#during the war coming back into your life as a hardened haunted man. how do you forgive yourself for letting him down like that??

[cowboyhorsegirl]

ANON FJSAOFJDKFJLAKJFDAF

i don't even dislike bucky as a character i'm just! so very uninterested in the romantic dynamic ppl paint between him & steve it truly inspires nothing within me.

(and! if you're looking to scratch that friends-to-lovers itch 616!stevetony is right! there! or if you're looking to scratch the friends-to-unwilling enemies-to-tentative allies-to-friends-to-lovers itch, again!!! 616!stevetony is serving it at the all-you-can-eat ship dynamic buffet!)

the thing that really soured me on the ship was the fans and i hate to say that bc everyone should get to enjoy what they enjoy! but yeah there's nothing groundbreaking or progressive about a story with two men sharing a meaningful friendship that can be read as having homoerotic subtext.

[orangegreet]

No Minor Miracles

This is a completed story - pending only an epilogue at this point. Reposted to Tumblr from AO3.

Summary:

“Hello Aleksander.” He closed his eyes at the sound of her whispered greeting. Could she have picked any other night? Any other than this one? “Why do you haunt me when I feel at my weakest to defend myself?” He asked. “You are always droll when we meet. First I am your demon and now I am your ghost.”

_____________

Captured by Grisha slavers and ultimately shipwrecked between West Ravka and Kerch, Alina is orphaned and stranded on the other side of the Fold.

In secret, the Sun Summoner is raised and trained thousands of miles outside of Os Alta and the reach of the Black General.

Ambition leads her to seek out the infamous Shadow Summoner in her twenties—only, he isn’t what she expected.

Yet still, she leaves Os Alta broken-hearted and unsure and both Alina and Aleksander resolve to stick to their own sides of the world for some years after.

—Until a weary night on the war front pushes the Black General to reach out to his old enemy.

What follows is an ongoing struggle for power, information, dominance and, ultimately, each other.

But with two such Saints involved, surely miracles will abound.

Chapter 1 | A Night on the Warfront

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as four of his soldiers continued their debate. The map spread out before them was littered with crude markings. A dirty shell casing sat near the edge of the Fold, the scale of it far out of proportion considering it was reported to be a small camp with no more than five tents.

“The West is closing in. They have some kind of advantage. Otherwise they would not drift so close to the Fold.”

“What do you propose we do about it? You can hardly expect us to sneak through the Fold on our end and catch them off guard.”

“I’m not convinced it is the West at all—our scouts themselves weren’t sure.”

“You don’t expect Shu Han to set up so far North in enemy territory.”

“I’m not saying that, I’m saying we don't know that it's army at all. Could be refugees seeking the protection being so close to the Fold can provide for all we know. We’ve seen it before.”

The General reached for the decanter, eyes bleary with lack of sleep. He refilled his glass. The soldiers continued to debate.

“You’ve seen it before? And when was that?” Ivan stared down the Inferni.

The young man stuttered, eyes shifting cautiously to the General who paused with his glass aloft.

“R-Rumors maybe but…years back we had intel of refugees camping near the Fold at the behest of the Sun Summoner.”

The General made no outward sign of recognition. He took another drink and placed his glass back on the table.

The neatly coiled rope at the center of his very being seemed to writhe. His heart picked up pace and he shot a covert warning glare at Ivan to keep his mouth shut. The Heartrender glared back, averting his gaze to the Inferni once more.

Internally he reached for the tether, intending to coil it back up and press it down again but he found once he touched it, he could not bring himself to let it go. Blame it on many late nights, war weariness and something else he refused to acknowledge in the presence of subordinates.

The tether gave a dull throb in his grasp.

The General forced himself to speak and quell the tension building in the tent.

“Rumors perhaps. We won’t know until it is too late. We must assume it is the West attempting the next step in secession. Prepare a skiff. I want the strike unit outfitted with the shielding cloaks. We send the skiff through on one side of the camp while our team traverses the Fold on foot on the other.”

He felt her presence in his chest first as the embers present stoked to a fiery glow. The General continued to stare at the map with a hardened glint in his eyes and ignored her apparition; his hand squeezed the tumbler.

“While the camp is preoccupied with the skiff, the strike team will take them out from behind. No prisoners.”

“And if they are refugees, sir?”

The General lifted his eyes to her. Her raised eyebrows expectant on her otherwise impassive face.

“No prisoners.”

She cocked her head at him but stayed quiet, surveying his whole being. Plotting his features for the signs of weakness, he was sure.

“You have your orders. You are dismissed.”

“But-sir which soldiers should we send on the skiff—“ The Inferni began.

“Ivan.” The General didn’t have to complete his request.

The Heartrender escorted the young Inferni out.

The General looked at her and then back at the decanter, determined to pull his features together though he felt his control slipping.

This, of course, was evidenced by her very presence.

“I feel I should offer you a drink. Though I am not sure if you could taste it.”

“It would be a warm gesture though. I wouldn’t decline to try.” She stepped closer to him and he struggled to keep the tension from his posture, his breath from hitching at the sound of her voice. How long had it been again?

He allowed himself the time to take her in. A decade had passed without seeing her. She looked older in some vague sense. Mostly in her eyes. He could tell by her gaze that she was severely less innocent than a decade ago.

Her posture too. She held herself with grace and dignity, the insecurity of youth long since fallen away.

“You’re looking well.” He said.

She blushed without a hint of modesty and he felt the warmth emanating from one of them. He couldn’t be sure who.

“I could say the same of you. Your hair has grown long. You look like a warrior.”

Her hands were clasped in front of her. Not reaching toward the dark locks that hung past his shoulders, half of it pulled back and tied with leather.

“I have been a warrior more often than not during my lifetime. I’m pleased to hear I look the part.”

She smirked at him and reached for his hand, bringing the glass to her lips for a sip.

“Can you taste it?”

She shook her head with a demure smile.

He took the glass away, musing out loud, “I thought not. This connection is beyond anything which has been studied but I do recall I could never see something unless you touched it.”

He put a hand on the map and watched her as she swiftly took in the details proffered on the table and then glanced back at him. Her eyes betrayed nothing.

“You did used to visit me more often than you do now. Though perhaps those visits were simply part of your own research efforts.”

When he didn’t respond for a few moments she continued, “I wondered if you had forgotten about me altogether.”

His chest bobbed a little higher under his breath as he studied her but eventually he decided how best to play this new hand.

“I do not consider myself forgetful in any regard, Miss Starkova.”

The liquid swirled in his glass as he caught her momentary bristle at the moniker. No doubt many years have passed since she was addressed as such.

He hummed, amused at her ruffled feather and resolved to push his luck, dipping his finger in the glass and looking up at her. “Now you mention, I do wonder…”

He lifted his finger to her lips and she scolded him with her eyes but allowed her tongue to brush over his skin. When her eyes drifted shut he couldn’t stop the backs of his fingers trailing over her cheek.

“Some things don’t change, do they? You favor the same casks of wine pilfered from the cellar of a Tsar.” She tutted and he smiled at her.

The first real smile she had seen him give in over a decade. Her insides pulsed.

“Then you are not forgetful, either.” He said in lament. He turned away from her.

She sighed. “This is tiring, please can we speak normally? Some time has passed since I last received your call. Did you mean for me to come to you tonight?”

He huffed a breath. “A compelling question for us both, I think. I wish I knew.”

When her eyes turned wary, she stepped away from him and he almost shouted at her. “No. Not—not yet. Just stay.”

The wariness turned to concern and she studied his features without reticence.

“What has happened? Tell me.”

“Nothing has happened. Nothing. It’s just—“ His hand raised to stroke her cheek again and he adored the way she leaned into it. Had she ever done that for him before? He could not remember. Not forgetful, indeed.

“Rumors.” He murmured. “Rumors reach me always of your life. Rumors of your death, of your sainthood and of your miracles. Tonight I—I wished for a miracle.”

Smiling sweetly, she cupped his face in her hands and stepped to him.

“My dear Aleksander,” Her eyes searched his for a moment. “The only miracle tonight lies in the possibility of two enemies who allow themselves to meet as friends. It would take two saints to pull that off. I am but one saint and cannot tell you the outcome. How strong is your desire for this miracle?”

His jaw clenched. He was so tired. Tired of wanting. Tired of losing. Tired of feeling like he was trailing behind. Forever out of step with her when he simply desired to be at her side.

His hand wrapped around the juncture of her shoulder and neck and he shook her. “You are no saint. You are a demon. My own personal demon sent from below to torture me on this plane. That must be it. I have yet to die and pay my dues and my sins have grown too great.”

Many late nights had led to this. Many years of keeping the door to her firmly shut led to this.

Time had passed differently for him in this after. Before her were calmer centuries poised in a position of patience and waiting. Since he had known her, known of her existence really, this frenetic energy was sparked inside of him that he could not shake. Time was centered acutely on constant anticipation. Anticipation of meeting her, experiencing her power. Then, once he knew her, heard her speak, felt her touch, mingled his power with hers-everything inside was reignited. His greed, desire, lust, rage, justice, truth, hope. It was chaos and tumult and agony contained inside an ancient man who was not ready for it.

Centuries of emotions being quelled and dulled and hammered flat into nothing before her existence. The last decade spent attempting, fruitlessly, to grow back that callous.

A moment of weakness and he reforged his connection to her. The meager protection he hoarded around himself the past few years fell away like an autumn leaf and now he was nothing more than a naked limb in the winter snow, completely exposed before her. Begging for her warmth.

It was enraging.

Her hand covered his on her neck and she squeezed it but did not attempt to remove him. She looked at him with such sadness that he felt it ache inside himself. Although it could have been his own sadness. There really was no way to tell in the moment.

“I know your sins, Aleksander and I am not here for absolution. I am here because you called to me and I wanted to answer.” His hand dropped away from her. The emotions which were so clear on his face a moment before grew opaque to her.

She swallowed, “I know your sins. And I have missed you.”

A ripple across his eyes and then nothing. He pushed down his insides.

A stoicism formed in his demeanor and it was with complete control that he let out his next sentence. “I hate you. For leaving me, I hate you.”

She drew herself up into a more formal posture with a deep breath.

“You wanted to mold me in your image. But it did not take and I would not let it continue. It has been better this way, I think. I would have hated you had I stayed.”

He scoffed. “You would have gotten over it, given enough time.”

She smiled at him, formality breaking with the warmth in her eyes. “Just as I believe you will, my oldest friend. My eternal friend.”

He blinked and his eyes gathered tears. She pretended not to notice, scared to spook him.

“Why did you leave?”

“You know the answer already. I’ve just told you.”

“Would it have been so bad to stay?” The emotion was seeping into his voice now and she stepped toward him with caution.

“I could not bear to hate you. It is better this way. We are both better, stronger. Worthy.”

Her eyes don’t lose their warmth but he felt the accusation the same. He would have sacrificed every ounce of his goodness, sanity and patience to keep her under his will. He would have sacrificed her for it.

“Are we?” He asked quietly. They both knew what he was asking.

She stroked his cheek and he nuzzled it.

“What you have in patience, I have in hope.” His eyes closed.

“Why do you stay away from me, Alina? Even now? I am well enough tortured. Surely your task must be done.”

Another sigh. “It is not so simple when it comes to you and me. You are my Inevitable. We will have an eternity together in my future and yours. It is only natural I want some time to live in autonomy before we begin. You were granted centuries to yourself, you recall.”

“Centuries of waiting, solnyshka. Centuries alone.”

She said nothing but continued to touch his cheek, his jaw, her eyes taking in every minute detail of his face. He called her there. She did not know when he would again.

“Will you make me wait more centuries for you?”

She hummed in amusement.

“Would you wait that long for me?”

If you ask.

He wanted to say it but he had given her so much of himself already. Greed smothered over his burgeoning embarrassment. She would leave soon enough and his desires wouldn’t be tamped down neatly anymore.

Possessive and greedy. That was how she knew him.

He wanted to possess her the way she seemed to possess him. Her ownership over him felt effortless to him and he half hated her for it. He gripped her hips dragging her flush to him.

Her breath startled and fanned over his face. He paused for only a moment and then pulled her mouth to his.

His lips sliding over hers in a heightened sense of torture. Could she taste him? If not she could surely taste his blatant desire. Completely exposed and on display for her to see.

He wrenched his mouth off hers, hand clasped to the back of her neck.

“Have you taken other lovers?”

The words were hissed through clinched teeth and his hand fisted into the fabric around her hips, holding her close.

Her eyes flashed into his and then down to his mouth where she pressed a kiss. Sweet as gentling an agitated animal. She pressed another and lingered.

Far from being quieted, he panted into her mouth, fisting a hand to her hair in a rush and crushing his mouth to hers.

The moan from her throat drifted into his mouth and he swallowed it up, lifting her onto the table and plunging them into what felt like the most familiar fantasy or memory or deja vu for them both.

Everything was different. Nothing had changed.

He tangled his tongue with hers, a reluctant groan escaping from his own throat.

She knew she should stop it. It would be harder to keep going without him if she let herself have too much.

Gradually their heat seemed to lower into a simmer and they both sighed into it. His hand stroked her thigh and his other held her jaw tenderly.

He pulled her into a languid kiss, holding her face as he pulled away.

“General—“ she started as he slowly parted the fabric wrapped around her waist. He eyed her with a dark silent look as he went to his knees.

“Would you have me kneel to you, Sol Koroleva?”

She smirked at him, weaving a hand into his dark locks and pulling him forward. His answering smile was glorious to her eyes. Victorious and tender at the same time and she relished it as he devoured her center.

“Aleksander.” Her voice was weak and he shook his head, clutching her harder. Hands gripped her thighs and secured them tight over his shoulders and he groaned into her further. His tongue relentless in pursuit of her pleasure. Driving her higher and harder than she knew was possible.

A torrent of pleasure with him and she briefly mourned what she realized was now over. There would be no other lovers. Not for her anyway.

The vibrating tether in her chest was a living thing now. Where it previously lay dormant, it now pulsed. Untamed and unleashed and rooting into her body at multiple weak spots. The palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, the nape of her neck, the base of her spine. Her gut. Her chest.

It was everywhere and she was lighting up from within with the magnitude of its power.

The strength and bond of their somehow ancient connection. Ancient in the way it stretched behind them in time but also in the way it surged forward into the coming years. Into their Inevitable future.

If she wondered whether the effect was the same for him, it didn’t take long to recognize the surrounding shadows pouring from him as he lost himself in her. She whimpered at his alternating ferocity and gentleness before remembering.

Her responsibilities. Her promise to herself.

“Sasha.” There it was. Firm and accompanied with a tightening of her hand in his hair, tugging him away.

When his gaze flicked up to meet hers she almost gasped at the feral look of him. Shiny mouthed, panting. Knuckles white where they pressed her thighs to his shoulders. Eyebrows bunched in irritation at her interruption.

Her rabid, wild Shadow Summoner pulled from his meal before he was sated.

“We can’t.” Her voice was strained. Irritation deepened into defiance across his features.

“Another lover, is it?” He spat the words out.

Her eyes squeezed shut and she felt the wetness in them gathering and shook her head.

“There is no one else. There will be no one else.” The grip on his hair gentled as she smoothed the back of his head and he lost a centimeter of rigidity from his posture.

“Then why.”

“It’s too soon.” The words were stifled. More wanted to follow but she would not let it and he grunted in frustration.

“We can’t.” She repeated to herself.

His face drifted back toward her shining folds, his eyes locked on hers as he brushed a careful tongue over her core. She whimpered again, hand twisting his locks and she meant to pull him away.

“No, Alina. You can.” His heated breath fanned over her and she shivered, “Just you. For tonight.”

She looked dismayed but it melted when he bestowed another long, slow lick to her center.

“Please.” The word came from his lips and it shocked both of them. Her hands stroked over his ears and met in his hair and when he leaned in again she did not stop him.

He was wonderfully cruel in his own brand of torture. His touch purposefully delicate and calculated. He worked her up toward the edge before redirecting his attentions until she calmed.

“Sasha.” The cry was wrenched from her mouth as she tried to snap her thighs shut around his face. To force the attention she was desperately craving thanks to him. He persevered in keeping them open. Leveraging her pleasure for his purposes.

“Promise me.” He demanded between a soft caress of his tongue, tone at odds with the motion.

“Promise what?” It was a struggle to keep her eyes open as her head wanted to tilt back.

“You will come back to me.”

“You already know that I will.”

He pressed a finger into her, then another.

“Promise it. Promise you will be mine. Only mine.”

She keened and clutched his wrist in encouragement.

“And will you be mine, General? Will the Darkling belong only to the Sun Summoner?”

His fingers curled and he licked his lips, watching her take her pleasure.

“I will give myself to you alone, Alina.” His fingers curled again and she shuddered feeling so close to something so big.

“Then I promise to be yours. As much as you are mine. I will take everything you have to give, and everything you try to hide away will be mine. All of it will be mine, Sasha.”

He grunted, swallowing against her and sucking. She screamed out as she finally finished. Wave after wave of pulsing euphoria spreading over her and through her and from her chest and into the very root of her being.

The lapping continued and he kept his eyes fixed on her for the minutes following as she trembled and shuddered under his attention.

Bestowing a few lingering kisses to her thighs and smearing the moisture across them, he carefully removed her legs from his shoulders and got to his feet. When he was planted firmly between her legs, he took hold of her face again.

His forehead leaned against hers. She reached for him this time and kissed him hungrily. To her surprise, he broke away, breathing in through his nose in a deep way. His chest brushed her with each breath.

“I’m trying to prove to you I can be sweet and you are making it very difficult.”

Her answering smile was radiant.

He kissed it.

“Tell me where you are.” The demanding tone was back and she chuckled.

“I’m here. With you.” Fingers stroked his chest. His hand covered hers and he pressed it into himself and growled.

“I forgot how much you infuriate me.”

“I underestimated how enjoyable it would be still.”

His nostrils flared but his chest warmed at her mirth.

She pinched a strand of his hair between her fingers, still grinning, “We’ve brought about your miracle, after all. It is very satisfying to be this holy. Do you not agree?”

He had no words, only kisses which he placed on her cheeks, her ears, a nip to her jaw, a pull on her neck.

“Aleksander,” it was whispered. He sensed her imminent departure and kissed her again with increasing desperation. She met him with equal fervor, both unable to get close enough to satisfy the ending. When his face was buried into her neck and she clutched his body to her, she made a last attempt to secure his soul.

“In light of our miracle, can I make a request?” He nodded against her shoulder, a tender kiss placed over her pulse. “Sometimes you should take some prisoners. Please.”

Her eyes raked over his features, some kind of affection or devotion shared in their last looks. With them it seemed one posture easily slipped into the other. The lives of Saints, he supposed.

Then she was gone.

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Praesidium Pt II: Talionis

A/N: Sooo...Merry Crisis one and all. Secret Santas are supposed to be fun and tailored for the recipient, yeah? Here’s hoping they enjoy given how the first thing they said to me after reading part one was, “Where’s the rest of it?” Mafia AU continuation where the endgame changes slightly. Thanks again to @dymphnasprose for the lovely banner (the raging dumpster fire that is tumblr won’t let me load the gorgeous gif banner you made for me D:<!!!)and for keeping my ass on track and on time with this shit. You know how I feel about deadlines. 

TW: Non-Con, Kidnapping, implied drugging, sensory deprivation, gunplay, spitroasting, bondage, rope, fuck or die, forced cuckholding, coercion.

