogacy and the hated bloodline of his hated brother—here, now, Ardyn found himself being given a gift. If Gilgamesh desired to step into the world once more, let him. Ardyn would happily break the man apart at the seams.

[bughead-bound-blog]

Softening the Edges - Betty/Jughead

AO3: Prologue (Ch 1) Ch 2: Childhood Reflections Ch 3: Liking “Like That” Ch 4: Navigating Choppy Seas Ch 5: To Smithereens Ch 6: The Counterfeit King  Chapter 7: Priority #1

Darling are you healing From all the scars appearing Don't it hurt a lot Don't know how to stop Don't know how it stops Now there's no sense in seeing The colours of the morning Hold the clouds at bay Chase them all away And I'm frozen still Unspoken still Heartbroken

---

As day and night bled together it was beyond Jughead to comprehend when the sun rose or the moon sank. A numbness began to solidify in the center of his chest. Archie’s clumsy knocks and increasingly desperate phone messages continued, but Jughead was devastated by the absence of Betty’s precise and persistent knocking after school. She stopped calling. He hadn’t heard from her in the three days since their falling out. And while he was relieved that he had spared her of the tumult he was going through, that selfish part of him wished she hadn’t listened to him and hadn’t given up on him despite his instructions otherwise.

He stared at the desecrated hat now sitting atop the television, feeling both defeated and ashamed. It seemed to embody everything his life was right now perfectly. He missed Betty with an intensity that was only compounded and magnified by the absence of his mother and sister. He was neglecting Archie entirely and he had chased Betty away. He had lost nearly every resource for love and warmth that he had available to him, and now he had cut off the remainder. He knew he would have to take that approach with Betty considering how stubborn and determined she could be. As excruciating as it was, he knew it was in Betty’s best interest. He had always sought out the best for her and this was the right thing to do for her well being in the long run. She was angry and upset now, but later she could heal; continue her sterling life with her wonderful family, perhaps get closer to Archie as she had always wanted, carrying no baggage; no guilt or responsibility for the tragic life of Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third.

He tended to his living space and his father in an effort to keep busy, to keep from going crazy, to ensure his dad didn’t leave this trailer in a body bag in the near future. He force fed his inebriated father water or food wherever he was sprawled on the couch or in his arm chair in a daily routine of sordid monotony. It wasn’t until the liquor finally ran out that Jughead’s father knew a sober day of stinging red eyes and throbbing skull, withdrawn into himself as if holding in his insides, curled into a pathetic ball on the couch. It had been ten days since Jughead had foregone school and it was only now occurring to FP that this was the case. He was both contrite and furious that his alcoholic stupor had impacted his son’s attendance, and they fought viciously that afternoon over the matter of Jughead returning to school. They remained at an impasse, and Jughead couldn’t physically stop his father when he decided to storm out of the trailer like a petulant child, most likely on the way to thin their ever thinning resources further at the liquor store.

Jughead had sat there on the sofa in gloomy silence, surveying his domestic prison with insensate coldness, as if staring through a stranger’s eyes. He couldn’t believe what he had become, how his life had been abruptly hijacked and torn into smithereens in a matter of weeks, and was now reduced to this residual heap of ash. What prospects did he have left? What power did he have over his father to halt this rapid free fall into self destruction? He was weighted down and pinned by the plethora of responsibilities he had inherited that nobody his age should ever have to deal with. At age thirteen there were so many new things to grow accustomed to and this was all just too much to be expected of him. String by string his ties to the things he loved about Riverdale were slowly being snipped. He should have just gone to Toledo . . .

A crisp rapping at the front door broke him from his reverie. His heart climbed into his throat and his mouth was immediately dry as he recognized the knock.

Betty.

She’d come back.

He knew he shouldn’t invite this turn of events in any way, but he was so insatiably lonely. He didn’t have the power to resist parting the curtain ever so slightly, just so he could see that she was there and find comfort in the very sight of her. She was twisting her pretty features in disapproval, staring at the barrier between them spitefully. She was holding a parcel under her left arm and tugged down at the front of her powder blue cardigan with the pristine white collar using her right hand. She then straightened the hem of her bright white skirt and raised that free hand to her tight ponytail, running her fingers anxiously through her vibrant blonde hair. Her excessive fidgeting was a textbook giveaway to Jughead that Betty Cooper was nervous. She seemed to steel herself before huffing out a sharp breath, knocking at the door again with determination. She shuffled her weight from one foot to the other, testing out her white low-top Chuck Taylor’s before abruptly kicking the door with a gust of exasperation.

“This is so stupid, Jug!” She yelled for everyone to hear. “If it wasn’t trespassing I’d just come in there! In fact--” his heart palpitated as she tested the door angrily, but found relief in the fact that he’d remembered to lock the door. “Ugh!” She snarled. “Fine. You can keep this up, but I can, too. If you think I’m just going to give up on you because you tell me to then you don’t really know Betty Cooper as well as you think you do, mister.” She threatened. “I’ll be back tomorrow, the next day, and every day after it until you get back to school because you can’t afford to miss any more math! I can only help so much, you know. You might as well just open the door, it’ll be a lot less annoying for the both of us. I have my books here.”  

He felt like he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She was one of the strangest people he knew in the best way possible. She actually did have on her bookbag, now that he paid it mind. How ironic that she was still headlining the primary concern for his education!

“Suit yourself!” She snapped loudly in annoyance at the closed door, placing the package under her arm down on the porch. “But don’t think this is over. Right now I’m just hungry. But when I come back here tomorrow--” She leaned in toward the door in an exaggerated motion “and I will be back tomorrow -- I’ll have a sandwich to eat for after school. I will sit on this porch until you come out of there. I’ll bring a sleeping bag if I have to!” She yelled, marching down the steps as if she were truly about to leave, but then she spiralled around on the front lawn viciously. “YOU HEAR ME? I WILL SLEEP HERE TOMORROW NIGHT IF I HAVE TO! You can’t ignore me forever Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third! And I hope everyone in the trailer park heard that!”

The furious blonde stormed off, and even though Jughead had just received the scolding of his lifetime, he was absolutely beaming. For the first time in weeks he felt like he was floating. Betty still cared about him. Of course Betty still cared about him. He felt like an idiot to have ever doubted that, and the knowledge that she fiercely refused to give up on their friendship meant the world to him right now. As hard as he might have tried to keep Betty at bay, he should have known that he was no match for her.

The ridiculous moment had breathed new life into him, and he was wearing a gigantic stupid grin as he made his way to the front door. He cautiously checked to make sure she was truly gone before he opened the door, grasping the package and racing back inside with it. He ran to his bedroom with the parcel, so elated and full of adrenaline from the excitement of knowing he hadn’t lost Betty’s friendship. His hands were actually trembling as he pulled open the beautifully tied orange ribbon and tore the crisp teal wrapping paper. He lifted the lid from the box and pulled away the vibrant rainbow tissue paper to find the contents inside. Gently, he reached into the depths and pulled out what looked to be a beanie. A charcoal gray, handmade beanie in the shape of a crown. His eyes swam as he ran his fingers over the red button and white patch adorning the side, just like the one that Jellybean had made for him.

All at once he was so overwhelmed with this gesture of kindness. He couldn’t shake the mental image of Betty sitting with her sewing kit open and items strewn along her bed as he had so often seen her in times before, working diligently on this project over the weekend along with her homework. She had made this with her time, her hands, her affection for him. For the first time since his mother and sister had left, Jughead actually felt his age; he felt loved. He reached for the note that had been tucked away underneath the hat and read it’s contents:

Juggie,

You really hurt my feelings the other day but I’m not mad -- I know what you are going through is hard. I was really upset that they ruined your hat from Jellybean so I knit you a new one. After all, “You deserve to be treated like royalty.” Archie and I miss you like crazy. Don’t forget, we’re your family too! Stop being stupid, right now. I mean it!