====================================================

The cabinet meeting adjourned per usual custom; the ministers in their bland, off the rack suits filed out of the chambers, their slow, humming chatter fading with every step taken out onto the polished marble. Shinsou straightened his tie and cast a wary eye to his phone, the vibrations buzzing through the laminated table like a hornet. Your number burned through the screen in starlight pixels-- it wasn’t like you to call him during a recess. Typically, you waited for him to call knowing just how arduous the arguments between old men could become when given a public forum. 

“Yes, love?” 

The familiar keening of your whimpering through his smartphone in reply sent a chill through him so cold it could only be described as hiemal. Almost frantically, your voice hitched and another breathy moan caught in your throat. Mangled pleas for release, for an end to the madness building in your core were punctuated by those same haggard cries. Shinsou froze at his desk in the auditorium, fixated on the harsh panting he knew was accompanied by the heaving of supple breasts and the telltale flush of your imminent end. He ached against his navy blue Dior suit pants, transfixed by the haunting song of tortuous pleasure you sang in his ear. Throat dry, Shinsou dropped his voice and tried again. “Kitten, I’ll be home shortly if you can keep edging for that long.”

“I’m sure you’ll find she’s about as far from home as she can get. Doubt the little princess can last much longer.” 

Shinsou held his breath and the dread found a new way to boil the acid in his stomach. Through gritted teeth, he growled under his breath as your wailing continued to soundtrack a less than touching moment between surrogate father and son. He could hear the smug smirk as the formidable Boss Aizawa continued to taunt you closer to the edge. 

"If you've hurt her--"

"Wouldn't dream of it. You're coming home, and not that over-indulgent highrise you've made your love nest in. Time is of the essence, Hitoshi." An unmistakable scream, your scream left him paralyzed as the line went dead. Though his mind raced, Shinsou had to will his feet to carry him through the maze of bureaucrats and journalists hindering him from his car. He knew the way to the compound without thinking. Muscle-memory had him weaving through city traffic to the outskirts of town, the memory of your scream a silent echo in his ears. 

He knew Boss Aizawa was capable of anything, and that knowledge had his blood run colder the closer he drove to his family's homestead. Yamada and his perpetual grin was nowhere to be found when Shinsou pulled in, a surprise for the political upstart. An empty house for an organization as large as his was never a good sign. He ran through the maze of hallways, each door the same heavy ebony and gold lacquer, until he found the one room he never dared enter even as a young orphan running the streets. The silence of the compound left his ragged breathing suspended in a palpable dread. Hitoshi drew up his courage, caught his breath, and rapped his trembling knuckles against the door. 

"Ah, the prodigal son." Boss Aizawa smirked and waved him in with an air of affability not unfamiliar to the young politician. Aizawa rested a hand along your hairline, gently running his fingers through your sweat-matted hair. Curled into his lap with heavy black cord caging your limbs in familiar lovers' knots and a bolt of black silk covering your eyes, you rested soundlessly as if unaware of the monster whose slacks you rested against. Shinsou slid into the room and closed the door behind him, the lump in his throat growing the longer his violet eyes traced the track of his surrogate father's fingers. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

"Let her go. She has nothing to do with this." 

Aizawa chuckled darkly, running his wandering hand to trace the gentle slope of your back and waist. "You're right," he mused, rubbing the reddened globe of your ass. "Her involvement is inconsequential. Nothing more than a pretty, little obstacle, really." Shinsou was fixated on the tender way Boss Aizawa danced his fingertips along your skin and choked back bile and rage as the mafia head continued to calmly voice his proposal. His onyx eyes darkened and a cruel glare frosted over his rugged features. "You've grown overly comfortable with the freedoms I've so graciously allowed you to indulge in these past months, Hitoshi." 

Your brow furrowed slightly under the harsh grip on your thighs prying them apart to reveal the glistening secret between them. Shinsou chewed on his tongue, watching his mentor pull your lower lips apart with calloused fingertips. As much as he wanted to rip Aizawa's hands off of you, as hard as he tried to look away he knew it was a far better alternative than seeing your gray matter and bone splattered on the drywall behind him. 

"Enough. Let her go."

"If only it were so simple, Hitoshi." Aizawa curled your hair around his fingers and gave a rough pull, arching your neck painfully back as your mouth flew open in a choked cry. "What I don't think you understand is this…" His smug grin burned against your skin, his thick fingers slid inside your slick walls stretching you through your waking moments while your husband watched on, helpless to intervene. "...Everything you own is mine. Everything you've built and become is because of me-- I own you, Hitoshi." Each syllable dripping with thinly veiled irritation punctuated another curl of those blood-stained fingers up into your dripping maw. Still oversensitive from earlier abuses, you wailed as Aizawa forced you to spread yourself open onto his lap for your husband to observe in silent disgust. 

"It's simple, Hitoshi: you come back into the fold, and I'll let her go." Shinsou clenched his jaw and watched the gaping maw of your pussy accommodate his mentor's thick digits. Aizawa's free hand snaked its way around your pretty throat and gave an experimental squeeze, your gasping stirring his cock to life under your squirming core. "Refuse and she breathes her last." Stone-faced as ever, Shinsou watched impassively, his rage building in his chest like a war chant pounding a warning across the distance. The tighter Aizawa squeezed the angrier Shinsou became, all too happy to ignore the faint zip and sudden strangled moan pulled from your wanton lips as a foreign cock sheathed itself inside a stranglehold all your own. "Looks like you need more convincing," the dark-haired boss grunted. He rutted into your writhing body, pulling careless cries of frantic pleasure with a casual smirk.

Shinsou stepped closer, reaching out to put a stop to the madness, only to be stopped by the clicking of a hammer cocking from a discreet sidearm. He dropped his arm to his side and looked on at the familiar quiver in your thighs signaling the beginning of your many ends. 

"'Toshi, please," you whimpered, desperate to reach that peak. On closer inspection, he could see the dark outline of noise cancelling earbuds resting in the shells of your ears, no doubt playing something soothing and wordless to supplement the drugs dulling your senses. Just when he thought to silently thank his mentor for the small mercy Aizawa's thrusting intensified. The high, keening scream Shinsou took pride in coaxing was a stiletto to the heart when you sang it for another man under such duress. Your cream coated Aizawa's cock, adding another layer of traitorous lube to the act. As the boss ran his aquiline nose along the column of your neck, Shinsou traced the curve of your parted lips with his ultraviolet gaze. 

"I'm waiting, Hitoshi." Aizawa held the barrel to your temple and groaned at the full-body shiver that tore through your bound frame on his throbbing length. His finger rested on the trigger, each thrust bringing the reality of potentially losing you to a stray bullet in the midst of his mentor's passion sinking to the forefront of Shinsou's mind. Frozen, the politician swallowed hard and hung his head in defeat. It was one thing to insult him by kidnapping and fucking his wife, but dangling the prospect of losing you was an injury he doubt he could fully recover from. "Be a shame to ruin something so beautiful, but if this is how you demand to be taught, who am I to argue?" 

Another moan nearly sent both men over the edge, Aizawa's finger squeezing the trigger reflexively. Fear was a beast clawing through Shinsou's chest, moving through him to grab the gun and pant out in desperation. 

"Alright! I'll do it. Just let her go." 

Aizawa released his hold on the firearm and allowed it to slide barrel first into Shinsou's shaking hands. With both hands free to manipulate your body to his whims, Aizawa redoubled his efforts. For the first time since childhood, Shinsou saw true joy light his mentor's hardened features. He might have felt a twinge of relief if he wasn't balls deep inside his ignorant wife's dripping cunt. 

"Was that so hard? I'd say let's shake on it like men, but my hands are a little full at the moment." Aizawa shifted your weight forward, mouth hungry and open, waiting to be filled as saliva tracked down the corners of your lips. Shinsou hesitated, eyes flickering between your parted lips and Aizawa's empty black eyes. "Guess sharing your whore should suffice." 

As if it was all the permission needed, Shinsou dropped his designer trousers and buried himself to the hilt in your throat. He tossed the handgun aside and gripped your hair as he lost himself in the moist contractions as you gargled another aria of wanton moans. With every stroke Aizawa took to bruise into your twitching cervix Shinsou backed off to allow you the half-beat to breathe before abusing your gag reflex. Halfway through you began to realize something was amiss as you clawed against your husband's bare thighs. Shinsou yanked roughly on your hair and continued to bite back his disgust with the situation. He was supposed to be better than this; he swore he was done with Aizawa and his gang, that he was done being a thug at his mentor's beck and call. Your grip left angry trails of heartbreak along Shinsou's pale legs as your body betrayed you. 

The pace was brutal-- pounded rhythmlessly from behind, you felt pressure let off as thick, hot ropes painted along your back in viscous pearl. Head thrown back, Shinsou wasn't too far behind, his grip soon wrapping around your throat. With the fight fucked out of you long before reason sunk in, strength left your limbs leaving you limp between the two thugs. Growling out his release into your belly, Shinsou's grip softened and he lovingly rubbed soothing circles on your cheek with his thumb. Lost in the dark sensation of freefall, you succumbed to unconsciousness. 

Warm light and the smell of dark roast roused you from sleep. Tongue thick and body numbed from your rest, you stretched futilely back into your pillows. Shinsou sauntered in, unhurried as ever, with a steaming mug to greet you with an apologetic peck. 

"What's the occasion?" Your husband darted his gaze away with uncharacteristic sheepishness. "It's not like you to not send your assistant to fetch my coffee." 

"I wanted a more personal touch this morning, kitten."  

You hummed gratefully into the brew, soaking in its warmth and Shinsou's company with a smile. Your body ached curiously in muscle groups you forgot you had, sparking flashes of remembrance as he began packing an overnight bag for the two of you. "'Toshi…" you began. "I had the weirdest dream last night…" Your husband froze over his collared shirts and cufflinks as you mused over the morning paper. As he packed your counterfeit passports and offshore account information carefully between dinner jackets and evening gowns, you sighed in contented ignorance. Perhaps it was better you didn't find out how significantly the cost of living had increased overnight. 

Tags: @thewheezingwyvern

[halycondaze]

death, mourning, and femininity in adrestia

trigger warnings: death, superstitions, sexism, victorian germans i mean, adrestians being wild

to start: i have modeled (and borrowed heavily) on the victorian idea of death and the public nature of mourning on the victorian idea of these things. victorian culture has been described as death obsessed, which is where we get the macabre works of artists contemporary to the time.  the fall of house usher, the bronte sister’s haunting works, these were influenced and indeed, perhaps spawned by this cultural obsession with death. 

the ideal death in victorian culture, as described by mortician c*aitlin d*oughty, was to “[meet] eternity with eyes open, bravely facing god and judgement, thought provoking last words of wisdom poised on their lips,” and “was the hope and goal of every person.” 1 she then later goes on to explain that the process associated with “victorian mourning” would have really only been practiced in higher class / upper levels of society. 

therefor, the same will be true throughout this headcanon. these are the truths for upper society, the nobles and, given fódlan’s strict social hierarchy, mainly available to those born into crest bearing families. however, much like fashion trends, what is considered standard by the upper echelon is often seen as aspirational by those below them. after all, appearance is the way the world perceives you, and if you can make the world perceive you as higher than your actual standing, you have the chance (the smallest, slightest chance) of achieving said place. respect can get you into a lot of places. 

especially in death. death is that last chance to be seen as respected, especially as unclaimed bodies in victorian times were often used for medical study.... and, given the canonical banning of autopsies 2 done by rhea, this probably, paradoxically, becomes more of a worry. the lack of official ways to study a body and doctors desperately needing to understand why people are dying might turn to stealing unclaimed corpses. and even if there aren’t surreptitious autopsies, unclaimed bodies would have had their teeth pulled to make dentures, were the teeth in good shape. 

if you’ve got even one family member, or a close friend, or simply a presence in a community, in adrestia, you’re buried and publicly mourned. it’s respect, it’s dignity, it’s about eternity. it is also, yes, a safety net, and, if someone is an unburied, unclaimed person, it’s a condemnation. and yes, this does happen more to immigrants, women, and the poor than it would to men, those born in fódlan, or the rich. unless you were truly despised by your own family, a rich man was getting buried.

unlike the victorians, however, embalming doesn’t really catch on in adrestia. the use of harsh, poisonous chemicals is seen as desecrating the body, which should be treated as gently as you would treat a living person. there are three expected processes for death in adrestia, and they depend on where the person dies: at home, out of the home in a civilian setting, or at war. 

when someone dies at home, it is expected that their family members / those they live with will record the time of death, either generally using the position of the sun/moon, or if they own / are near a sundial, will use that instead. then, all mirrors are covered with sheets or turned down, to prevent the soul from getting lost on their way to the afterlife. a black wreath will be hung on the door so anyone coming to visit will know to knock softly. 1

afterwards, it is expected to keep the body in the home, as preparations for the wake and funeral begin. the woman of the house, or a close female friend, is expected to prepare the body. they will wrap a gentle cloth around the mouth and close the deceased’s eyes with cotton pads, so they have a reserved countenance at the wake. then they will be washed, again gently, from underneath a sheet, to preserve dignity. the cloths used are burned. 1 3

from there, the deceased will be dressed, usually in their burial shroud, which the deceased would have already had, or if they did not have one, then they would simply be buried in their sunday best. while the ladies of the house prepare the body, the man (or, a male family friend) would go and fetch a casket for the burial and wake. upon return, the body would be moved into the casket. from then on, no more preparations or changes are made to the body, except for the use of ice magic to slow decay. this is the only form of preservation allowed in adrestia. 

after, letters are sent out, sealed with black wax and if the person is rich enough, on papers prepared for their death with small copies of a portrait of them. the wake lasts about five days, no longer than seven. one cannot show up at a funeral uninvited. that is considered beyond preposterous, and if you did not get an invitation, you could politely send a letter to the deceased’s family / caretakers to request to show up. 

the funeral itself is very familiar to one who grew up in the american tradition - people in black (or muted colors, see below) with their heads held down, crying and talking about their virtues. they will have a procession to the graveyard, taking as convoluted a route as possible, to prevent the spirit from simply following the family home. afterwards, they return for refreshments, usually sweets, and people will talk for a few hours and return home. 

for someone who died outside the household, the police must examine the body visually to make sure they did not die due to murder, but the rest plays out namely the same once they’re brought home. they’re washed and treated with care, and eventually brought to a graveyard. 

someone who died in battle is buried differently. they rarely have a body, and if they do, then it will proceed as above. however, if they do not, it expected for their chosen burial shroud or sunday best to be buried in their place, and the expected mourning period is elongated by a month, due to the lack of the body to bury. 

mourning (+femininity) 

now, as with actual victorian mourning, there are a lot of rules. particularly for women. so let’s roll back and place the role of women in fódlan over all:

the expectation of noble women in fódlan, is to get married and produce children who bear crests. however, this also places them as the center of the household no matter where you go. rarely is one married for love, particularly in this higher society. however, adrestia has a very large performance aspect. and of course, this expected more of women than it is of men.

for instance, an adrestian widow is expected to be in full mourning for a year, but a widower is only expected to mourn six months. after all, a widower must find another wife to continue to produce heirs, and hasn’t the time to be in full mourning. after the full mourning period, it is expected for the widow/er to be in half mourning for a few months after, but again, men are given far less scrutiny. 1 3

full mourning entails: all black dress, thick black veils, and for men, a specific kind of mourning coat. as said, these are in all black, and sometimes it is expected to have a piece of cameo jewelry, (made with the deceased’s hair) or a handkerchief on the person at all time. it is considered uncouth to go out into society during full mourning. 3

half mourning entails: muted colors (grey, lilac, navy) but in the typical, day to day style. the silhouette tends to change once a decade. one may socialize as expected of your station, but you are expected to never show intense happiness or joy if you are in half mourning. 3

servants of the household where a death occurred are expected to wear a black band around their arm until the grieving family is out of mourning. 3

there are, of course, other rituals and superstitions. copied verbatim from the source below / taken from the first source, they are: 1 3

one must cover all mirrors in the house when someone has died, because the spirit will get lost. it is bad luck to meet a funeral procession head on. If you see one approaching, turn around. If this is unavoidable, hold on to a button until the funeral cortege passes. if you hear a clap of thunder following a burial it indicates that the soul of the departed has reached heaven. if you don’t hold your breath while going by a graveyard, you will not be buried after your death. if the deceased has lived a good life, flowers would bloom on his grave; but if he has been evil, only weeds would grow.

femininity, part two

as i alluded to above, the care taking of a corpse is coded feminine, in both victorian life, and adrestian culture.  in fact, young girls are given “death kits” and expected to train to understand how to properly prepare a body, and understand why such things are done. 4 while no one seems to consider the effects of this kind of culture on the girls, it is a standard way of raising them that prepares them to be the face of a noble household. 

this leads to a very interesting form of femininity. as women in fódlan are allowed to be warriors as well (though really, only in adrestia and the alliance) there is very little expectation for a woman to be squeamish about... anything. women caretake bodies and they are trained to kill, if they’re lucky enough to go to school. however, there is also always the expectation that a noble daughter - and a poor daughter - will marry a man, hopefully above her station, to elevate the family’s status and produce heirs with a crest. and many women - namely in the holy kingdom - will actually turn to becoming nuns to avoid this fate. and if they don’t, then they run away from home, or hole themselves up to be considered unmarriageable or tear at yellow wallpapers as they slowly grab for freedom. 

to be raised in this culture is to become aware of mortality so early on, particularly for young girls, and to become either hardened to it, or more sensitive to death. the four girls we see from adrestia (edelgard, dorothea, bernadetta, and mercedes) reflect this well. they were all raised with this pressure of being the face of a future household, and have become almost perfectly poised to never be that face - the newest generation of adrestian girls is like this. they are girls ready to overthrow the system, from one point of view or another - girls who know how to kill and are ready to stop the system’s breath. 

and even if they’re not, they still grew up finding tiny porcelain corpses in cakes, the unavoidable hand of death. 5

SOURCES:

1. we recreated a victorian funeral  2. screenshots from the fe/3h dlc 3. the rules and regulations of mourning in the victorian era 4. victorian death dolls 5. happy birthday, there’s a corpse in your cake!

[departeddestiny]

Pronunciation: Coo-Ra-Sa Or-L

Nickname: Has None.

Age: 31.

Nameday: 4th Sun of the 2nd Umbral Moon.

Race: Au Ra, Xaela.

Gender: Male.

Sexuality: Pansexual.

Marital: Single.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Hair: Medium in length and Umber, it is parted in a way so that the thick of it falls to the right. Strands stick up here and there, it might be considered disheveled; this is done purposefully, as time is precious. It is silken to the touch. 

Eyes: Burnt Orange optics with slitted pupils, much reminiscent of the dragon’s from which he is descended. Black stains the sclera where white would typically be seen. 

Height: 7 Fulm, 2 Ilm ( 7′ 2″ )

Physique: Large biceps, chiseled pecs and abs. The Xaela is built from his constant efforts to remain in top shape, especially so since most of his Gil is gained protecting others or from chasing after bounties.

Dominant Hand: Right.

Posture: He tends to stand up straight and rigid, some would consider him to have a ‘stick up his ass’.

Scars: They litter his body, telling a story of a warrior. The largest one is jagged and runs along his left pectoral, stops just above his abdominal muscles.

Distinguishing Features: Unlike most Xaela, where obsidian scales would normally be present, his are cracked and flowing with lava. They are hot to the touch, though not enough where they will burn.

Profession: Formerly a Dragoon for the Ishgardian Forces || Bounty Hunter and Sell Sword

Affiliation: None at present.

Languages: Eorzean, Doman, Xaelic.

Residence: Taverns strewn throughout Eorzea, predominantly in Ul’Dah

Birthplace: Doma, before it was razed by Garlean Forces.

Religion: None.