XOXO,

Betty

---

Not long ago

I gave up hope

But you came along You gave me something I could hold on to And I want you

---

Jughead Jones was now standing at the end of Betty Cooper’s driveway, two years after she had given him his now infamous beanie. He briefly took it off, inspecting it carefully, running a finger along the pointed edges as he was so accustomed to doing when it wasn’t on. He was working up the courage to do what he never thought he would have the strength to do, but Betty Cooper just seemed to have that effect on him.

Soon he would climb that ladder and make himself known, and that terrified him -- but Betty always found a way to make him feel brave. He liked the person he was when he was around her. Although his hands were trembling and his heart was pounding, his resolve was steel. He was going to make this leap after all these years of knowing her, put everything out on the table and risk it all. He didn’t want to lose her, dreaded that idea with every cell and synapse in his being, but to keep going the way they were would be lying to her and himself. The timing had never felt so fitting -- he never knew if there would ever be an appropriate time to tell her. But now, after everything that had happened, after everything they’d been through -- it just felt right . He had waited nearly his whole life for this opportunity and he wasn’t about to squander it. He had to do this. He owed this precious person the truth, whether it would sting him in the end or not. She deserved honesty, and he just didn’t have what it took to hide it all anymore. They had grown closer again in the past few weeks, closer than they had felt in a very long time. Even if it scared the hell out of him, he had to tell the truth. At the end of the day, he would always do right by Betty, no matter the cost to himself. She had made the beanie he was now clutching in the absolute darkest moment his young life had ever known. Stranded with his alcohol riddled father, separated from his mother and beloved sister, thirteen year old Jughead was completely unprepared for the burden of his new life. He hadn’t been sure if he was strong enough to survive it, to hang on white-knuckled and ride out that storm until he could find solid ground to stand on again. He had been all but consumed by darkness and was ready to abandon what little light he had left in his life. He had been ready to just give up.

And then Betty Cooper made him a hat and tried to kick down his door.

Jughead silently guffawed to himself at that thought and embarrassedly thumbed a tear away just below his eye. He was bursting with emotion as he remembered that moment and what that pure gesture of care and loyalty had done for him. Betty might very well have saved his life that day with that beanie and that refusal to give up on him. It was a symbol of him crawling back up to his feet after the ultimate T.K.O that life had dealt him. People still wondered and gossiped about where he got it and why he wore it, but in true Jughead fashion, he kept what was dear to him close and silent in his heart. The only people who needed to know were him and Betty.

Literally the next day after Betty had given him that hat, his survival instinct seemed to just kick in. It was as if he had been waiting for some sign that he mattered in the universe somehow to come and slap him awake and it had arrived in the form of Betty Cooper. He had been starving -- famished for love and support, but he had kept it barred outside his home -- his heart -- with stubborn anguish. But Betty Cooper had infiltrated his fortress of solitude and finally his appetite for endearment had been satiated. He felt renewed and capable of facing the next hurdle. He got up extra early in the morning, fixed breakfast for himself and his dad, brushed his teeth, got a shower, got dressed, and put on his beanie -- his new shield against the virulent forces of the world. He tied his sneakers, hoisted on his backpack, and made the walk across town just so he could ride the bus with his best friends.

And he did all of those things for Betty.

When he finally closed in on the bus stop Archie and Betty were back on to him at the sidewalk, consumed in fretful conversation as he approached. Jughead just caught the tail end of what Archie was saying: “ . . . but he hasn’t returned any of my calls and dad says that if this keeps up then-”

“Hey guys.” Jughead said mildly, astounding the shocked pair into a stupor as they whirled around to find him standing there behind them with his beanie on.

“Oh my God, JUG!” Archie leapt forward, immediately snuffling and tear streaked, embarrassing the hell out of his introverted companion. “I missed you so much bro, I can’t even-” Archie’s explosive and heartfelt ramblings poured forth, and Jughead endured the tidal wave of emotion cresting forward with his wry grin, never having been prone to extraordinary displays of affection, but entirely tolerant of those he had come to expect from the impossibly tender Archie Andrews. Truth be told, Jughead had led a fairly barren life when it came to tenderness, but Archie made up for that for the both of them. It was one of the reasons why Jughead would always love Archie --- the brother he chose.

“Arch, wow . . . please . . . people are watching. They’re going to think you’re in love with me.” Jughead flushed, trying to maintain his own composure in the face of such a deluge of adoration.  

“Let them think what they want, I don’t care man.” Archie sniffled, laughing and thumping his best friend’s back with fierce gusto. “You’re BACK!”

“Yup.” Jughead was trying so hard not to grin like an idiot and was failing abysmally as he just stood there, enveloped by Archie Andrews -- and then he met Betty’s gaze over Archie’s shoulder. He found himself captivated by those impossibly azure eyes, as blue as a cloudless sky. He was completely drifting away in the warm, brimming gaze of Betty Cooper. She was just standing there at the bus stop in euphoric silence, face plastered with a sterling beam, watching the scene between the two boys with her heart rupturing at the seams with joy and pride. Jughead could see it in her quiet admiration; she just knew she was the reason he was here with them. They held each other’s eyes like that, Jughead in silent gratitude, Betty in proud acknowledgement, and poor Archie rambling in joyful oblivion.  

He had always known, but that was the exact moment he realized that he couldn’t lie to himself any longer.

From the first time they had met Jughead was acutely aware of the fact that he felt something special for Betty, but that day had solidified what he had been denying, avoiding, and doing a shit job of ignoring his whole life. His young mind had always been trying to piece it all together and now he was backed into a corner by the truth: he completely loved Betty Cooper with his whole heart, his entire being. He always had, and he always would -- from that first popsicle stick to the first time he wore that beanie, it had always been there.

But as soon as he had figured that part out for sure, he settled in for disappointment.

The truth was one thing, and reality was another to contend with. There was one fact that he had been undeniably positive about, even long before he knew that he irrevocably loved Betty without question:

Betty Cooper was in love with Archie Andrews.

This was not the first nor would it be the last time that this fact would make Jughead want to put his head through a freaking wall.

It was infuriating, because it seemed to Jughead that although the perfect girl lived next door to Archie -- literally in the house next to him! -- his eyes always seemed to wander elsewhere. Jughead couldn’t get his mind to comprehend how Archie’s worked when it came to Betty or girls. It was probably the biggest source of contention between them, and there were times when Archie was so oblivious, fawning over other girls, and Betty would just chew at her lip in despondent insecurity, and Jughead would have to resist screaming and thumping his best friend over the head.

This cycle of stupidity was one he never wanted any part of, but he had learned pretty quickly that what he wanted to feel and what he actually felt would never be in sync. He loved Betty Cooper, and he wished he didn’t. Because Betty Cooper loved Archie Andrews, and Jughead wished she didn’t. Because Archie Andrews was oblivious that the most perfect girl in the world loved him and he didn’t really seem to notice that it was actually smacking him right in the forehead -- and for Betty’s sake, he wished Archie would notice. And selfishly for his own sake, he wished Archie wouldn’t, and he felt like a monster for even thinking that sometimes -- and rinse, dry, and repeat.

Archie was oblivious, Betty was sad, and Jughead felt guilty. He was exhausted and 100% done with it on a daily basis -- he just wanted his best friends to be happy, but he also wanted to be happy, and it seemed like that was impossible for all of them. Quite literally, it was torture.

Night after night Jughead spent in the treehouse talking long into the night with Archie, sparingly allowing him to ask questions about his home life and instead opting to talk about normal teen topics like comics, video games, and of course that increasingly developing interest in girls.