Parents: Tsuki Orl ( Mother, Deceased ) || Ryoma Orl ( Father, Deceased )

Siblings: Chiharu Orl ( Older Sister, Alive ) 

Pets: Draught Chocobo named Isaac

Hidden Amoung Shadows: There might have been a time when Kurasa wished to be seen, when he made a point to show his scales off and revel in the attention. Now, he tends to stick to the shadows or remains in his own company, oft wearing a hood to hide his features.

Flawed Moral Compass: While he may seem like any other person, Kurasa is quite capable of committing heinous acts; an example would be how he became a Dravanian Spy during the Dragonsong War. How many innocents died due to his actions? A thought that would haunt normal people, but Kurasa sleeps just fine.

Short Trigger: Perhaps it is the dragon blood that runs through his veins, perhaps he was simply borne that way, but Kurasa has an extremely short trigger when it comes to his temper. As he’s gotten older, he’s done his best to reign it in, but he will still beat heads if provoked enough. 

Mistrusting to a Fault: Due to all that he has been through, Kurasa trusts none but himself. He has seen how quickly people turn on one another, how easily they come to assumptions. The man has seen the absolute worst of people and would rather not trust another to save his hide. 

Are You Really That Smug?: Once his barriers have been breached, his smug attitude and belief in his own capabilities come to the surface. Kurasa knows that he is good looking, that he is good in battle and in bed, and he won’t let another tell him otherwise.   

Frisky Under the Influence: Though not an every day occurrence, the man can often be seen in the corner of a tavern, pounding back the drinks...which probably garners more attention than it should. But with drink in his system, he becomes much more open and social, which leads to a new bed partner. But upon waking, he is his normal self, extremely ticked and grumpy despite just having got laid.

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Romantic Orientation: Panromantic ( monogamous ).

Preferred Emotional Role:  submissive | dominant | switch |  unsure 

Preferred Sexual Role:  submissive |  dominant  |  switch |  sex repulsed

Libido: Over-Active.

Turn On’s: Thoughtful || Witty || Good with a Sword || Sarcastic || Hard to Get

Turn Off’s:  Clingy || Selfish || Overly Cruel ( there is a line ) ||  Debauchee  ( he’s not into romancing someone who is all too willing to sleep with him )

Love Language: Time Spent Alone || Physical Touches ||  Protective 

Relationship Tendencies: Due to his mistrust, Kurasa would do his best to avoid the person all together; they would have to be stubborn and continually come around in order for him to open up. Eventually, the Xaela will begin to open up, once he sees they are not there to cause him harm and they accept him for who he has become. Will become a protector, a shadow that looks over them and ensures their safety. Once he loves, he will love them alone.

Hobbies: Sword Play, Training, Climbing Waterfalls, Reading, Drinking ( Tea and Alcohol ), Eating, Listening to Music, Wandering.

Likes: Cold climates, Animals, Waterfalls, Teas, Rain, Various Shades of Black, Cooking, Fighting, Flowers, Mountains, Fire, Gil.

Dislikes: Small Spaces, Long Conversations, Threats, Blood Stained Clothes, Garleans and Ishgardians.

Fears: His Sister Dying, Being Vulnerable, Drowning.

Positive Personality Traits: Loyal, Passionate and Battle Hardened.

Negative Personality Traits: Cynical, Sarcastic and Violent.

Sword for Hire: Or more specifically, a glaive. Kurasa will do just about anything to put Gil into his pocket; in regards to killing or protecting, that is. But unless the person has won his loyalty, there is a chance he’ll turn on them in favor of a higher counter offer. 

Blood of the Dragon: The Orl Clan was persecuted and primarily killed off because the Ishgardians believed them to be in line with their dragon ancestors: one look at Kurasa and, although not proven, one might think he truly did descend from the creatures. Cracked obsidian scales that flow with lava, slitted eyes, and fanged teeth. He portrays an intimidating picture. 

Battle Hardened Warrior: Kurasa is the epitome of a person that has been hardened by battle, and by fate. There could be no better person to fight at your side, as he is skilled in not only his glaive but a multitude of other weapons. He’s one of the first to rush into the fray and it’s quite hard to take him down. 

Lover of Tea: When the Xaela is able, he enjoys being able to sit down with a steaming cup of tea and let the days troubles wash from his person. It’s strange to see him do so and often, he’ll get looks of confusion when ordering, but who gives a shit? 

A Slight Alcoholic: Then there is the opposite of the tea love, which is his need to drown his emotions in alcohol. Unfortunately when Kurasa drinks enough, he becomes a very open and affectionate person, which oft leads to him waking up with another in his bed. 

Nature Lover: The best way he found to keep his body in shape, is to test his strength against what nature has to offer. Climbing cliffs and waterfalls gives the Xaela a full body work out and when he is done, he can sit amoungst the flowers and animals, and relax. There is nothing quite like feeling the sun beat down and the cool breeze against sweat stained skin.

Please be advised, this blog contains mature content that is not suitable for those under the age of 21.  

I Roleplay: Pretty much anything! Subjects such as kidnappings,  torture ( there is a fine line to tread ), and romance are acceptable but only when previously discussed and both parties are willing to participate.

I do not roleplay: Permanent character death, rape plots, polygamous relationships, god-modding, power-playing, and ERP. I am simply not interested in any of these, it is not meant as a personal insult. 

Please feel free to approach! I love to create stories. That is what roleplay is about, no? If you can somehow see your character fit into Kurasa’s life in some fashion, I am all ears. You’re welcome to message me, even if I do not follow you, and I will do my best to respond!

Please don’t take information from me. While I did not write the events that his story is heavily based upon, Kurasa is of my own creation and I have worked very hard on him. 

I am a shy bean who is just starting out with this character - he demanded I tell his story and that is the purpose of all this.

I am not my character. Kurasa does things of his own volition and although I might say something, that does not dictate his actions in the slightest. 

In Game: Kurasa Orl

World: Mateus  ( Crystal Data Center )

Discord: Given upon request.

Style: I’m a multi-paragraph writer, though sometimes I will write more or less depending on what I am going to work with.

[marvelmando]

tempest [p.parker x o.c.] - twelve

notes: my lovely babies. sorry for the short break, i literally have no excuse. ok i did have midterms, but i barely put in any effort anyway, so

contains: small mention of marin’s mom’s murder at the hands of her father, canon-typical violence

pairing: peter parker + fem! o.c.

word count: 3.3k

previous chapter next chapter tempest masterlist

MARIN LANDED ON THE LOWER DECK WITH A QUIET THUMP. Comparably, Tony landed next to her with a loud metal thunk, effectively drawing the alien’s attention away from the suspended wizard. Then again, the metal alloy of his suit wasn’t designed for stealth. Marin mirrored Tony’s stance; hands raised offensively as her body glowed with the vibrant blue light of her self-supplying energy.

“…could end your friend’s life in an instant.” The alien finished, no doubt continuing whatever monologue he was spouting. He was several feet taller than either her or Tony and appeared to have a flat plane where his nose should be.

“I gotta tell you, he’s not really my friend.” Tony said.

“I don’t even know his name,” Marin added, rather uselessly because all the alien spared her was a passing, unimpressed glance.

“Saving his life is more of a professional courtesy.”

In response, the alien flicked his fingers, summoning a chunk of metal. “You saved nothing.” His other hand raised, calling another chunk. “Your powers are inconsequential compared to mine.” He leveled his dead gaze on Marin. “And you are nothing but a youngling.”

Marin bristled. “Yeah, but my friend has seen more movies.” Moving her hand slightly to the left, she shot off a blast of energy, ripping a hole in the side of the ship.

The Voldemort-looking alien flew right through the hole into the emptiness of space, but unfortunately, the wizard flew off too. Marin wrapped him with her energy as best as she could, but the sudden vacuum of space was proving to be much stronger than her powers, ripping the wizard right out of her grasp.

Peter leaped through the air after him, attaching a web to the wizard’s back. He grabbed onto an exposed piece of metal, but it dislodged, sending him and the wizard toward the hole in the ship.

Marin rocketed over as quickly as she could, but suddenly, metal legs protruded from the back of Peter’s new suit, catching him just on the edge of the jagged metal.

“Yes!” Peter cried excitedly. “Wait, what are those?!”

Marin tried wrapping him in her energy as he pushed off of the wall, and Iron Man flew in and patched up the hole with a jet of his nanoparticles.

Peter landed gracefully on the gangway, while the wizard plummeted with a painful-sounding bang. Marin lowered down next to the wizard, turning him onto his back. “Are you okay, sir?”

“Fine,” the wizard wheezed, lifting himself to his feet.

“Don’t look fine to me, but whatever.” Marin muttered as he walked away from her with a noticeable limp. “Ungrateful.”

She jogged over to Peter, beaming. “That was so cool!”

“I know!” His voice was high-pitched with exhilaration. His mask retracted, his eyes wide and interested. The weight of his bright gaze on her was almost too much for her to handle, though she wasn’t sure what that meant. “This suit is freaking sick!”

“No, I want to protect the Stone.” The wizard was saying, catching Marin’s attention as she realized the gaping hole in her understanding.

“Does anyone want to explain what the hell is going on?” Marin piped up, but neither Tony nor the wizard was paying her any attention.

“For what? Nearly blasting me into space?”

“Who just saved your magical ass? Me.” Tony said defiantly.

“Hey!” Marin and Peter objected simultaneously, offended the didn’t include them in the sentiment.

While the two adults had a pissing contest, Marin turned to Peter. “Do have any idea what’s going on?” Even though she asked, it was obvious that Peter was just as uninformed as her.

“And due to that fact, we’re now in a flying doughnut, billions of miles from Earth with no back-up.”

“We’re back-up!” Marin protested.

“No, you’re a stowaway, remember?” Tony addressed her distractedly. “The adults are talking.”

“I’m sorry, I-I’m confused as to the relationship here,” the wizard’s forehead creased with barely contained frustrated confusion. “What are they, your wards?”

“No,” Peter said, reaching out a hand. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

Without taking his outstretched hand and barely facing him at all, the wizard replied imperiously, “Dr. Strange.”

“Oh, we’re using our made-up names. Um, I’m Spider-Man, then.”

Dr. Strange gave Peter a blank stare.

“I technically am his ward; I’m Tempest. But my real name’s Marin.” Marin stepped forward, raising her chin. The wizard didn’t change his expression, only turning his eyes to her before turning away and approaching Tony. Marin and Peter followed behind.

“This ship is self-correcting its course. Thing’s on auto-pilot.” Tony said, and Marin noticed that he was no longer in his suit.

“Can we control it?” Said Dr. Strange. “Fly us home?”

Tony didn’t answer, looking hesitant to respond like he knew Dr. Strange wouldn’t like what he wanted to say. “Stark?”

“Yeah?” He said, too quickly.

“Can you get us home?” Dr. Strange enunciated slowly, his voice hinting at something condescending and dark.

“Yeah, I heard you.” Tony folded his hands in front of him, wincing. “I’m thinking I’m not so sure we should.” He muttered under his breath.

Dr. Strange stormed over to Tony. “Under no circumstances can we bring the Time Stone to Thanos.”

Marin frowned. Who was Thanos? And what the hell was the Time Stone? She glanced at Peter, who looked just as bewildered as she felt. While Tony and the wizard bickered, Marin inched closer to Peter.

“Wasn’t Tony just upset at us for coming with him to space? So why doesn’t he want to go back, now?” She glanced over at Tony, who looked genuinely distressed. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“He wants us to help him fight, I think.” Peter guessed. “He didn’t want us to come with him, but we’re here, and we need to help him, no matter what.”

Marin scoffed. “As if we really had any other options?”

Peter shrugged. “We probably could refuse to help, but would you really?”

Her mouth twisted. “Of course I would help him.” She snapped, but Peter didn’t look affected by her short tone.

“I know you would.” His eyes softened a bit, which threw Marin slightly. Even in the weird lighting on the ship, Peter’s chestnut irises warmed as they focused on her, sending bubbles through her stomach. Unable to hold his intense gaze, Marin averted her eyes, looking to Dr. Strange.

“But you have to understand,” he was saying under his breath, but still loud enough for Marin to hear even over the whirring of the spacecraft. “If it comes to saving you or those kids or the Time Stone, I will not hesitate to let any of you die. I can’t, because the universe depends on it.”

Tony stared him down, then patted him on the shoulder. “Nice. Good moral compass.” He gave him one last look before turning to approach her and Peter. “All right, kids.” Tapping Peter’s shoulders and then Marin’s, Tony sighed relentingly. “You’re Avengers now.”

Marin’s eyes widened. Now, of all times, was when Tony chose to make her an Avenger? She’d been asking him for the past year, and every time she’d been rejected. Of course, she’d hoped that it would happen earlier when she was waiting for them in the old Avengers tower that morning. God, was that really only that morning? It felt as if days had gone by, between the fight in Manhattan to getting stuck on a spaceship.

“Wait, what?” She hollered after him. “Tony!”

+++

At least half an hour went by, where Tony divulged all of the information he had learned over the past several hours, including the deal with this “Thanos” guy, and a description of all six of the Infinity Stones. Marin’s head swam with new knowledge, temples pounding with the rushing of her blood.

Peter had sat somewhere against a wall, Dr. Strange was making obscure gestures with his hands as orange sparks in various shapes appeared around them, and Tony was pacing the ground between the steering mechanism and the giant holographic screen that showed the viewport of the spaceship. It appeared they were still hurtling at a ridiculously high speed, because the only thing it was showing was a blur of blue and white light. Strangely, it reminded Marin of the hyperspace from Star Wars, which made her giggle.

Marin approached Tony, who was looking worried out of his mind. “You all right?”

Tony looked like he was about to object, but apparently thought better of it. He sighed deeply. “I don’t think so, kid.”

This shook Marin more than she’d thought. Tony, in the rough two years she’d lived with him, had never divulged his pain to her, no matter how obvious it was to her. He complained about his aches and pains here and there, joked about the times when his blood was poisoned from the palladium in his arc reactor, and how he barely escaped from the wormhole during the Battle of New York, but he had never looked as broken as he did now. It scared her.

“Want to talk about it?” She didn’t expect him to oblige, and she wasn’t too disappointed when he brushed her off.

“Nah, it’s nothing I can’t handle, kid.” He smiled weakly down at her, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Marin eyed Tony. “It’d be okay if you couldn’t, you know. If you couldn’t handle it.”

Tony bristled, straightening up. “It has to be. I have to be able to handle it, Marin. And it’s never been as important as it is right now.” His eyes hardened. “I can’t lose it when I’m about to face the guy that’s been haunting my dreams since New York.”

Marin nodded slowly. “All right.” Tony relaxed slightly. “But it’s not all on you. I’m here for you, you know that right? Until the end.”

Something crossed Tony’s face, something Marin wasn’t too familiar with. It wasn’t something she could identify, but she knew it was something warm and grateful.

“And Peter, of course. He’s here for you, too.” Her mouth tilted in a smirk, one that she’d only started using when she had lived with Tony for a few weeks. “But especially me.”

Tony smiled gratefully, but he seemed to remember something because his smile shifted into a serious expression. “Kid, I need you to listen to me, okay? This is important, I—”

He was cut off by the ship lurching out of hyperspace. The floor underneath them trembled so violently it almost knocked Marin off her feet, but Tony grasped her shoulders tight enough to keep her steady.

The hologram in front of them showed a new image now, one of a blue-tinted ground littered with giant spoke-wheeled crafts, and it looked like it was getting too close, too fast.

“Hey, what’s going on?” She heard Peter say behind her, sounding concerned.

“We’re here,” Marin breathed, tensing up. Instinctively, her energy flared to life, feeling stronger than it ever had.

“I don’t think this rig has a self-park function.” Tony remarked, his tone sounding slightly frantic as he realized the ship wasn’t appearing to slow down as it reached the surface of Titan. He hurried over to one of the steering things and shoved his hand inside. To Peter, he said, “Get your hand inside the steering gimbal; close those around it.”

Marin positioned herself between them, while Dr. Strange took the place in front. Tony was still instructing Peter, but Marin was bouncing on her the balls of her feet anxiously.

“Uh, Tony?” She asked, not really sure what she was asking for, but Tony seemed to understand.

“Get your force field ready, kid!” He shouted.

Marin extended her energy outward, shielding the four of them in a thin bubble of electric blue energy. As Peter and Tony turned the ship, Dr. Strange had the same idea, using his magic orange sparks to double over Marin’s force field.

Marin’s feet left the ground as she hovered above them, trying not to focus on the way the ship jerked around her as it crashed through half-buried remnants of other crafts. Marin screwed her eyes shut, only focusing on keeping her energy intact. Only when the ship stopped moving entirely did she open her eyes, and upon seeing Dr. Strange let go of his magic, did Marin release her shield.

Dr. Strange helped Tony off of his feet, and as Marin was looking around for Peter, she heard a distant rumbling, and what sounded like muffled voices. “Uh, guys?”

“Let me just say,” Peter said suddenly, hanging upside down from a web attached to a broken piece of the ship’s roof. “If aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something and I eat one of you, I’m sorry.”

“Guys?!” Marin said again, hearing the noises get louder.

“I do not want another single pop culture reference out of you for the rest of the trip, you understand?”

“Guys!” Marin shouted, finally getting everyone’s attention. “Someone’s coming!”

Before anyone could react, something rolled at Marin’s feet. She had just enough time to shield her face with her bare hands when it exploded, catching Marin the most off-guard. The electric field exploding from the device rocketed Marin straight into the air, and she fell back down onto the metal platform hard on her ankle, catching it under her.

Ears ringing and ankle throbbing, she could vaguely hear someone bellowing, but her attention was caught when a figure started shooting at Tony and flew off, Tony going to catch him. Some buff guy charged Dr. Strange and a female ran off in the other direction, so Marin assessed her options. With her ankle damaged, she’d be useless in a ground battle, so she decided to summon her energy to fly after the guy attacking Tony.

They grappled midair before Tony threw him to the ground, but the mysterious guy landed on his feet, cackling as he activated a device he’d attached to Tony’s suit. Iron Man was briefly incapacitated as the device activated, magnetizing his suit so it stuck to a nearby metal structure; so Marin attacked, firing off a blast of energy at the man. It just barely missed him and he was more prepared for her next blast, shooting an electric bolt from his handgun.

She jolted as it made contact, energy dissipating as the electricity ran through her body. She heard Peter cry in the distance, which made her shake off the bolt with a cry of desperation.

“Hey, leave him alone!” She roared at the man and female who began attacking Peter, approaching the female, who was wrapped in Peter’s webs. Upon closer inspection, she realized the alien had antennae protruding from her forehead, and her eyes were abnormally large. She flew above her, reaching down to grab her, but Marin stilled as soon as her hand made contact with her skin. Suddenly, feelings of intense grief struck her.

Marin barely registered the cry that tumbled from her lips as she was assaulted with the memory of her father’s hands wrapped around her mother’s neck, him reaching for the plugged-in hairdryer; then flashed the image of Peter fighting the Vulture, being lifted and slammed into the sand of Coney Island, hanging limp like a broken ragdoll.

As fast as they came, the feelings rushed out of her, leaving her dazed. An indeterminable amount of time passed before she realized that the fighting had ceased.

“Marin!” Peter yelled, struggling in the arms of the man that had first attacked Tony. “Marin, are you okay?!” He groaned when the man aimed his gun at his temple. “Dude, can’t you see she’s hurt?!”

Marin couldn’t move from where she was crouched on the ground. At some point, her energy had left her. She struggled to at least sit up, assembling what little energy she could muster as she focused it into her fists, which she aimed right at the guy’s head.