It was funny to Jughead that while his own life at home was literally a broken raft that him and his father still clung to while taking on water that he could still somehow muster a genuine interest in this topic of conversation. The reason for this was distinctly Betty, albeit he attempted to lie to himself about it in futility. Whatever was going on in his own macabre creature feature of a life, the only thing that mattered more was that Betty was happy. She had single-handedly saved him from limbo and he was content to whittle away his days trying to cook up ways to help her find the happiness that she selflessly gave to others. He was desperate to make her happy, but to his own chagrin he just wasn’t what she wanted. That stung, but that didn’t matter -- she did. He was  determined to see her get that happy ending that she so rightly deserved.

Unfortunately, Archie was an unwittingly terrible participant in this mission. Months would sweep by like the rise and fall of Sweetwater River as Archie would develop a new flavour of the week, gushing about his latest infatuation that he'd developed from school. One girl did her hair in creative ways, another loved video games which was so unique (Jughead argued that Betty had always loved video games which Archie promptly dismissed), or the new girl had a cute accent or an exciting background.

There was no getting around it: Archie had always been a little flighty when it came to his interests. He switched favorite games constantly, frustrating Jughead who was a completionist at heart. He regularly changed his mind about who his favorite comic book heroes were, while Jughead held a steadfast loyalty to Deadpool whom he admired for his wit, atypical brand of heroism and pension for breaking the fourth wall. Archie didn't even hold fast to a favorite food and shifted through phases to the frustration of Fred while Jughead would forever worship at the temple of cheeseburgers. In summary, Archie thrived on diversity and change while Jughead revered fidelity and tradition.

Jughead thought this was perfectly reasonable, normal, and perhaps one of the many reasons why him and Archie got along so well. Their extremely polar opposite personalities complimented one another well. The only thing they frequently disagreed on was Betty. They would always cycle back to her whenever Archie would go on a tangent about a new potential love interest, and Jughead would interject with the usual variation of "but you know that Betty's always carried the torch for you, Arch. She's been there for you the longest. Doesn't it just make sense to give her a chance when you start dating?"

The next two years were filled with moments like this, as if they were on some endless time loop that always brought them both back to that point. And as they slipped further into their teen years Jughead would lie there in the treehouse listening to the same old song and dance, his best friend prattling on about the merits of Betty Cooper. He would begin silently agreeing within, mentally adding to that never ending list of things that made Betty Cooper special and worthwhile when Archie’s verbal ramblings fell short.

Archie would simply arrive at the conclusion that Betty had always been there and therefore she always would. There was nothing new or exciting in it to hook his constantly shifting interest. Too often these rants would end with a signature “and Betty is great and all – Betty is perfect but . . .”

There it was.

Jughead felt his face get hot like it always did and he got that tight pressure in his chest, as if he were about to explode. A little voice buried deep within the encasement of Jughead’s mind that never dared push its way to his lips would always challenge Archie back in these moments. But what?

This otherworldly being that had kissed their lives with her presence had provided no offense to their existence, constantly amplifying their worth just by being in close proximity to that light. She reached out and gently offered warmth to whatever she made contact with effortlessly. No abhorrent or justifiable flaw to tackle or inspect, radiating sunshine, love and warmth through each gaze, each movement, each smile, each hand she placed on every project, every human she touched. She even found a way to make Jughead’s own shit storm of a life feel worthwhile, even as it seemed to be crumbling down around him. She was love and strength, wherever she was.

Jughead would just stare at Archie sometimes, resisting the urge to shake the sense that stubbornly held fast lose in his friend’s mind.

Don’t you know she’s yours? She could be all yours one day if you would only reach out to meet her halfway. But . . .

But what, Archie? That voice niggled persistently into the night, roving over each negligible possibility. That voice kept him up long after his red-headed companion had settled into his sleeping bag and the rumbling snores of an untroubled mind provided a gentle background hum in the din of his own frustrated thoughts.

But what?