“Everybody stay where you are, chill the ‘eff out!” The guy called out, and Marin looked around. Tony had the buff guy under his foot, with one thruster aimed at his head, and the other at the guy holding Peter captive. Dr. Strange had his hands raised at no one in particular, and Marin couldn’t see where the female alien had gone.

Looking back at the guy holding Peter, he had deactivated his helmet-thing. He looked human, much to Marin’s surprise. “I’m gonna ask you this one time. Where is Gamora?”

“Yeah, I’ll do you one better: who is Gamora?” Tony retracted his helmet, too, looking thoroughly confused.

“I’ll do you one better,” the buff guy said. “Why is Gamora?”

Marin, still dazed from the trip down memory lane, blinked.

“Tell me where the girl is or I swear to you I’m gonna French Fry this little freak.” The guy said, pressing the gun into Peter’s temple.”

Marin tensed, her mind clearing at the threat and lifting her hands from where they’d dipped a bit. “Give me a reason, dude! I’ll blast your ass back into the next fucking lightyear!”

Tony seemed just as on edge as he shifted his regular hand thruster into a larger, more powerful weapon. “You shoot my guy and I’ll blast him! Let’s go!”

“Do it, Quill!” The buff guy said. “I can take it!”

“No, he can’t take it!” The alien with the antennae said, hopping in from where she’d been hiding, presumably.

Marin aimed one hand at her, growing even angrier. “One more step, bug girl!” She warned, and the alien’s eyes widened further, if it was even possible.

“She’s right, you can’t.” Dr. Strange told the buff guy, weirdly calm for the situation.

The man, Quill, said, “Oh, yeah? You don’t want to tell me where she is? That’s fine. I’ll kill all four of you and I’ll beat it out of Thanos myself. Startin’ with you!” He snarled at Peter, causing Marin to yell out.

But Dr. Strange seemed to realize something. “Wait, what—Thanos? All right, let me ask you this one time: what master do you serve?”

“’What master do I serve’?” Quill mocked. “What am I supposed to say, Jesus?”

Tony looked stumped. “You’re from Earth.” He stated.

“I’m not from Earth, I’m from Missouri.”

“Yeah that’s on Earth, dipshit!” Tony waved his hands. “What’re you hassling us for?!”

Peter spoke for the first time. “So you’re not with Thanos?”

“With Thanos?” Quill spat, looking extremely offended. “No, I’m here to kill Thanos. He took my girl—wait, who are you?”

Peter retracted his mask. “We’re the Avengers, man!”

Quill released Peter with a slightly disappointed, “Oh.”

Peter hurried over to Marin, who’d since dropped her hands out of exhaustion. “You okay?” He fussed, helping her stand.

“You’re the ones Thor told us about!” The alien girl spoke up.

Marin and Peter looked up, startled. Tony looked incredulous. “You know Thor?”

“Yeah,” Quill said, looking unimpressed. “Tall guy, not that good-looking, needed saving.”

At the ‘not that good-looking’, Peter made an offended face.

“Where’s he now?” Dr. Strange asked.

“I don’t know; some weird planet getting a hammer or something.” Quill answered distractedly.

While Peter looked like he was about to say something, Tony shook his head. “We can’t worry about that right now. What we need to focus on is that Thanos is on his way here, with two of the Infinity Stones.”

“Actually, he’s got the Reality Stone now, so he’s got three.” Quill added morosely.

“Shit.”

“I agree,” said Dr. Strange. “On both accounts. Our first move is to get the hell off this ship and come up with a plan.”

Peter and Marin exchanged a look. “Ready to explore an alien planet?” Marin quirked an eyebrow, a smirk growing on her lips despite feeling dazed from the memory trip.

Peter returned the look, though even more mischievous. “Oh, am I ever.”

taglist

@dark-night-sky-99 @pushmeinablackhole�� @demi-starzak @-thatgirloverthere- @silver-winter-wolf @yourwonderbelle

[hbostolemysoul]

Band of Brothers fluff alphabet: Denver ‘Bull’ Randleman

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

Bull has this calm presence about him that makes you feel secure, which some may initially question given his hulking height and stature. But he has never once made you feel anything but safe and loved. On particularly sunny days the light brings out the flecks of grey-blue in his eyes, it reminds you of the sky beginning to clear after a storm.

The thing Bull truly finds most attractive about you, is how you look at him. You look at him without judgment. You see past the war-hardened exterior, which after returning stateside feels like a rarity where veterans are concerned. You love him despite the ghosts that still haunt him from the war, some days it baffles him that someone like you would choose to be with someone like him.  

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

Bull would want to set down roots and have a secure home and financial situation before having children. He remembers how hard the Depression hit his family, he had to drop out of school and move across the state to find work. Being separated from his family and having his education cut short was rough for Denver, he wants to make sure that any children he helps bring into the world will have a better life than he did.

Once you two are ready for children Bull would literally do anything he could to make you comfortable throughout your pregnancy. You are not too hormonal, but there are a few times when you snap at him throughout your pregnancy. He takes it all in stride though. Bull feels that he is responsible for the state you are currently in, and if yelling at him about putting the lid to the pickle jar on too tight helps you to feel better than he is more than willing to take on that role. After all its not like he has a tiny human kicking his bladder 24 hours a day. (Also if he could survive Sobel than he can survive anything HIGH-HO SILVER).

You and Denver end up having 2 children together, and yes, those babies were massive.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

Bull likes to have you laying on his chest, arms wrapped around you. To be completely honest you like it too. The steady beat of his heart has become your personal soothing lullaby. While you did not know Bull before the war the few stories he has shared with you have made you realize how close you could have come to never meeting this man. The closeness is something you both crave.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

Bull has an appreciation for baseball. It is something he used to do with the Easy guys during downtime during training and near the end of the war. When the opportunity arises you two try to get tickets to see the local team play. Even if baseball isn’t your favorite thing, seeing how relaxed Denver is during those games more than makes up for it.

E = Everything (You are my __ (e.g. my life, my world…))

“You are the light of my life, Doll”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

You had taken up the closing shifts at the diner you worked at, as your co-worker was heavily pregnant, and the days had just gotten too long for her. Denver had been concerned about you walking home alone so late at night, and while you assured him that the walk to your apartment wasn’t too far away he had taken to walking you home after your shifts. You would have protested more, but the way his blue eyes clouded over with concern made any arguments you had seemed irrelevant. The man had been through enough, and if making sure you got home safe every night gave him some peace than it was the least you could do.

It was one night in particular when the cool wind had you both leaning into each other as you walked that something just clicked. Denver had been nothing but a gentleman the entire time you had known each other, never touching you without your consent. Honestly, it was sweet.

You gently pulled your hand out of your pocket and intertwined it with his and stopped walking. With his hand intertwined with yours, he turned and gave you a concerned look. You just gave him one of your calm, knowing smiles and pulled him a bit closer. You gently pulled him towards you until your lips met his.    “Thank you, Den”, you whispered against his lips. At that moment you just knew. You were in love with him.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

Definition of a gentle giant. Bull has a way of touching you that is both strong yet soft at the same time. As your relationship progresses he becomes more comfortable touching you. He has this way of communicating how much he loves you through simple touches. You two have come up with this unspoken language, which comes in particularly handy when Den is feeling a bit overwhelmed while you two are out. With a simple touch you know he needs you, and from there you can begin to plan your escape.

You can honestly say that you have never been loved, the way Den loves you, and before you met him you didn’t know that such a love could exist.  

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

Fingers intertwined, his large paw of a hand is a warm and comforting presence against yours.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

Bull had walked into the diner you worked at. At first glance, you had immediately known that he was a soldier. There was something different in the way men who had served held themselves compared to those who hadn’t. There was also a distance in his stormy eyes that gave you some indication that he had seen far more hardship than anyone should have to experience for one lifetime. You had however noticed that behind that war veteran exterior, he was quite ruggedly handsome. When you first interacted with Den he was very polite, responding to most of your questions with ‘yes Ma’am’.

He was quiet, but there was something that drew you to him. When you brought him his bill you had scribbled a note on the back “This one is on me. Thank you for your service - *your name*”. He tried to tip you, but you just gave him this knowing soft smile and waved his money away. From that moment on he became a regular, always seeming to sit on your side of the diner.  

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

No. Not with you. In the past Bull has maybe had a handful of experiences where he felt jealous, but never with you. You trust each other completely, a trust he hadn’t felt since fighting alongside his brothers. You would never stray from one and other, you are his, and he is yours. Completely.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

He did, but you had to do some prompting. Denver is a gentleman through and through, and while you appreciated that you just wanted the man to kiss you already. You had worn a particularly enticing shade of red lipstick one night, and it wasn’t until he had walked you to your doorstep that you realized this night was going to end like all the other. With you not being kissed.

With a small smile on your lips and a glint in your eye you just asked,

“Are you going to kiss me Den?”,

There was something endearing about the way his face flushed.

Safe to say he definitely kissed you after that.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

He does. Den had walked you home late one night, it was storming so bad outside that you could not in your right mind allow him to venture through that all the way home. When you asked him to stay he seemed unsure, but through your gentle reassurances, he eventually let you convince him to join you in bed, instead of the small couch you had in your living room.

He had tried to keep a respectable distance from you while you both got under the covers. You, having had enough of this just burrowed into his side. Head resting on his shoulder you whispered goodnight. You didn’t fall asleep until you felt his tense muscles relax and his arm wrap around you.

You woke to the gentle stream of sunlight coming through your curtains, and Den’s soft voice whispering gently against the crown of your head.

You had feigned sleep a bit longer to hear what he was saying, it was quiet, but you could make out some bits of what he was saying. Hearing him whisper those tiny confessions of love and devotion broke something so beautifully within your heart. You looked up, calm eyes meeting his slightly startled blue ones. You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before returning his loving words with your own.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

He will never forget the first time you agreed to go on a date with him. The way your eyes sparkled and the gentle smile that never left your lips is like a film reel that plays on repeat in his head. It's such a beautiful, yet simple memory. One he holds particularly close when the dark memories of war try to creep their way back in.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Neither of you are particularly materialistic. On big occasions like holidays and anniversaries, you will both find gifts for the other that are both thoughtful and meaningful.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Silver. You are the thing that brings him peace during the most difficult of times. You are love and peace, and everything that continues to make his life worth living. You are his reason why.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

He will use ‘doll’ occasionally, but most of the time it is some soft abbreviation of your name.

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

Bull has a love of cigars, and while you do not condone excessive smoking, there is something comforting about the soft taste of tobacco on his lips when you kiss him.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

You both like to read. Curled up on the couch together you will have your feet resting in his lap as you both flip through your latest novels.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

Bull sometimes just needs the pressure of your hand in his, or the weight of you against his chest. There are moments where the memories inside his mind feel so real that the only thing that brings him back to the present is you.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

It took some time, but Den started to talk about Easy. The stories of Martin’s legendary bitch face are probably some of your favorites, and to be honest you thought Den was exaggerating until you met the guy in person. Bulls stories definitely don’t do Martin’s bitch face justice.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

He likes to go for walks with you. Hand in hand. Something about the fresh air, and the visual reminders that he is not in some frozen country across the pond brings him peace.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

Bull feels proud of you. The fact you chose him, that you love him. He doesn’t feel the need to flaunt you like a trophy though. Simply having you at his side brings him more pride than he thought possible

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

You two have been living together for about 6 months. Things with the contractor business have been going well, and he feels like he can finally ‘provide’ for you the way he wants. Even though you have assured him many times that simply being with him was more than enough.

Your wedding is a semi-large affair. Nothing fancy or over the top, but lots of people in attendance. Mostly men he served with. A giant English mastiff makes a surprise appearance at your wedding. A man names George Luz decided to bring the big fella to your wedding (much to Mrs. Luz’s dismay). It was particularly entertaining to find out that the dog was named “Bull” after your ‘Bull’. Safe to say you and Luz got on pretty well after that.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

In My Veins – Andrew Belle Feat. Erin Mccarley

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Yes, Ma’am. He was just waiting for the right moment. He wanted to know that the life he would share with you would be filled with as few hardships as possible.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

You get a small yappy dog that Den lovingly calls ‘Saint Luz’. 

(It took me forever to get to writing this. I hope it was okay and that it gives Bull the love he deserves) 

[saidelia-draconis]

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

“Tell me, Saidelia. Do you know why you’re here?”

  The woman’s tone was calm, measured, and brooked no conflict, or malice. The paladin remained rigid in her chair, glancing around curiously at the room. It was a comfortable little place. A small fire heating the room, belching soot over the clay. The woman had given Saidelia a helping of tea and cookies. She was oddly friendly. The paladin merely shrugged.

“Because my mind’s fucky, right? You’re a doctor who’s supposed to fix it.”

  The woman stared vacantly at Saidelia for a few moments, trying to comprehend her line of thinking. She gently shook her head, jotting down notes on her paper. She set the book aside for the time being, leaning forward, trying to bridge the professional distance between them

“Well first of all, that’s not what I do, I don’t think your mind is ‘fucky,’ as you put it. But you’re right, I’m here to help you. My name is Doctor Cecelia Eicker. I’m… I guess you could say a doctor of the mind, as you put it. We’re here to evaluate you, to make sure that everything is still alright.”

  It was Saidelia’s turn to stare dimly at the woman. It was a concept she was hardly familiar with. She nodded in agreement anyway, assuming she would glean more from a conversation than she would simply asking about the woman’s practice. She took a tentative sip of her tea, gazing down into the cup.

“Okay, so my mind’s hurt, and you need to fix it? I don’t think I’ve gotten much dumber. I feel fine. So we’re good here, right?”

“Saidelia, please sit. This isn’t an interrogation. How do I put this? So imagine you fall off a horse, and your arm hurt. You don’t just keep on riding, do you? You stop in at the infirmary and have a doctor look you over. My job is a lot like that, only for your mental health. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so. So what ‘mental horse’ did I fall off?”

  The woman shot Saidelia an incredulous stare, scribbling down a few notes before tapping her quill on the edge of the paper a few times. When she was finally finished, she smiled gently at the paladin, her tone sounding almost saccharine.

“Saidelia, I’m not here to tell you that you are broken. The reason why we’re meeting is that some of your comrades have expressed concern for you. You’ve spent a good deal of your formative years in the service, and all of your adult life actively deployed for the Crusade. In Northrend, of all places, which isn’t known as much of an environment for the living. I’m familiar with your service record, and I can imagine there’s quite a lot of pain in there. Right now, I just want to ask how you’re feeling.”

  Saidelia scowled softly, ruminating on the information she had just been given. She took a small sip of her tea, gauntlets off as she nibbled on a tea biscuit. She thought for a moment, eyes watching the flames in the fireplace dance across the logs, starting to char. She finally nodded, shifting her gaze back towards Cecelia. She even flashed a hint of a smile.

“I’m fine, how are you?”

  The woman sighed, scribbling down another passage in her book before letting it rest in her lap. She slowly slid the quill back into its inkwell on the table next to her. She flashed Saidelia a thin-lipped smile. It was polite, yet bearing a hint of impatience.

“I’m… Fine, thank you. Saidelia, I think you know as well as I do that I can’t just write down ‘fine’ in my report and move on with my day. If it was that easy, I’d be out of a job. Let’s try something else. Could I ask you some more specific, maybe personal questions?”

“Sure, I guess. What do you want to know?”

“So I’ve read a good deal of your service record in the past few days. You joined up somewhere around nine or ten, under Sir Dominicus?”

“Yeah. I was his page. Then I was a squire.”

“If I’m assuming correctly, he was a little bit like your father, after you left home?”

  Saidelia scowled, trying to focus on the idea of the man who had trained her as a girl. The warm memories, both of his guiding hand, and staunch gaze over her as a girl. She finally shrugged.

“Yeah, I mean. He was a bit better than my dad. Lot better, really. Kept me safe, helped me out. Seemed to care a lot. My real dad was a fucking drunk.”

“If I recall, he fell during the battle of the Wrathgate?”

“Yeah. I was a squire at the time, so I wasn’t fighting at the battle.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. So this is how you earned your title?”

“Yeah. Kind of a weird way to do things, but, you know, it was war.”

  Cecelia frowned, writing several notes before turning the page. She tore the completed page from her book, setting it aside. When she finished, she glanced back up at the paladin, nodding softly.

“Indeed. And I recall you were assigned to an auxiliary detachment, correct?”

“Yeah. Five of us.”

“And one of whom you were involved with?”

“Sam?”

“Yes, Sam. Cousland, I believe.”

“Yeah. We were married for a few months.”

  Cecelia offered Saidelia a sympathetic nod, poised to provide comfort if need be. She took a few more notes before placing the book down. She glanced at the golden band on Saidelia’s finger for a few moments.

“Again, I’m sorry Are you alright?”

“Alright as I can be, I suppose. Not really something you just get over.”

“I understand. I’m told you haven’t been making connections with your peers like you used to.”

  Saidelia pondered the notion briefly, taking another sip of her rapidly-cooling tea. She finally nodded, looking a little apprehensive.

“I suppose a little bit, maybe. Most days I just feel drained after finishing up what I have to do. Sometimes, I just go back to bed, or take a day off. I never was much of a Social person, I guess.”

“I see. The last thing I wanted to talk about was some of your field experiences. I’m sure you’ve been face to face with a fair amount of… Shall we say unpleasant situations. It’s part of the job, no?”

“Well, yeah. I fight monsters. I’ve seen just about all of Icecrown by now. Back when the Lich King was still alive, I saw a lot more of what they did.”

“And how much of it do you remember? Does it ever come back to you?”

“All of it, yeah. I see some of it in dreams. Some of it just starts happening again when I’m alone. Some of it when I hear sounds that remind me of it, or smells. It’s not just me. A couple other people have it. Combat jitters, right?”

  The woman no longer regarded Saidelia. She was preoccupied with frenziedly trying to be sure she had written everything down before jumping to the next topic. She ran her quill dry, procuring her next inkwell. The pages were quickly piling up.

“The last thing I wanted to talk about was your… Environment. No doubt you’re familiar with Saronite?”

“Yeah. Bleeding ore. Stuff gives me the creeps. Not a lot that does, but that stuff’s downright evil.”

“I’m familiar. I’ve spoken with a few of your comrades about it. You’ve been around it for a good chunk of time now, yes?”

“I have, yeah.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

  Saidelia felt a pang of dread well up in her stomach. She quickly drank the rest of her tea. She tapped on the arm of her chair, still searching for the words to describe how she felt. Her tone was far less candid now, haunted by a disquieting rasp. She stared unfocused past Cecelia, the visible skin from her hands and wrists beginning to form goosebumps in the warm room

“It oozes out of the ground like blood when you strike a vein. Hardens up after a few hours like a scab. S’why they call it bleeding ore. No matter what you do, hide it away in a flask, keep it locked in a box, you feel like it’s watching you. I’ve seen the slaves in the pits. They’re covered in the stuff. They wander around, mumbling. Sometimes you can understand them, sometimes it sounds like a different language. Sometimes they can hardly speak. Sometimes they don’t move at all. They don’t know much else. Can’t understand you no more. Say they’re talking to the voices. Voices that aren’t real. See things that aren’t real.”

  Cecelia nodded softly, still documenting as Saidelia explained the experience. Her expression grew worried as she came to a close in her passage, tearing off a few sheets that she had hastily passed over. She returned to the last page, drawing a deep sigh as she regarded the paladin. She smiled encouragingly.

“I understand. It’s fairly similar to the others that I have spoken who have had similar experiences with it. I only have one more question for you, Saidelia. It’s important that I know. Do you sometimes hear the voices too?”

“I… Yes.”

  Cecelia nodded, her expression darkening as she wrote her last few sentences. She tore the last page from the book, placing it with the small stack next to her.