He always found himself at a loss, aching, and feeling ashamed for feeling on the matter at all. Why did he fret so hard about this every time it came up? This was a normal topic to talk about. Eventually it would be normal for them all to start dating. It was an eventuality creeping up like some poltergeist stalking him, a demon hanging on his back as they had all approached the tender stages of love and all that came with it. A healthy interest in the opposite sex was a natural progression for them, and his guts twisted in knots at the end of every debate that he and Archie held about girls. Archie would press him constantly, elbowing him and goading him into a confession of interest. "Come on, Jug. There has to be some girl you're interested in." "Nope. Girls are trouble, Arch. My life is complicated enough. Why, who do you have your eye on now? Is some lucky girl finally going to get the first date of Archie Andrews?" He'd tease as a deflection, and his friend was happy to entertain him with thoughts on his latest muse.

The truth was, of course there was some girl he was interested in. But she wasn't some girl. She was Betty. She was the girl, the only girl who had ever made his insides flutter ever since they were little, and she was their best friend. She was the only girl he had ever wanted, and she didn’t want him. The end. What else was there? What was he supposed to do with that? Dating any other girl would be a lie -- it wouldn’t be fair to the girl or to himself. He would never tell Archie, who was impossibly honest and therefore the most miserable secret keeper known to man. He was a terrible liar, and a secret that big would surely prove to be too much for his best friend to keep from their other best friend. Then there was the idea of actually telling her himself, which the very thought of made Jughead want to vomit from nervousness. Not only would he rather die a slow and silent death than ever allow this confession to see the light of day -- he would never survive the anxiety attack this would catalyze, but the risk was far too high. What if he lost her as a friend?

The idea actually gutted him in a way that made him stomach sick. To lose Betty would be to lose a massively important part of his world. He would destroy this perfect nest of normalcy that his two best friends had forged with him, his shelter from the destructive hurricane that was his home life. He was happy to have her in whatever capacity she had to offer. Just to be close with her and share a part of her life was an honor beyond what Jughead had ever dared to expect. She was simply too important to him to lose, and he valued her friendship too much to put her in that kind of situation. He already knew the truth, therefore it was illogical to pursue that avenue. He thought so much of her, and he respected her too much to put her in that awkward situation. If he tried to play that game, he would lose.  

Betty wanted Archie.

The girl deserved what she wanted. Everything she wanted. Jughead would be damned before he’d try to ask her to settle for anything less. To settle for me. Sometimes it would be light outside before he even realized it, so caught up in his own anxieties. Archie would stir in the sleeping bag beside him and he would experience that small fleeting pang of panic, realizing he had just lid there brooding all night. He would often wonder: what would he see on my face if he turned over and saw me right now? Would he be able to tell? Jughead would discreetly settle himself down into a convincing sleeping position, close his eyes, and feign unburdened rest. The rustling sound of nylon and a muffled change in breathing. “Jug?” Archie’s voice was rough with sleep. “You up?” Silence. Forsythe’s body was still as his mind lumbered on.

No, she wasn’t perfect. She didn’t have to be. He would take her with her self-consciously tucked away containers of Adderall, her mother hen persistence, he pension for nibbling at her nails when her bouts of anxiety threatened to overtake and drown her. She had panic attacks before math tests that she already knew she would ace. She tied her ponytails too tight and fixed her shirts too often. She fidgeted, she cried easily, and she certainly had a streak of darkness somewhere in her core that he had seen that day that the boys destroyed his hat from Jellybean. But he knew all that. And he still wanted that around him 24/7. He couldn’t get enough. But the golden rule was the golden rule. Priority #1: Betty must be happy. And he didn’t make her happy. Archie did. So he did what he always did. He buried his head in music, books and burgers. He kept his head down. He stayed quiet.

From the time he was thirteen to the age of fifteen, that was his routine -- his mantra.

Until that day he had seen her storming across the school grounds, a vision of pale pink with a bejewelled white collar, a perfect blonde ponytail. Nothing that beautiful should have ever been made to look that miserable, and that shattered expression on Betty’s face had looked so foreign that she nearly looked like a stranger.

Jughead couldn’t help himself. He lumbered up to his feet and rushed to catch up to the crestfallen girl.

Because priority #1: Betty must be happy.