“Thank you, Saidelia. I need to speak with some of my colleagues now. I’ll leave you the room. Take as much time as you need.” 

(Thank you so much to @madame-miersae for the ask!)

[millysaurusrex]

Heartbreak Warfare

When the snows settle and the shock of survival sets in, Gendry finds himself in the Winterfell forge. There is no need for weapons now, at least, not until they ride South, but it is the one place that makes him feel some semblance of normalcy.

Normal. He's not quite sure what that word means anymore. The world as he knew it had gone topsy turvy ever since Master Mott had woken him from his sack one morning declaring that he now belonged to the Night's Watch. Four moons ago, he was back in the slums of King's Landing. Now, he has fought an army of the dead, is a King's son, is now the Lord of his father's ancestral home - is this his new normal?

He stares into the burning coals of the forge and tries to think about the days before he'd come North. It helps stave off the cold to think about the heat of King's Landing. The North is cold - a cruel, unforgiving cold that seeps into your bones, no matter how many layers of leather and fur one wore. In the heat of the forge, he can almost pretend he is there again, on the Street of Steel, mending armor for Lannister soldiers. It's a fantasy that isn't particularly pleasant. The Lannisters were enemies - enemies to his father, enemies to the Starks, and he hadn't exactly been living in luxury during his days there. But, pretending he's back there, far from this place and the battle he's just survived, he can almost forget about her.

He’s an idiot, he knows. She’s said it enough times and he’s once again proved her right. What made him think that she would choose him? So, he’s a lord now, with a fancy title and a nice large keep by the sea - it doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered to Arya. He could be a no named bastard smith living in the slums of Flea Bottom, or a King’s son, fighting alongside her noble born brother. It doesn’t matter who he is, it’s who she is not.

He wants to laugh. Wants to cry. But he settles for beating a discarded breastplate in the forge until it cracks and crumbles and becomes more useless than it was before. It’s okay. He knows angry. He likes angry. Anger is something he’s felt since he was a child. Anger at the way the world treated him due to his circumstances, anger at the way highborns sold and traded him like he was cattle. Anger is something natural to him, if all the stories of King Robert’s fury are true.

So, he beats his hammer against one item after the next, not caring about the mess he’s made or the protest his muscles make as the hours tick by. He can deal with the physical pain even if his body is still fatigued from the battle. He won’t stop because if he stops then he thinks of her, thinks of her mouth, warm, as he kissed her, thinks of her face when she refused his proposal.

He wants to be mad at her. Wants to think that of course she turned him down- he was too bloody lowborn to be kin to my lady, high - but he knows that’s not true. He’d seen it in her eyes, the way they’d crumbled when he sank to one knee, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a drunken frenzy. No, he cannot blame her for turning him away. And that angers him all the more. Because what did he think, that just because they had shared a night together, that just because he had been given a title by a foreign queen, that she would somehow see him differently? She had told him that she just wanted to know what it was like being with a man. He'd taken the softness in her eyes, the way she pulled him flush against her to mean that maybe, just maybe, she wanted him the way he wanted her - by his side, forever and ever. But, he's a fool, because that's not her - she's not a lady, not one to settle down with some man. She's the Breaker of the Dawn, the Slayer of the Night, and she doesn't need a bastard-blacksmith-turned-Lord. He cannot fault her for that.

He can, however, be angry that she left without another word. He’d grown used to her presence since arriving in Winterfell, and he knew, just knew she was gone. She’d not said a word to anyone, if the harried look on her sister’s face meant anything, or the way Jon called her name well into the night. He wants desperately to look for her, to follow Jon into the woods that surrounded Wintertown, but he does not. If she has left, she does not want to be found. And he stays in his forge and waits until it is time to head south to join what is left of the Dragon Queen’s army.

He could sit this one out. Jon tells him so. He could go to Storms End, take his ancestral home. He deserves it.

But the idea of sitting in an unfamiliar castle tastes sour in his mouth and the thought of losing himself in the carnage of another war sounds better, and his fingers itch for the bloody, deadly fight that’s sure to come when they take back the Kingdoms from the evil Lannister queen. He’d like to bash her head in with his hammer, he thinks. He’s fantasized about it, about standing over her as she looks on in terror, thinking Robert’s ghost had come back to haunt her. And all that rage, all the pain and suffering he’d endured just because she was a jealous, vile woman - he’d make her suffer. And oh - what a sweet suffering it would be.

He runs a hand across his face, wondering just when his thoughts had gotten so dark. He never used to think this way, about murder and bloodshed. Maybe this was what war did to a person. What suffering did.

Either way, he doesn’t mind. He likes it. It spurns him on, keeps him going, keeps him alive. And right now, life is just about survival. Survive one war to fight the next. Survive each and every night until the gods no longer see you fit to walk this earth.

As he travels south, he steadies his mind on the task at hand. They may have survived the dead but they still have Cersei's army to contend with. She has the golden company and Euron Greyjoy's fleets, or so Jamie Lannister says. He doesn't know much of anything about the golden company nor the Kraken Pirate's army, but he knows King's Landing, knows the goldcloaks and the Lannister army. He'd armed them, been around them for years. He'd overheard them talk about the dragon queen and what they hoped to do to the Northerners. He'd watched as the Sept of Balor erupted in green flames, heard the screams of those locked within. He'd heard the Lannister soldiers laugh about that, too.

He may not be a war strategist like Jon or Davos or the Unsullied leader, but he knows just how dangerous the Lannister queen is. She may just be a woman, seemingly so insignificant after what they've just endured, but he knows better than to underestimate Cersei. There is nothing she wouldn't do if it meant she could keep her golden crown.

.

When they reach Dragonstone, Jon requests his presence in the council room. It's a dark, drab room, and a large table carved in stone to show a map of Westeros sits grandly in the middle. He's seen it before, when the Red Witch had brought him to Stannis. He involuntary grimaces, the way he always does when he thinks about that night so many years ago. That had been the only time he'd ever met a family member and it's not exactly a fond memory.

Jon clears his throat and Gendry realizes that the King in the North has said something that he's missed.

"Pardon, your grace?"

"I asked if you would come join us." Jon motions toward the table which is surrounded by the new Dothraki leader, the Unsullied captain, the Imp and Lord Varys. The dragon queen stands at the window, her back to them. Gendry blinks.

"M'lord, I'm no war strategist, I don't understand -"

"No, but you fought along side me, same as any other man at this table. And you're a lord now and so your place is here."

He wants to argue but Jon fixes him with that small smile, the one that says 'please shut up, and just do it,' a mixture of exasperation and appreciation. He knows that look. He's seen it on Arya's face a thousand times over the years. She’d looked at he or Hot Pie that way whenever either of them said something particularly stupid. She'd given it to him when she requested her weapon. He swallows that thought and nods before joining Jon at the table.

“They have taken down one of the dragons and Cersei now has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet. They haven’t nearly as many of the Iron Born since Yara Greyjoy has taken back the Iron Islands, but they still have the Golden Company.” Jon says, motioning toward the stone map.

“How many men fight for the Golden Company?” Queen Daenerys asks, although she has not looked away from her place at the window. Gendry isn’t sure how he feels about the dragon queen. She’s beautiful, it’s true, but there is a coldness to her that he cannot quite name, and even her kindest actions hold a sense of threat. He had seen it in her eyes the night she had named him Lord of Storm’s End and it makes his insides churn when he thinks too hard about her reasoning. He’s learned well enough by now that highborns never do anything out of pure kindness. Except maybe Jon.

“Nearly ten thousand, your grace.” Ser Davos says. Gendry grimaces. Ten thousand and at least five thousand Iron Born. Already the army is twice their size and that doesn’t include the Westerosi who fight for her.

“Why would a foreign army fight for a Lannister queen?” Daenerys asks, finally turning from the window. Her strange purple eyes are hard as steel. Gendry can’t blame her. She’s lost so much already. He's felt the steel harden inside him as well.

“Well, enough gold can make a man do just about anything. And the Lannisters have lots of it.”

“And they are backed by the Iron Bank as well.” Lord Varys says, his voice smooth and cool, but the indecision in his eyes evident. Everyone seems to be on their toes and it makes Gendry all the more uneasy.

“But they are sellswords, are they not?” Queen Daenerys asks. She looks at Jon for a moment before turning to Lord Tyrion. “In my experience, it isn’t too difficult to sway the allegiance of men who fight for gold.”

“Yes, your grace, but the men of the Golden Company are not like other sellswords.” Davos says, his hands ever clasped behind his back. “They are notoriously reliable and have never been known to break a contract. Their leader, Harry Strickland, is as honorable a man as any.”

“You know him?” Queen Daenerys’ voice is hard and accusatory. Davos pauses, glancing at Gendry and then her, before answering.

“Yes, but only briefly. They came to Storm’s End, many years ago, to make treaty with Stannis Baratheon.”

Gendry raises an eyebrow. It is still strange to hear about his uncle, and even stranger to remember that his uncle was the same man who wanted his blood to be king. He doesn’t miss how Queen Daenerys’ eyes slit to him before moving to Davos.

“And what about Cersei’s army?”

“While we were fighting in the North, their army has had time to rest and build and train.” Jon says, sliding an uneasy look at the queen. “Who knows how many soldiers she’s gathered.”

Gendry speaks before he can catch himself. “At least eight thousand, your grace.”

Jon, Queen Daenerys, Davos and all other eyes turn to him. He feels his face warm and prickle. He moves closer to the table to stand beside Davos. “When I was in King’s Landing, I armed the Lannister army. I got to know them, listened to them talk while they looked around my shop. Last I heard, they had eight thousand soldiers.”

Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his tired face. “So, that’s eight thousand Lannisters, five thousand Iron Born and ten thousand men from the Free Cities. All men who are loyal to the Lannisters.” The heaviness of the situation is evident and Gendry squirms in his boots. Somehow, this is worse than the threat of the dead army.

Queen Daenerys seems to contemplate the situation before raising a brow.

“If their honor will not convince them to our side, then they can die with their honor, with the rest of them. To hells with all this waiting. I will fly Drogon to the Red Keep and burn it to the ground, with every single one of her soldiers and their honor.” The word sounds like a curse as she spits it out, and rage forms in her violet eyes.

“Your grace, Cersei has opened the gates into the keep. There are thousands of common folk there. You cannot –” Queen Daenerys’ slams her hands on the stone window and she turns to face her Hand with unbridled rage.

“I can and I will. I have followed your guidance, Lord Tyrion. I took my men to Winterfell to fight the Northern battle and lost over half my men. I took my dragons beyond the wall for the Northern cause and lost one to the dead. I have waited as year after year has passed by while Cersei sits on my throne. I am through waiting. I will take what is mine with fire and blood.”

The room is quiet. Gendry stares at the Queen, his mouth ajar. She intends to burn them all, he realizes with a jolt and stories he’d heard of her father, the Mad King, flood through his mind. Stories of dragon fire and burning flesh that adults told naughty children to keep them in line. Truth be told, when he had first met the dragon queen, he had not seen any resemblance to her father. She had a kindness about her that he hadn’t expected from the tales he’d been told of the Targaryans. But looking at her now, her pretty face twisted in ugly fury, he wonders if he sees a spark of the madness.

It is Jon who speaks next and he calmly steps to the queen, touching her shoulder with unexpected familiarity. “Dany, we will take your throne.” His words are careful and kind, but stern. “But, we cannot let thousands of innocents die for Cersei Lannister. Remember what I told you, out there on the beaches?” He motioned his head toward the window. “Remember I told you that if you bring fire and destruction that you are not any different. And what the Seven Kingdoms needs most now is someone different.”

Queen Daenerys is quiet for a moment and Gendry takes a breath. It almost seems as if Jon is able to convince her – until she speaks again.

“Someone like you?”

And at once it seems like all the air has been sucked out of the room despite the large, open windows. Everyone freezes, Gendry included. The accusation in the queen’s voice is clear, and she marches away from Jon who is staring at her open mouthed and wide eyed.

“Dany, I-”

“It doesn’t matter.” She snaps. “Every minute we spend here arguing about what move to make is another minute that usurper sits on the throne. You can join me, or you can stay here and debate your honor, but I am through with waiting. My army has been slaughtered. My children have been shot down like cattle. Jorah is dead and Missandei is dead. I will not wait another moment longer.”

And with that she marches from the room and the silence is deafening.

.

That night, as he sits in the room the queen has given him – a room nicer than any room he’s ever had – he thinks. He thinks about the pending war, thinks about the fury in the dragon queen’s eyes. She has lost so much. He cannot imagine the pain she must have felt watching her friend slaughtered before her eyes. He knows pain. He's felt it all his life, having everyone he's ever loved taken from him. His mother, who's face he can barely recall but who's soft hands and warm voice penetrates his memory, had been taken by fever. He'd grown to respect and look to Mott as a father figure, and he'd been cast away - or not cast away, but spirited away to protect him. He'd finally learned he had a family, only to remember that they were all dead. And Arry, Arya, the scrawny little girl pretending to be a boy in the wake of a seemingly endless war...He'd thought he'd lost her once, to the Frey's at the Red Wedding, alongside her lord brother. But, there she'd been, in Winterfell, taller, cleaner than he'd ever seen her. More beautiful. And they had shared a moment together that would forever be burned into his memory. But, now she was gone as well and he was once again all alone. Yes, he can imagine the queen's pain.

And right then, he feels guilty for the pain that has gripped his heart, feels guilty for feeling sorry for himself. His thoughts of Arya - playing their last moments together over and over in his head - seems foolish now. He could very well die tomorrow – die in the same shithole he had been born in - and here he is pining away after a girl that was never really his to begin with. The anger that radiated off the queen and Jon’s look of concern - it is clear that they may have won the war against the dead, and they might win the Great War – but the fighting will never be over. His dreams of grey eyes and a wolfish grin suddenly do nothing to warm him.

He has it all, has everything he could have ever asked for - a name, a title, a home - but of course, it means nothing without her. Lord of the Stormlands or bastard blacksmith, without her he doesn’t have what really matters - family. None of it matters now, though. She's spoken her peace and disappeared, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see the grey eyed Stark again.

But, he'll survive. He's survived the slums of Flea Bottom. Survived the nightmare that was Harrenhal. He survived the Red Witch and the seas around Dragonstone. He survived beyond the Wall and the Battle of the Dawn. Baratheons are survivors. He can survive this as well.

[inkbun]

What if Sombra got into a heated argument with her S/O but before they can settle it out they get called on a mission. Things go south and her S/O almost dies and gets amnesia?

Ooh, I liked writing this one. Doing everything but the amnesia part for the sake of time, but if you send a follow-up reminder I’ll write a sequel. Enjoy! 💔

(Warning: *Very* slight gore and drug mentions, if you’re sensitive to that sort of stuff)

Sombra

Words: 1,860

Genre: Romance, Angst & Tragedy

“You lied to me, Olivia,” you snarled, dashing your tablet on the table. The screen cracked, but you hardly cared. “I trusted you, and you screwed me over…again.”

“I didn’t lie,_______,” snapped Sombra, violet eyes caught between fury and fear. 

She reached out to you, touch pleading. You swatted her away. 

No matter how much you wanted to trust her—no, needed to—she found a way of screwing things up. At first, it’d been minor slip-ups: a shady infiltration here, a wetwork operation there. It was grey as hell and heinous in spots, but you didn’t sign up for Blackwatch to be a moral paragon. 

After all, you’d sought her out like bees after honey. Forget that you’d made a rule against sleeping with your colleagues, having turned down both Lena’s and Jamison’s advances before. 

She was technicolor bright, had you wrapped around her manicured finger from the first “Hey there.”

Brilliant, playful and menacing—it was a combination you’d never run across before. Her laugh was intoxicating, vanished all good sense and thrust you into her web for the better part of eight months. 

Things were a little disjointed—she had a habit of sneaking up on you during work, and your schedules were out-of-sync due to last minute missions.

Still it progressed, the two of you declaring yourselves exclusive two months of dating. 

Four months in and you’d saved her life during an omnic ambush at Petra—it was the first time she said “I love you.” You stayed with her in the infirmary until she was better, made it a point to volunteer for her missions whenever they had an extra spot. 

Though relationships were officially forbidden between agents, Sombra made a point of kissing you on the dropship before and after each mission. “Para la buena suerte,” she’d say, tapping a finger against your lip.

Six months in, she shattered your heart. 

While you didn’t approve of the “side hustle” excursions she did for Commander Reyes, it never took her away from you for more than three days. So, when she disappeared for a full week on a recon mission with no comms contact, you assumed the worst. 

You asked around for her, going so far as visiting the younger Shimada for intel. No one saw hide nor purple hair, widening the pit of loss in your chest to a cavern that left you dazed. You’d just begun to grieve, bawling quietly in your room until she unexpectedly returned to base.

Except she wasn’t your Olivia. 

For starters she was blonde, augments switched from purple to pink. She was twitchy and short, bouncing from gleeful to irritated in the span of minutes. 

When you asked where she’d been, she answered with a cryptic “away,” before distracting you with vicious kisses that backed you onto your bed. 

To your shame it worked, sheer relief of having her home outweighing your curiosity. 

That is, until a baggy fell from her go-bag when you were cleaning your quarters. 

It was packed with white powder, a pink sugar skull on the front. You secretly took it to the lab, ignoring Dr. O'Deorain’s scowl as you handed over the suspicious packet. Her accented voice told you what already knew. 

“Cocaine—Los Muertos product by the looks of it.” Shaken, you confronted Sombra, hoping she had a good explanation. 

She did. “A party favor from Don Galano, nothing more,_________. I couldn’t get the intel Reyes needed without a show of faith.“ 

You believed her. Sombra wasn’t a Girl Scout and you weren’t a fool. 

Los Muertos was a serious international gang and her connections were a great source of intel for Overwatch. Still, you didn’t like how quickly she’d resumed that dangerous persona. 

The ordeal blew over, though she insisted on finishing the Muertos’ coke and keeping the blonde hair. 

Discomfort lodged in your chest until at last you turned to her one night, pulling her close against you. Trembling, you pressed a kiss to her forehead; your words came out choked. 

”Promise you won’t take as many risky missions, Liv—or at least tell me before you do? I can’t lose you.“

“I promise, mi cielo.”

And then she did it again. 

This one cut you to the quick, hurt compounded by the “cover” she’d assumed. Reyes sent Sombra and McCree to intercept a Talon-bound weapons shipment ferried by Deadlock. Jesse was playing prodigal son, supposed to ask for an “in” on a courier mission to prove his loyalty. 

Olivia played his girlfriend, leveraging her notoriety as Sombra to lend some credibility to the farce.

You knew this not because she told you, but because you happened to pass by the Blackwatch control room on your way to the R&D wing. Genji, O'Deorain and Reyes were huddled around a screen, headsets on as they monitored the situation. Backup teams were on standby to bust the deal, but the Deadlock leader was skeptical of Jesse’s loyalty. 

“You show up outta nowhere and expect me to believe you, Jess?” said the portly man, hand fingering a revolver. “I don’t. Now your lady here—she’s different. I’ve seen what she can do.”Reyes’ voice rung out, jolting your terrified trance. “Sell it, Colomar. We need those weapons.”

So she did. You heard her speak the words, your heart caught between betrayal and worry for her safety—Deadlock wasn’t known for their mercy.

“And I’ve seen what he can do,” she rasped, trailing a finger down Jesse’s shoulder. “If I didn’t think he was back for real I would’ve shot him myself. He’s got my stamp of approval, O'Toole…”

Sombra trailed off, turning to face McCree. You had a good idea where this was going, had seen that same heavy-lidded gaze leveled at you so many times before.

“Don’t, Liv—please,” you whispered, not caring if anyone heard you. They didn’t, and neither did she. 

Sombra closed the gap and kissed McCree, looping her arms around his shoulders as he took her hips. 

It was enough to break you. An inhuman noise ripped from your throat, grabbing Genji’s attention. 

You scurried away before he caught up, ignoring cries of “__________, come back!”

She doesn’t care, she doesn’t care… The miserable song kicked in your head for three days, visions of her slung around McCree enough to make you ill. 

Mission or not, you hated that she was so quick to ignore the one request you’d made of her. Her refusal to tell you about the mission coupled with her kissing Jesse ached something awful.

Reeling from the hurt, you stormed 76’s office and accepted the first high-risk mission you could, bypassing his concerns with a growled,“Do it.”

Sombra’s voice tore you from your thoughts, brought them back to the woman who’d carved your heart out. “I told you, it was part of the mission and I couldn’t tell—”

“Just stop!” you shouted, slinging your go-bag over your shoulder. Furious tears wet your cheeks, belying the little composure you’d maintained. “The coke I could get past. I wasn’t happy about it, but I got why. As long as you don’t pick it up again, I’m fine. But fucking McCree? He’s been after you for months and you jump at the first opportunity to pose as his girlfriend?”

“He’s not been after me…” she started, shadow of guilt on her face.

“You’re many things, Liv; stupid ain’t one of ‘em. After you, interested in you—however you put it, he wants sex and you dangled it in front of him without a goddamn thought for how I’d feel about it…you didn’t even tell me where you were going. Again.”

Sombra’s worry hardened to outrage. “You think I’d cheat on you, __________?”

There it was, the question that haunted you at the bottom of the wine bottles strewn around your room. You looked at her—your Olivia—and remembered the flutter you’d felt the first day you saw her on-base.

She’d winked at you, tongue caught between her teeth in a silent chuckle. 

An angel, you’d thought, inquiring after her just as soon as you could. Standing here now with a chasm between, you realized just how much your opinion soured since then. You held her gaze, answering with the only truth you knew.

“I don’t know.“ 

You were halfway out the door when Sombra managed to speak. “Where are you going?”

“Does it matter?” you quipped, tired of the ache whenever you were around her. “Either way it’s away from you.”

With that, you were off to Jakarta.  A war zone since the omnic uprising, 76 sent you, Tracer, and Roadhog to retrieve an encrypted archive lodged in one of the overrun Overwatch research stations. 

He told you it’d be rough, but that was an understatement. It was a shitshow, the three of you spotted by omnics as soon as you touched down. 

Roadhog’s shrapnel gun kept them at bay while you picked them off with a pulse rifle. Tracer eliminated whatever you couldn’t down, the three of you clearing a smoke-filled path to the lab. 

Sure you were reckless, and no you didn’t need to bash that omnic’s head until you saw circuits, but there were no medals awarded for being merciful.

All was going well until you breached the archive door. Taking point, you used your decryption kit on the biometrics and walked in. Whether it was your team’s success up to this point or the tide of emotion from your fight with Sombra, you weren’t paying attention. 

So, when your foot tripped an omnic trap and activated a bot shrouded in the darkness five feet away, you didn’t notice.

But you sure as hell did when it slammed its fist against your head. You yowled, aiming your gun at the attacker. The damn thing was fast, stomping its metal foot on your ribs before you could block. 

CRACK! 

Your vision went white with agony, smeared by blood from your head wound. You wailed, jaw strained by the scream of pain.

Roadhog hooked the bot, shooting it point-blank with his shotgun. It fell dead but you didn’t care—your ribs were broken and you were clawing for breath. 

Tracer was immediately at your side, radioing for emergency evac clearance and a triage team. With another shuddering inhale came a white-hot stab of pain as you felt something pierce you. 

The air fell out of you, failed gasps burning your chest as it collapsed under the puncture.

Your vision went black at the edges as you felt a big pair of hands scoop you up, fading further as you saw Tracer race ahead to reach the dropship. Ceding to the lack of oxygen and trickling blood loss, you welcomed the black oblivion. 

In it, you saw a pair of violet eyes and her wry smile.

[indigosandviolets]

If I Didn’t Care - Eugene Sledge x OC(2)

Word Count - 1279

Summary - Lubomyra was an outsider after fleeing from war in 1943, escaping to Troy in the United States. She thought that she was going to live the same life forever until a certain ginger stranger shows up and changes everything.

Song - I’ll Be Seeing You by Frank Sinatra

Part - 2/5

Lubomyra had struggled during the first part of the day, unable to focus in her classes because of the construction going on across the street from her small apartment. She had barely made it through the three-hour-long English class without reverting back to her native tongue, but she pushed through and made it work without a single complaint.

"Good morning, Myra," Anna said as the girl exited the bathroom, day clothes in hand and nametag barely sticking to her after a sloppy job of applying the pin to her shirt.

"Pryvit."

"What's wrong, Myra? Your eyes are dropping."

Myra adjusted her pin before turning to face the older woman. "Construction outside. I believe they were fixing the sidewalk."

Anna sighed. "Well, we've got a big crowd out there for lunch. I've got you on bar duty, do you think you can handle it?"

"Tak."

Myra finished tying her apron around her and Anna patted her on the back, giving the girl a sense of confidence before going out and taking orders. She took each with as much care as she could, putting on a smile every time she saw a new face and was as polite as she could be. No one smiled back until she reached the end of the bar.

"Hello, may I take your order?" SHe asked with a smile, not looking up from her scratch pad until she had finished her sentence.

When she did, she saw the same ginger hair and pale face that she had seen yesterday.

"Just a coffee," The southern man said, prompting Myra to look over at the clock. It was half past noon and not a time for coffee.

"Are you sure?" She asked, looking back from the clock. The young man chuckled, and Myra wasn't sure why.

"I'm sure," He stated, his southern drawl coming forward in his speech. She wrote down the order and walked back into the workroom then too the kitchen, handing off each of the orders and grabbing a mug and pot of coffee, still warm from that morning's orders.

Pouring out the coffee and serving the army boy, Myra became aware of her own accent, causing a lump in her throat. She swallowed and handed the cup back to the ginger.

"Thank you, ma'am."

The same response as the day before, yet Myra couldn't believe she was hearing it. As the day passed on, people came and went from the bar, except for the army boy, who only asked for refills for his coffee. He seemed patient as if he was waiting for someone. Soon, bustling restaurant returned to its normal slowness, and Myra stopped to refill the man's coffee once more.

"Where does the name 'Lubomyra' come from?" He asked her as she tipped the pot of coffee. It was his first words other than an order or a thank you.

"Ukraine. It was my grandmothers'."

The man nodded. "It's very nice."

"Thank you."

Myra finished pouring the coffee and set it down behind the bar, as it was now empty. The man spoke again. "Mine's Eugene."

Myra looked around, seeing there was only one other person at the dinner, so she stopped to talk to him. "Are you in the army?"

"I was. 1st Marine Division in the Pacific."

"You're very brave," Myra said. She remembered her father, a man hardened by his time in the first world war, waking up in cold sweats and screaming curses and incoherent words in the middle of the night, waking up every family member in the small house, sometimes even the neighbors. She wondered if Eugene had those same nightmares.

Eugene shook his head, though. "I had to convince my parents to let me join, and if anything I wasn't."

Myra nodded. "No, you are brave. I have seen what war does to people, I have run from it myself, yet you ran towards the war. You are brave."

Eugene smiled softly. "Thank you."

"I'm only stating the truth."

Eugene took a sip of his coffee before speaking again. "So, how long have you been in America?"

"Three years, it will be four in September."

"Your English is good for only three years."

Myra shrugged. "I suppose," she said before leaning her elbows down on the table. "You have a very southern accent. Where are you from?"

"Alabama."

"What are you doing in Troy?"

Eugene shrugged. "I needed to get outta of my own head."

Myra soon realized what this meant. She glanced over at the other patron, making sure they weren't paying attention before speaking. "My father was haunted by war. He was so fidgety, he couldn't think straight, he would attack you if you came up from behind, he had raging nightmares that could wake an entire village. You're so calm, Eugene, how are you not like that?"

Eugene swallowed. "I'm not calm. I used to hunt, and now I can't even hold a gun without shakin', even if I'm just tryin' to put it away," he stated, his voice getting quieter as he continued to speak. "I'll have nightmares, too. Not as bad as your fathers, though. I really don't think that mine could ever compare to your fathers."

"Kin' der'mo!" Myra shouted, making Eugene jump a little, but no complaint from the kitchen, the staff, or the other patron. "It is just as bad, Eugene. Nightmares are nightmares, and if they are real to you, then they are real."

Eugene smiled. "Thank you, Lubomyra."

"You can call me Myra, that's what everyone else does. I assume it's easier to say."

"That's what people call a nickname, Myra," Eugene chuckled.

"Oh. Do you have one?"

"I have a few. Usually, people will give 'em to you."

"Can I give you one?" Myra asked, to which Eugene nodded.

"Lyubov," Myra stated happily, knowing that Eugene wouldn't know what it meant.

"That's a new one. Lyubov.”

Myra smiled. A silence grew between the pair and a bell rung out from the workroom, signaling the end of Myra's shift. She looked up at the clock and saw that almost five hours had passed since Eugene had ordered his first cup of coffee, making her eyes widen. "Boh! You've only had coffee and you've been here for five hours!"

Eugene shrugged. "You haven't had anything."

Myra started to undo her apron and head back into the workroom before she realized she had left Eugene sitting where he was.

"I'll meet you out in the front!" She called before taking her time slot and punching out before changing into her day clothes. She threw her bag over her shoulder and shoved as many of her textbooks into it as possible before starting to walk out the backdoor, Janet stopping her. Janet had started her shift that day as Myra's ended, meaning she had no idea as to what was going on.

"Why are you in a rush?"

"I'm having a conversation with Eugene!" Myra said happily.

"Who?"

"The army boy from yesterday! He started talking to me and now we're going to talk outside. Tse prekrasno!"

Janet smiled, laughing a little. "You look like you haven't eaten all day."

"I haven't."

"You haven't eaten all day?"

"Ni."

Janet sighed before heading into the kitchen and returning with a large roll, a few inches in size. "You need your strength. Now go and get him."

Myra smiled before walking out the back door and around the restaurant to find Eugene waiting for her.

"I'm sorry if you had to wait long. Janet gave me some bread," Myra explained, breaking off a piece and giving it to Eugene, who accepted it with a grin.

"Oh, I don't mind."

~

Key :

Pryvit - Hello

Tak - Yes

Kin’ der’mo - Horseshit

Lyubov - Love

Boh - God

Tse prekrasno - It’s wondeful

Ni - No

Tags : @smittyjaws @myfreakydeaky @poisonquinzell @justahappylilblog

[anonwriter27]

Sweet Dreams Chapter 10 :)

I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting! It has been a cray few months and during I started to lack confidence in my writing. Hopefully this chapter will make up for my absence, i hope you enjoy!

War, it is a gruesome and bloody ordeal. Some enter the battlefield with a surge or righteousness, self assured that the blood on their blades drip with honour and pride. Others walked onto the field with an arrogance that welcomed death, knowing they would give it their best shot but not naïve enough to think it will be enough to save them. Then there are the few who tremble as the sword is placed into their sweaty palms; their bones shake with fear at their likely deaths, trembling in a body that has not yet lived. In the lavender field where our romance started, a battle was about to take place. Jaime Lannister walked his army onto the field; they ranged from noble knights to stable boys, but despite these differences they all had one thing in common. You see Jaime Lannister had told the tale of his niece’s imprisonment. His hands moved enthusiastically as he told his men how the dark King of the underworld dragged Myrcella into the Underworld kicking and screaming. He stood on a table and yelled to all who would hear that Greywind would eat his victims before Myrcella’s very eyes. Jaime even shed a tear as he confessed that his niece had been defiled by the King of the dead. Every man who heard the Lion of Lannister’s tale all had one thing in common, an urge to kill the King of the Underworld. Jaime strode into battle on the back of a white horse, his gold armour glistening under the dying beams of the sun. His brother Tyrion rode beside him on a chestnut mare, and while his brother was confident of the battle to come, Tyrion was apprehensive. “As much as I admire your bravery Jaime, I’m not entirely sure you’ve thought this through.” Jaime looked to his brother, “What is there to think through Tyrion? We fight for our niece’s honour by defeating the man who took her from us.” Tyrion had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “Be that as it may, we only have two scenarios that will play out, and neither are good.” Jaime continued to look at him confused, Tyrion sighed and continued to enlighten his brother. “We are going into battle against the King of the Underworld, he sentences souls to death on a daily basis, and I do not think we will be an exception to that.” Jaime shook his head, “Ah, but that depends on if we lose. If we win…” “Then we will have killed the love of Myrcella’s life and she will never forgive us.” Tyrion interjected. Jaime scoffed and looked straight ahead. Despite her best efforts to convince them otherwise, no one but Tyrion believed Myrcella when she said she loved Robb. Tyrion would not let the issue go, “She did not see us off this morning…” “She locked herself in her room out of anger, once she has calmed down she will see that we have saved her from a life of misery.” Jaime stated with a tone of finality, he clearly wanted Tyrion to drop the subject. Little did either of them know, Myrcella was long gone, they were fighting to protect a girl who had already run away in the dead of night. Jaime rode on ahead to meet with his commanders leaving Tyrion to watch him go. “Oh my foolish brother, I do not think you know what misery is.” ………… Jaime and Tyrion sat side by side on their horses waiting for the opposition to arrive. Little was discussed when Jaime declared battle on Robb. A letter had been sent and the only reply was a date and location for the battle. As the light of the sun weakened, a bone shivering wind replaced its warm rays. While the soldiers were too focused to notice this change, it didn’t go unnoticed by Tyrion. It was the middle of summer, the midday sun should have been burning brightly. Tyrion looked around him, a cold mist was spreading throughout the field, the once vibrant violet of the lavender petals began to crisp under the mist’s cold touch and shrivel into a black ball. Tyrion turned to his brother, a fear setting in him. “Jaime I fear we are not fighting against ordinary soldiers.” “Quiet Tyrion.” Jaime scolded in a harsh whisper. Before Tyrion could speak further the distinct sound of footsteps pierced the silent air. The frosted ground crunched under the weight of the steps. All light from the sun had vanished now, the pale grey of the clouds was the only light that surrounded them. As they walked out of their hiding place behind the trees, fear shot through the spine of every soldier. It was as Tyrion feared, these were no mere men. They were White Walkers. They were an army of the undead, ghostly white and cool to the touch. The commanders of the army came out on horses, their manes mangled in frozen blood and their bones visible under a tight layer of skin. Their were hundreds of them walking slowly towards Jaime and his army. Hundreds of vacant expressions, hundreds of limbs dragging on the floor behind them, and hundreds of piercing blue eyes that would haunt a man even in the most peaceful of sleeps. Though it would have gone unnoticed by the untrained eye, Jaime’s calm exterior faltered; Tyrion noticed. “Brother, it is not too late. Command your army to turn back.” He urged. “No. We can win this.” Jaime replied stubbornly; his eagerness to kill Robb had blinded him to reason. “Look around you Jaime..” Tyrion spoke harshly, and his brother did just that. As Jaime looked around him he saw the fear of his men. Grown, battle hardened men had reverted back to young boys, staring at death for the first time. Without allowing himself time to second guess himself, Jaime spoke the word he regretted as soon as it left his lips. “Charge!” ………… It was a battle that would go down in history, not for it’s easy victory, or acts of gets bravery, but because of its unrelenting sense of despair. Jaime had learned early on in the battle that it was near impossible to kill these beasts. He would swing his sword right through the middle of one and it would continue fighting in two parts. He would decapitate one only for its body to still charge at him while its head would bite at his ankles. He would stab one right through the heart and it would pull the sword out and claim the weapon for its own. Tyrion watched his brothers turmoil; Jaime fought blindly cutting at everything that moved while he searched for Robb on the battlefield. Tyrion had to think fast, ‘how does one cut down a monster as cold as ice?’ And then it clicked, fire. “Light the torches!” Tyrion yelled at the men. As they did he stormed down on the back of his horse along with the remaining soldiers and set fire to everything in their path. The creatures cried out in guttural screams that made the soldiers ears bleed. It took hours but the strong hoard of White Walkers had diminished into a pile of ash. Jaime stood up from under a pile of rotting corpses, fire in his eyes. “Where is he?” He spoke but his soldiers did not respond. “Where is he!?” Jaime bellowed. He looked crazed, his hair disheveled while his green eyes shone with wrath. “M’lord!” A soldier called, his arms securely wrapped around a surviving commander of the White Walkers. Jaime walked up to the beast, his face mere inches from the creature as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Where is your King?” The creature twisted its head, its bones cracking at the movement. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Speak!” Jaime yelled, his voice dripping with venom. The creature smiled a twisted grin, “At his wedding of course.” ………….. Yes, War is a gruesome and bloody ordeal. Some cause death with the promise of it being for the greater good. Others welcome death as though it were an old friend. Then there are the few whose hands tremble throughout the entire battle. But on very rare occasions there is one who smiles at the start of the battle, before the first drop of blood has been spilt. And as Robb spoke his vows and kissed his beautiful wife he revealed such a smile, because he knew he had already won.

[dimancheetoile]

Give me breath

Written for @shikasaku-week

Day One: Duty/Free Will (or read it on AO3)

At first, the drums. A rhythmic, heavy sound, echoing in the storm that's been raging for the past two days. It's loud and sickening and it calls to the hearts of the warriors, crawling in the mud and blood of their allies, over their corpses lying on the mines.

Then, it's the singing. It's just as loud, but synchronised in a way that speaks of past battles and habits. It's hard to make out the words over the storm and the drums, but everyone knows them. How it tells the story of the children of Fire, of the land they're dying for. The story of those nameless faces who are going to fall for what they stand for.

The shinobi of old times, when the job still meant stealth and assassination, are legends by now. Those that are still trained like this aren't in the front lines of this war. Now is the time for battle, and it's an army the enemy will see marching. What matters now is how many soldiers the generals are willing to sacrifice, how many losses are acceptable if it means winning the war.

Back in the camp, where the decisions are made, only the legends remain.

"That isn't an option, Commander. We need to strike at their heart while the troops act as a distraction."

The sneer of Shikamaru's face would make a weaker man stand down. "And I'm telling you that Konoha won't stand for this. If you still want our help, you'll have to accept that."

"Look at you, with your naive morale and principles! This isn't how you win a war!"

"Raikage-sama, with all due respect, you can go fuck yourself. I'm going to check on my men."

Shikamaru marches out of the tent without a glance for the dumbfounded faces of the people around the table. He is seething with anger, his breath shortening as the rage takes over and he needs—

He almost whimpers when a familiar hand slips in his. Shikamaru doesn't need to look to know who joined his steps towards the encampment. Instead, he tightens his hold and focuses on the calloused knuckles and scars he can feel on Sakura's hardened skin.

"How did it go?"

"It's a clusterfuck," he mumbles, glad that the men are purposefully not looking in their direction. "A is a bastard who wants to send our people to the slaughter, Otokaze does his best, but he's only been in position for two days, so it's not much. Ao is still unaccounted for, and they have yet to find a replacement for him. Kurotsuchi is okay, I guess, but she doesn't want to stand too firmly on Konoha's side, not after when let her grand-father die to protect Gaara." He snorts. "The good it did us."

"Hey, stop it. We had no way of predicting what was going to happen. For now, they agreed to put Otokaze in his place, so let him prove himself."

Shikamaru sighs. "You're right. I'm too close to this."

"I'm always right," she smirks, but doesn't disagree with his assessment.

This war is a mess. After the Fourth and the creation of the Alliance, they all thought they would be done with the fighting for a century or twenty. Of course, the universe disagreed. Shikamaru admits that at least they're not fighting each other this time. But apparently, there is a whole continent on the other side of what they thought was an ocean, and revealed itself to be a mere sea. And the people of this new world would put Kiri's bloodlust and Iwa's warmongering to shame on a bad day.

Suna was the first to fall. Its people found shelter in the Land of Fire, where troops from the Alliance where already gathering. And now, they only have to hold. So far, they're not doing that good of a job. Mei was killed on a raid at the border. Tsunade was in a coma and Kakashi was still missing, so they promoted Shikamaru to Jōnin Commander and acting Hokage, until a better solution presents itself. When Konoha had to make a choice between helping an Iwa an a Suna squad, each protecting a Kage, they went for Gaara. Ōnoki didn't make it, and Gaara sacrificed himself a couple of days ago to protect a civilian camp.

As it is, the Alliance is technically winning. The foreign forces are getting thinner every day and the Alliance medics were far better, allowing for their wounded to come back sooner to the front. But it's hard not to think of it as losing, when the death toll forces Shikamaru to stay awake at night, whispering the names of those that died during the day because of his decisions.

The worst remains to watch his friends losing themselves little by little, exhausted by another war so soon after the last. Most of them are put in positions they never wanted, making decisions that haunt their sleep. Shikamaru will never forget the day Naruto came back, covered in blood and grime, with a child's body over his shoulders. He had yelled franticly for a medic, someone to help the boy, but when a young nurse came to help, they realized the child had been dead for over three days.

And Naruto didn't notice. He was taking life after life with the boy on his shoulders, trying to get back to camp at all cost. That's when they all realized that this is a war, against actual human beings, and not Zetsu clones or mythical creatures from old tales. Naruto's laugh doesn't sound the same anymore.

Shikamaru has been helpless to watch his promotion bloody their hands, hurting the very core of what they are, in order to win. He still can't look Ino in the eyes, and he only manages to stay at Sakura's side because she won't allow him to be a coward and run away from his decisions.

The two women are in charge of the war equivalent of T&I. It's only the two of them, when the Alliance need an information and they can be spared from the battlefield. Sakura is a terrifying force, feared by the opposite side whenever she's spotted in their ranks. Ino puts the nightmares in their enemies' sleep with a smile on her face and a dead look in her eyes.

But outside of the battlefield, they are expert medics who know where to cut to hurt the most, and where to press to make people talk. So they torture, and they interrogate, and they give the Alliance the information they need when they ask for it. And after that, Shikamaru collects the pieces and watches them wither away.

When they reach the center of the camp, the shinobi there stop talking. Everyone looks at the pair they make, respect in their set jaw and determined eyes. Sakura braces herself and swallows her self-hatred to smile at the soldiers. She drops Shikamaru's hand and stops by a wounded kunoichi to patch her up. Shikamaru kneels next to a chūnin he barely knows and asks about his comrades. Slowly, the camp starts to live again, with a new spark in their eyes.

Sakura and Shikamaru go on, healing, talking, torturing and ordering. They do their duty and they die a little bit more on the inside. They have a war to win.

[clockworkopera]

Alec mentoring Julian...

One of the things I really liked about LoS is that Alec and Magnus really stepped up to the plate to help the Blackthorns. They were busy with their own lives in NY, raising a family, running the Alliance, dealing with Magnus’ sickness: and they basically dropped everything to go to London. Alec didn’t want to be a temporary head, but he did it to help the kids.

I had a hard time understanding Alec during TMI, maybe it was because he was a secondary character, or that Cassie was new to writing—but I feel like I didn’t really start to understand his potential beyond an angst ridden gay teenager, second fiddle to Jace Herondale, until the end of COHF. And I loved him in Born to Endless Night.

I’ve also thought a lot about Julian, and the fact that he had no male role models after the Dark War (with maybe the exception of Malcolm Fade-eek!). Alec has something in common with Julian, in the loss of a sibling, so I wrote this scene because Julian has been so alone in everything, and Alec can finally be a kind of older brother he never got to be with Max.

It takes place after Alec suggests a training session with Julian, and is an excerpt from my longer fanfic piece: Rise From the Ashes http://archiveofourown.org/works/11570598/chapters/25997274

“Helen, Mark give me a couple minutes with Julian, ok?” Alec asked while drawing another iratze on his inner arm. Alec mopped off a run of blood on the side of his face as if it were a normal part of practice. His eye was swollen too.  A long looked passed between him and Helen. Sometimes Julian forgot they were the same age now, that they’d fought together at the Battle of the Burren and Brocelind Plain during the Mortal War. Somewhere in Julian’s mind Helen stopped ageing when she left. He kept expecting her to be eighteen again. She nodded, deferring to Alec’s judgement, which Julian thought quite stupid and led Mark off. Magnus followed.

Julian was still riding high from adrenaline and something else. “I’m sorry,” Julian mumbled. “I let my emotions get away from me. That was a tactical mistake.”

Alec barked with an unexpected laugh. “You obviously haven’t spent enough time around Jace if you think that is the definition of letting your emotions get away from you.”

Alec paused collecting his thoughts—or gearing up for something. Julian felt himself stiffen as his stomach curled in anticipation at whatever this ‘talk’ was supposed to be about. “Fighting in the last two wars, on Edom—that was hard. Sometimes fighting demons now seems too easy in comparison. This wasn’t easy, and maybe I forgot what that was like.”

“You’re a good fighter. Really good. Emma has the reputation, but you fly under the radar. With her being your parabatai you have to be as good as her. I might know something about what that’s like,” he gave Julian a quirky, reassuring grin. “Look, I brought you out here because, well—“ Alec paused, suddenly looked uncomfortable. “People are going to tell you they understand what you’re going through, and it’s the worst thing to hear. But, in this case, I think I do. I lost my brother Max when he was only a little older than Tavvy. We left him alone in a house with Sebastian and he killed him.”

Alec face turned stony, the blue eye that hadn’t swollen shut hardened at a memory clearly haunting him. It had been five years for him, but Julian could tell he still grieved. Maybe he had learned to live with it, but his world had been changed as much as Julian’s.

“When we found Max’s body, he was clutching this little toy soldier that Jace had given him. It was strange how seeing that soldier broke us. The fact that we weren’t there to protect him, should have been there, and it was all he could hold onto when he died.”

“Are you going to tell me it’s not my fault?” Julian whispered.

“Blame is a game full of what ifs that no one can change. You’re human so you’ll play it, but you can’t let it drag you down—there’s too much else going on. Look, a Council meeting should have been a safe place. A room filled with Shadowhunters, in the heart of Idris? Annabel shouldn’t have even been able to do it. Everybody was blindsided. My dad had decades more experience at fighting: battles and politics, and he died too.”

Julian felt like an ass. When Robert had died, Julian’s foremost thought was how his death wrecked his plans with Emma and the scrambled rush to find an alternative. He hadn’t even given the most basic condolences, because Alec had lost his father too.

Alec had stepped up to help his family, arranging their safety here, never stopping doing what needed to be done, all the while dealing with his father’s death.  And here the other man was trying to offer him comfort. His own father had been Julian’s best guidance and he understood what it felt like to have that ripped away—to be suddenly alone in the world. Alec was years older, a father himself and Julian imagined it was probably just as hard for him now. Maybe there wasn’t even a difference at what age or stage of life that kind of loss happened at.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said sincerely, but maybe he could give Alec something small. “It might surprise you to know that Emma and I found ourselves on the outside of some of the Clave laws.”

Alec snorted at that. “I might have found myself there a time or two as well.”

“Before the meeting, we’d gone to your dad—as Inquisitor.” Julian felt that carefulness unfurl. Emma said the Silent Brothers already knew and their secret was out to the Clave, but he couldn’t break the almost compulsion to keep that secret—even though Alec would know soon enough. If not from Magnus than from the Clave itself. “We told him some things. He listened and was willing to help us. I’m sorry he’s gone now too.”

Alec looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “Why the hell would you confess anything to the Inquisitor?” Julian didn’t fall for the prompt and Alec mumbled to himself, “Nevermind.”

“That means something. He was in the Circle with Valentine when he was younger. I know he understood the mistakes he made and was always trying to find a way back to redemption for the worse things he’d done in his life. I know he wasn’t a saint, but when the scales are balanced I hope he landed on the side of good. I appreciate it, but I wanted to talk to you about Livvy.”

Julian became dangerously still.

“When Max died, we all dealt with it differently. Mom and dad—they couldn’t even be around each other, ended up finally getting a divorce. Jace, he’d practice sixteen hours a day—just to work off that extra energy, and even then I’m not sure it really helped. Isabelle, she locked herself in her room for days on end and started cavorting with a vampire,” he cringed. “The things I walked in on—ugh!”

“And you, what did you do?” Julian didn’t really want to know the details of Isabelle and Simon’s love life. He was jealous they were getting their own kind of happily ever after and with his so out of reach Julian didn’t want to hear it.

“I spent a lot of my time with Magnus. Being a warlock, he’s lived enough lifetimes to understand how fragile and fleeting mortality is. And how tragic. We are given the gift to love, but to do that also means we experience loss. Being a Shadowhunter is hard, Julian. You know this better than most because of your father and what you saw and had to do in the Dark War. Our lives are always at risk and we die.” He was subdued. “There are no right answers. It’s painful. When you can’t stand it come to me and we’ll do another round, or read a story to Tavvy, or chase a demon with Emma. God, there was so much I wanted to teach Max,” he said regretfully. “He’d be about the twins age now and I sent a prayer for him to watch over Livvy.”

Julian felt the tears welling and turned his head away so Alec couldn’t see. But, Alec was right he did understand enough of Julian to return the Praetor House and leave him to cry out his own grief in solitude.

[jordan202]

The Journey - Part Five

Thank you @jia911 for proofreading this! Links to previous chapters are HERE.

Timeline for Part 5:

This one covers 11x03 and 11x04. Owen is working on a project with Callie about War Veterans and reminiscing about his life prospects; Derek has decided to stay in DC so he and Amelia are butting heads about the leadership of the department. 

The Journey – Part Five

 “AMELIA SHEPHERD!”

Amelia swallowed hard, startled by the voice of command. She turned around and met Owen Hunt’s steel gaze fixated on her. He calmly strode in her direction with confidence and powerful authority but she could tell by his hardened jaw that he wasn’t at all as calm as he wanted to look.

That was Amelia’s fourth week as head of the Neurosurgery Department.

It was also the fourth time she was summoned by the Chief in that not so elegant manner.

Her first impulse was to reply what the hell is it this time?, but Amelia held the words instants before they could leave her mouth. After so much effort put into it, that filtering thing seemed to finally be working.

“Yes, chief?” She looked at the guy with forced serenity. Owen Hunt was really irritating her. Over the past week, he had alternated among treating her with cold distance, plainly ignoring her or, a few times when she least expected, paying her an encouraging compliment seconds before walking away with what seemed like contained anger.

Amelia had just recently gone back to working in a big hospital and therefore needed to adapt to many things. But if there was one thing she knew would never change over the years was how healthcare employees liked to gossip. And at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, it was no different. Unwillingly, Amelia had learned that the chief was grumpier than ever and people attributed that to his ex-wife’s leaving.

“Please, follow me to my office.”

As he said those words, Owen turned his back and didn’t even look back to see if she was following his orders, as if not considering that to be possible. Amelia looked around in the UCI where she was getting an update on a patient from Maggie Pierce. A couple of people noticed the way the chief had spoken to the neurosurgeon but the minute Amelia gazed at them, they immediately looked away.

Feeling like a school kid who had just been reprimanded by the Principal, Amelia took a deep breath and lifted her chin to maintain her pride. Owen Hunt was so irritating! Her instinct was to simply stay where she was and ignore his command but she was trying really hard to be a responsible adult and therefore had to start acting like one. Ignoring a direct order from her boss wasn’t a good idea. Plus, she had no clue what the guy would do if she dared to defy him like that and she wasn’t exactly eager to find out.

Promising the universe that one day she would get back at him for it, Amelia walked to the chief’s office, taking deep breaths to control her temper. Technically, she had no reason to be mad because all he’d done was ask her to see him in his office and he’d even said please. But being willful and stubborn, Amelia knew very well how to recognize another one of her kind. Owen was just as strong headed. The only difference was that, at the moment, he had a position of power and was her boss, which unfortunately meant she reported to him.

Amelia didn’t want to admit the guy messed with her because she believed that would give him even more power. So she settled for walking into his office with a condescending attitude.

“You wanted to see me?” The neurosurgeon asked with fake meekness.

Owen had to hold his breath and force himself to calm down before looking at her. That woman was driving him crazy.

Not only was she giving him a headache at work, she was also insisting on haunting his thoughts in a very random manner. As much as Owen tried, it was hard to let go of some of the images he had created in his mind a while ago when Amelia Shepherd had had the terrible idea of talking to him about sex.

“Is it true what I just heard?” Owen asked carefully, not bothering to sit down. She was also standing and he noticed the insubordinate way she folded her arms in front of her body, as if she was bored. “Did you just perform an awake craniotomy on a two year old?” He asked, hoping to heavens she would deny it.

“Of course I did.”

Owen closed his eyes and took his right hand to his temple, feeling the start of a terrible headache. He was running out of resources to keep his cool and not jump on her adorable, delicate neck, unsure of what he’d enjoy more at the moment: exploring it with his lips or strangling her.

“How can you even…?” Owen stopped mid sentence, taking his time to exhale slowly or else he’d lose it completely. “Shepherd, are you freaking kidding me? On a two year old?

Owen knew that awake craniotomies, the kind of brain surgery where surgeons kept the patient alert and responsive were usually reserved for some kind of tumors that had unclear margins. Throughout surgery, the neurosurgeon could assess more easily if they were damaging a healthy portion of the brain by testing functions like vision, body movement and language skills. The procedure was usually reserved for people who could stay calm and functioning during it.

Which was not the case with a toddler.

“Well, it worked,” Amelia justified herself. “The baby had a medulloepithelioma and I had to make sure I had clean margins, otherwise the chance of recurrence would be huge!”

Owen knew that kind of tumor was very aggressive and usually affected young children. Surgery with tumor excision was the choice of treatment but it was usually done with the patient fully sedated and anaesthetized. Kids that young weren’t very reliable at keeping still and following commands, meaning the surgery could have been a complete disaster if the young patient had suddenly decided to freak out.

Seeing as he was having a hard time accepting it, Amelia worked harder on making her case.

“Look, that’s why I had the mom inside the OR the entire time, you see.” When Owen’s eyes grew wider with shock, she realized she was only making it worse. “Just listen to me,” Amelia raised a hand to silence him, noticing the chief was about to interrupt her. “I put some cartoons on and had the mom there to distract the little girl. The mom was really helpful asking the kid to move and giving me feedback and I think the surgery was only this much of a success because I chose that approach,” The neurosurgeon concluded, absolutely sure of what she was saying. “Now a two year old is on her way to radiotherapy with the actual chance of being cancer free and living a full life ahead of her. How awesome is that?”

Owen once again took a deep breath.

“I really hope you have amazing insurance, Shepherd, because if these parents decide to sue I will have a hard time having your back all by myself.” He said with an authoritative voice but Amelia noticed he seemed actually worried for her.

“They won’t sue me, they love me,” Amelia replied with a jovial smile. “Look, I am not stupid, okay?” She said with encouragement. “I explained everything to the family, gave them all the options and made them sign all the paperwork. They knew about the risks and they also knew this was their child’s best option to actually beat brain cancer. So, they agreed to the surgery. And it was a success,” Amelia gloated a little. “You’re welcome.”

She realized she’d gone too far when, at the sound of her last sassy words, Owen took two steps in her direction and added with cool formality.

“If you have any interest in keeping your job, next time you think of doing something crazy like this, you will inform me.” Owen then went back around his table and gazed at her from the other side of the desk. “You can go now.”

Amelia thought about talking back but the actual possibility of losing her job made the neurosurgeon think twice. With Derek changing his mind about DC and staying in the city, she already had a real threat of having to hand over the department. It wasn’t wise to butt heads with the chief, especially in a moment like this.

She had been doing such a good job at filtering her thoughts! Why did she have to relapse in a moment as important as that one? Knowing that the man was too irate to consider even listening to another word she had to say, Amelia settled for retreating, thinking she would most likely spend the entire day thinking of what to do next to make her situation at least a bit better.

.

Owen waited until the woman was finally gone to allow himself to sit down.

Amelia Shepherd was getting on his nerves in a way none of his other head of departments could. She had been there for barely a month and yet, had stirred up more trouble than everyone else combined.

And the biggest problem was that, even though Owen really tried, he just couldn’t find a concrete reason to stay mad at her.

After weeks of being there, Amelia had turned the entire neurosurgical wing upside down. She had forced the older neurosurgeons in the department to each log another morning in the practice downstairs. At first, it had made Owen insane with the amount of complaints he’d had to endure from Nelson, Morton and the others. But after a couple of weeks, he realized what Amelia had done was actually bringing more patients into the hospital, and therefore increasing the number of surgeries in her department. So even though Owen was having to deal with very angry neurosurgery attendings, whose egos were deeply hurt, he couldn’t hold it against Amelia because ultimately all she’d done was increase hospital profit, making her the newest favorite within the finance department.

Nurses complained that she stayed in the OR for much longer than her shifts, indirectly forcing them to stay until the surgeries were over too. Her commitment went beyond the walls of the operating room because whenever she wasn’t operating, Amelia was organizing schedules, updating data and coming up with ideas on how to improve her department. It wasn’t uncommon for Owen to arrive home and realize her car wasn’t there, which was impressive enough considering he spent nearly fifteen hours a day at the hospital. Just like her optimism, her energy never seemed to end and even when he arrived at the hospital very early in the morning for a meeting or some other bureaucratic appointment, he would find her looking fresher and younger than ever, no matter what time it was.

And then there was the fact that she openly stimulated residents to compete with each other and rewarded them with surgeries and procedures. Even though in real life residency was all about competition, attendings and supervisors liked to pretend it wasn’t so that, at the end of the day, they could tell themselves they were doing a good job educating and putting a hold on already very eager young doctors.

But Amelia obviously didn’t care one bit about being politically correct. With her unorthodox method of teaching, she had quickly climbed to the position of favorite attending, leading the positive feedback from residents. That made it extremely difficult for Owen to point out where she was going wrong. When the young doctors did care to complain, they would usually take it out on each other, saving only compliments for the amazing Dr. Shepherd. In result, Owen now had to deal with resident feuds more often than ever, at the same time Amelia Shepherd’s popularity skyrocketed.

On top of that, she was also a big success among patients. Owen had already noticed how empathetic and kind she was, but over the past weeks he’d made sure to watch her more closely, almost as if looking for fault to have something to use against her when she drove him mad, something that was happening quite often lately. Amelia was always kind and respectful with her patients and their families. Her good manners quickly added to her already good reputation, causing her to be one of the most sought after attendings by new patients who came to the hospital claiming they’d heard excellent references about the young neurosurgeon.

All in all, truth was that, even though she was turning his life upside down, she was also improving everything she dared to touch and transform. The reactions she inspired on his body were still driving Owen to the point of avoiding her presence but that didn’t mean he admired her any less. It just felt like, no matter how much he tried, Owen had too much of a sharp sense of justice to deny that Amelia Shepherd was too brilliant and competent. And that made it especially difficult to give her a lecture or control her insubordination. As much as Owen would thoroughly enjoy backing her into a corner and putting some sense into her head, he struggled to admit he actually enjoyed her willfulness and strong personality.

Amelia had a shinning light inside of her, a unique kind of fire that burned as intensely and passionately as could be. And the last thing Owen wanted was to put out something so authentic and so admirable as her creativity and resourcefulness. Because no matter how crazy she drove him and how much trouble she added to his workload, if there was one thing he was sure of was that she wasn’t was boring.

And right now, Owen could really use some unpredictability in his life.

.

Amelia walked around the corridor of the hospital, her head fuming with anger.

Who the hell did Derek think he was?

She should have known… The minute he’d decided to stay instead of going to DC, it was clear that she would have to put up with her brother’s narcissism. Unsurprisingly, Derek was having a hard time accepting that Amelia was the new head of department and that now, he reported to her. Her brother already had a big enough ego, but having to take orders from his little sister was visibly messing with his head, which only caused more friction between the two siblings.

Amelia felt frustrated but at the same time, she didn’t know what to do about it. Just minutes before, she’d walked into the cafeteria and seen Derek sharing a table with Owen Hunt. What he was trying to do was so obvious that it made her sick to her stomach. Derek and Owen weren’t just work acquaintances; Amelia knew they were also friends outside the hospital. It was one thing for her to be ahead of the department when her brother wasn’t there but now, after seeing the two together, Amelia realized it was far too likely that Owen would give Derek his old job back. Her brother had been in the position for over a decade and as he’d said it himself, he didn’t take steps back in his career. He might not have moved forward, but he surely wasn’t going to settle until he got his old position back.

Amelia knew it was unfair. For Derek, it was only a matter of ego and pride. For her, it was a one in a lifetime chance to prove herself. Derek had decided to turn down his big opportunity, it was his own fault that his career wasn’t moving forward whereas the only thing she was guilty of was being the little sister to such an egocentric guy.

Before exiting the room, suddenly losing her hunger, Amelia spotted Derek casually laughing at something Owen was saying. Even though her brother seemed to be in a good mood, the chief of surgery had his usual broody façade. Amelia wondered if he was capable of smiling, for she’d rarely ever seen him have any other facial expression that didn’t resemble a frown. In the first couple of times she’d been in his presence, Amelia’s instinct had been to assume he was a genuinely good person. She’d made a reading out of him and imagined he was probably closed off due to a lot of hurt, but deep inside, there was probably more good than bad to him. And yet, Amelia was starting to think she might have been wrong all along. Owen Hunt was focused, serious and competent at his job and he seemed to be fairly just regarding surgical and administrative concerns. But even though she’d often catch him saying a few words of encouragement to Maggie, the other new head of department, the chief of surgery hadn’t spoken to her in over a week, ever since he’d dismissed her in his office. The two year old patient had evolved remarkably well and was now on follow up for radiotherapy with a good prognosis. Owen hadn’t asked her about the patient but she assumed he probably knew about the outcome.

And after seeing how close the guy was to her brother and the camaraderie between the two men, Amelia supposed it wouldn’t take long before Owen Hunt called her again into his office, for the fifth and probably last time in the whole month she’d been there.

.

Owen paced back and forth outside the post op ward, trying to recover from the full day he’d just had. Over the past week, he’d been exhaustively drowning in work, doing everything in his power to gather a group of Army veterans who needed help. He’d been very excited about working alongside Callie and her new prosthetics lab, but at first, the orthopedic surgeon had rejected his idea.

Owen had felt horribly and before he could have controlled it, the intensity of the feelings he’d been avoiding for the past weeks caught up with him. He yelled at Callie and acted like an idiot, making a fool of himself and embarrassing her in front of a lot of people. When Owen finally got around to control his temper, he’d looked for her and explained what he was feeling.

As he’d gone on saying the words, Owen had started to figure out feelings he hadn’t been able to understand before. Talking about it had really helped to set his mind straight. After Cristina left, a feeling of loneliness had completely overtaken him. For the first time in a long while, Owen felt hopeless. That was an awful sensation and now he knew why he avoided it with all his heart.

It was hard to admit it with words, but Owen truly feared that he might end up exactly like how he’d told Callie: As a single guy, with no wife, no kids… no family. His heart wasn’t broken that Cristina had left. Owen was happy for her. She was pursuing her dreams and it was good that at least one of them could get to do it. But he felt stuck. Trapped in a place where it was hard to see light again. A familiar sensation of darkness assaulting him was more present than ever but now Owen knew better. He didn’t need another woman to distract him from it. He needed someone whose light was strong enough that she could once for all extinguish that dark feeling he had consuming him.

In the exact moment he thought about it, his eyes caught a glimpse of Amelia Shepherd slowly walking through the hall. If Owen weren’t so skeptical, perhaps he would have thought that seeing her there amidst the thoughts he was having wasn’t a coincidence. But right at that moment, he still had no idea the woman he was staring at would one day make his life better in every possible way.

Amelia looked exhausted dragging her feet with a heavy expression on her face at the same time she held a scrub cap in her hand.

Owen didn’t know why, but seeing her look so defeated bothered him very much. He’d seen Amelia Shepherd smiling, laughing and teasing several times before. That was the image Owen associated with her. The woman was always optimistic and good humored. Deep down, even though her impulsiveness and teasing remarks had driven him crazy, he really liked that she was so joyful and genuinely positive. So to see her looking so sad really got to him. Owen instantly tried to reject the feeling of protectiveness that started to assault him but before he could even realize what he was doing, he rushed to catch up with her.

“Hey,” He slowed his pace to walk beside the neurosurgeon.

She didn’t greet him back or give him a sermon about sneaking up on her. Instead, she settled for nodding briefly before looking ahead again. The indifferent reaction made Owen feel even more alarmed.

“You know,” He hesitated, unsure of how to ask her what was going on. Maybe if he shared some of what had happened to him, she would feel inspired to talk. “I just watched Jackson Avery and Callie Torres implant a prosthetic leg on a guy again. You’d love the work he did with the nerves.”

“I heard,” Amelia looked sideways at him again and gave a polite nod before looking away.

Owen frowned, intrigued by her reaction. In the few times they’d discussed surgeries, Amelia had always been overly excited about procedures. She was always hovering around the OR, watching colleagues, asking questions, learning different techniques. This time around, she didn’t look at all turned on with the subject.

“Do you have a minute?” He forced eye contact with her. “I’d like to see you in my office.”

Amelia stopped walking and took a deep breath, trying to stay in control of her emotions.

That was it. She knew this moment was coming. Once again, her egocentric big brother had pushed her around just to prove that he could. Not long before, Derek had bullied her inside an OR, affirming that he was better than her and she wouldn’t hold that leadership position for much longer. And judging by the events of that day and the way the chief of surgery was sternly looking at her, as if he felt sorry for her predicament, the neurosurgeon realized she was probably going to get fired. And the worst part was that Amelia was sure she didn’t deserve it.

“I just need to check on a post op, can you give me five minutes?” She felt her bottom lip trembling and turned around before Owen could see it. Amelia hoped to buy some time so she could gather some strength and make sure she took it professionally when he finally gave her the news.

“Sure,” He frowned, intrigued by her sudden leaving. “I’ll wait for you in my office.”

.

Owen did as told, telling himself he wasn’t as anxious as he seemed to be feeling. Having randomly bumped into her had actually been convenient, because there really was a delicate subject Owen needed to discuss with her. He just didn’t expect to find her looking so sad.

Or to feel so annoyingly affected by it.

At the same time Owen pondered about how he was going to notify her about the news, Amelia appeared at his door. She still looked fragile and somewhat vulnerable, but he decided to ignore it, because noticing those things made him feel emotions he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.

“Everything okay with your patient?” Owen asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Yes,” Amelia replied with a dignified head nod, taking the seat in front of him he was pointing at. “It was just a aneurysm clip, no big deal.”

“Good,” Owen said with politeness. He liked that while she took on a lot of big cases like massive tumors and complicated procedures, she also seemed to stick to the basics on the every day routine. “I suspect you know why I called you here. You probably have heard rumors?”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, gathering all her strength to proudly keep her head up. At the same time she understood Owen’s decision to give her brother his old job back, probably thinking it was the best for the hospital, she was also very angry with him for the injustice of the situation.

The way they were both avoiding to acknowledge the elephant inside the room made Amelia lose her patience completely in a matter of seconds.

“You can just say it, Dr. Hunt. There’s no need to feel sorry for me. I get it.”

Owen frowned, wondering what the hell she was talking about. What did she get?

“That little girl you operated on last week?” Owen raised both eyebrows in question, hoping she would follow his line of thought. “The two year old?” As Amelia nodded affirmatively with her head, he proceeded. “Her grandfather was here to see me on Monday.”

“Oh,” Amelia replied with surprise. That wasn’t the subject she was expecting them to discuss. The neurosurgeon had discharged the patient from the PICU and sent her to a wardroom, where the toddler was allowed to have visitation from her family while recovering remarkably well.

“He is one of the associates at General Eletric’s Healthcare branch in the west coast,” Owen confided, noticing the confusion on her neurosurgeon’s face. “That’s a big, billion dollar multinational company that manufactures medical equipment.”

“I know what they are,” Amelia replied, still oblivious to the point of that conversation.

“The thing is, the guy has way too much money and resources at his disposal,” Owen explained. Amelia wondered if things were about to get ugly for the unconventional way she’d chosen to have the procedure done on the patient, and felt suddenly alarmed. “He told the family had been to four different hospitals in the past three weeks looking for a treatment plan for his granddaughter and they all rejected the idea of invasive surgery, insisting she was terminal. You were the only one willing to try to save her and give her a chance.”

“Well,” Amelia explained with genuine modesty. “I got the tumor out but the margins were very hard to dissect. She is going to radiotherapy and I hope it works but there are no guarantees. The tumor could still grow back.”

“He knows that,” Owen explained. “We talked about it and he is aware that she isn’t yet fully cured. But the man feels like you, of all people, were generous and invested enough to take a shot and because of that, he gets to hold his granddaughter in his arms with hope that she might be okay instead of grieving that she will be gone soon. He told me he is feeling so optimistic that he wants to give back.”

“What do you mean?” Amelia furrowed her brows, trying to make sense of what Owen was saying.

“The man donated this,” Owen grabbed a check from a folder and slid it across the table in her direction. Amelia was shocked to realize the number of digits on the tiny piece of paper, “plus two brand new last generation MRI machines to the Neurosurgery Department research.”

“What?” Amelia asked with disbelief, too baffled to believe it was actually true. “Are you serious?”

Owen couldn’t contain a chuckle at her startled expression.

“Yes,” He confirmed it, making sure she knew it was real. “According to him, more patients should have the same opportunity his granddaughter had and he wants you to use that money to help fund surgery for other kids who have the same condition but can’t afford the procedure or treatment.”

“Oh my God, that’s…” Amelia couldn’t find the words. She was deeply touched by the selfless gesture and honored for the recognition.

“Get ready for the line of patients you’re about to get in the following weeks,” Owen smiled with contentment, happy to see her so positively affected by the news.

Amelia was still in shock, trying to process the entire situation. What had just happened was amazing. That money could change the lives of so many families and she couldn’t wait to get started. The idea of being ahead of a project like that deeply moved her. She knew too well the agony that losing a child was and therefore felt more determinate than ever to help others avoid the same fate she’d had to endure. But in order to do that, the neurosurgeon would have to be at the hospital, working day after day.

“Wait,” Amelia frowned, confused. “Does this mean you’re not going to fire me?”

“Fire you?” Owen was taken aback by the unexpected suggestion. He had hoped she would be thrilled with the news, not shocked or alarmed like she seemed to be.

“Yeah,” Amelia looked at him accusingly. “I thought you’d called me here to tell me you’re giving my job back to my brother.”

Owen’s deep voice mixed with a heartfelt chuckle as he expressed his surprise. How could she even have thought that he would do such a thing?

“Your brother gave up the job because he had other plans. If he changed his mind, that’s on him, not on you,” The chief of surgery declared. Owen had always had a good sense of justice and that time, it was no different. “If I thought you weren’t living up to expectations, I might have considered it, but that’s not the case,” He added, pulling a tablet and showing her some statistics of his last meeting with the board and the financial department. The numbers didn’t lie and Amelia took in the information with genuine surprise. “After one month, your department profit rate has increased by eight per cent and complaints have dropped by fifteen per cent. No lawsuits or settlements in the period, which is great, even though it hasn’t truly been that long.” Owen explained. “But the truth is, you’re doing well, Shepherd. I have no reason to fire you.”

Amelia looked up from the screen with the charts and her eyes met his. Owen looked happy and relaxed, almost like someone who was eagerly giving a present and waiting for a reaction. Amelia was so taken aback that she felt a bit numb. She had walked into that office expecting to be fired and yet, she’d received the amazing news of a donation to help other patients and very encouraging information on her performance in her first month as head of department.

“Did you really think I was going to fire you?” Owen asked, intrigued. He noticed how she still wasn’t her usual confident and sassy self and unconsciously did his best to invoke that spirit back. “Now that I think about it, I should give you a raise,” He joked. “It’s the first week since you’ve been here that I didn’t have to call you into my office to give you a lecture or threaten to take away your privileges.”

Amelia smiled, feeling more comfortable after seeing he wasn’t taking her confusion too seriously. Owen Hunt surprised her every day. Just when she thought he would get rid of her, after dealing with her insubordination and impulsiveness for the past weeks, he had in fact overlooked it because he’d been able to identify her brilliance and superior results beyond all of that. And Owen seemed to be the kind of guy who judged people by their best, not their worst.

“I am sorry I am so difficult sometimes,” Amelia bit her bottom lip, feeling her emotions all messed up. Just earlier today, she had decided Owen was a prejudiced, annoying man who was too blind to see things through. But he had just proven that she had been the one who had rushed to assumptions. “I promise I am trying to get better.”

“Just let me know next time you come up with a crazy plan like awake surgery on a child, okay?” Owen didn’t try to contain the smile that was forming on his lips. The woman was crazy, completely unbalanced and impulsive.

And yet, there was something about her that inspired him. Owen was just as sure that despite being all of that, Amelia was also extremely competent, dedicated and considerate. She might not have the most traditional ways, but she genuinely worked hard to improve her department and at the end of the day, it was all he could really ask for.

“I will,” Amelia replied with a smile. Slowly, Owen identified the cheerful, energetic woman in her returning. Now he understood why Amelia had acted so defeated. She had really thought he was going to fire her and only because Derek had changed his mind about going away.

Just as the neurosurgeon walked to the door, Owen lifted his head and their eyes instantly met when she turned in his direction.

“But just as a curiosity…” Amelia smiled and Owen noticed the mischief on her voice and face. “If I’d come to you and suggested the awake craniotomy for that toddler, what would you have said?”

“I would have said no,” Owen replied with authority, despite his friendly expression.

“That would have cost you two MRI machines and a good couple of millions,” Amelia smiled wickedly, enjoying the provocation.

“You know I can still fire you, right?” Owen smugly bent on his chair, bring forward his chest at the same time he narrowed his eyes at her impertinence. But deep down, he was more amused than he would admit.

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Amelia smiled, delighting him with a vision of her dimples. The neurosurgeon met his gaze one more time before finally walking out the door. “Good night, Dr. Hunt.”

Owen playfully rolled his eyes, cursing the heavens for the day they’d made that utterly complex and yet fascinating woman walk into his hospital and turn everything upside down. She drove him crazy. And he had a feeling that was just the beginning.

“Night, Shepherd.”

  --

Curiosity check: In this chapter, Owen has an impression of Amelia that was described with the exact same words in a MB fiction when he loses his memory. Just for continuity’s sake. haha. If you can guess which one, I will give you a cookie.

[redrikki]

Old Haunts.

The title of this story comes from the song of the same title by Gaslight Anthem. If you listen to the lyrics, you’ll see it’s very apropos. I wrote it as part of the star wars flash meme challenge ‘ghosts.’ If you haven’t noticed, I really like prompt memes and challenges. They help give direction to my often aimless imagination. The original story can be found here. DVD commentary under the cut. 

Anakin frowned at his idiot grandson all but praying to the warped remains of his old mask. “Why bother asking me here if you’re not even going to listen?”

Obi-Wan coalesced beside him, shaking his head. “A Skywalker ignoring the wisdom of his elders?” he tutted. “I’m shocked, just shocked.”


Dead or alive, Obi-Wan is a sarcastic dick. His portrayal here owes more to TCW Obi-Wan than Alec Guinness’s performance. The shocked bit is straight from Casablanca though. 

Anakin turned away to hide his smile. In the grand scheme of things, they had been enemies for longer than they had ever been friends, and, yet, somehow in death they had fallen back into the easy camaraderie of the war years. It was amazing all the things you could forgive when you were one with the Force. “He’s a Solo,” Anakin pointed out once he’d gotten his face back under control, “and I always listened to the wisdom of my elders.”

Based on our early conversation, I know that this is your favorite bit. I do like the idea that one-ness with the Force really helped them reconnect and get their shit together. Yoda can still go choke though. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed dryly, “and then you went and did whatever you wanted regardless.”

There was a time Anakin would have argued about it. Back during the Clone Wars he would have insisted he had only done it when he’d known his way was right, or maybe he’d have rattled off a few times his failure to follow orders had saved the day. He didn’t now though. Retrospect had blunted his pride and death had made him wise. “My biggest problem was figuring out which elders I should have been listening to.”

This is my favorite paragraph in this because it’s 100% true in all respects. TWC  Anakin did only disobey order when he knew he was right and he almost always was. And his biggest problem was that he tended to listen to the wrong people which is to say, any of them. Good god, everyone gave him such stupid, terrible advice. It’s a shame being dead didn’t make Obi-Wan any more self-aware. 

As he left to answer a summons from his mater, Ben, or whatever ridiculous name his grandson was calling himself these days, touched Vader’s mask with a look of reverence and longing. The second he was out the door, Anakin launched himself at the horrible little shrine to all the worst mistakes of his life with a wordless snarl, only to pass through it like a breeze. Without Ben here, he didn’t have enough of a tether to do anything. Of course, even with him there was nothing Anakin could do to pull the boy back from the dark.

Obi-Wan just sighed. “Yes, you Skywalkers do seem to have trouble with that one.”

****

“Don’t,” Anakin warned. He wasn’t entirely sure which one he was speaking to, his grandson or his son-in-law. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered. Ben summoned him all the time, but never seemed to hear him, and Solo was about as Force-Sensitive as a post. Neither one listened now. Ben just hardened his heart as his father kept walking towards him with his hands open and his eyes shining with love. The man had to know how this would end, but he just kept coming. This was why the Jedi had cautioned against attachments. Love left you vulnerable just as often as it gave you strength.

Actually, they cautioned against it because they were creepy cult and love creates divided loyalties which undermined their authority, but who’s counting. Don’t mind my salt. Anakin does have a good point about love being a risk.

Solo’s body tumbled from the catwalk as the last of the light drained from the sky, dragging the world down, down into darkness. Anakin felt his children’s grief reverberate through the Force as Solo’s companions screamed out their rage in a hail of blaster fire. Luke had screamed like that when Vader, when Anakin, had cut Obi-Wan down. Ben was reeling back from the wound at his side and his own horror over killing his father. Anakin hadn’t felt that killing his mentor, his brother. He hadn’t felt much at all.

I contend that Anakin-as-Vader confronted Obi-Wan on the Death Star more than half-hoping that Obi-Wan would finish the job he started all those years ago. He felt numb killing him because he a) had depression and b) had been gearing himself up to die, not win. 

“Why did you let me do that?” he asked the ghost at his side.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I was tired,” he confessed quietly. He didn’t say of what exactly, but Anakin could recall the sheer exhaustion of living in a war zone where everyone you loved was either dead or against you. “I thought it might help.”

Obi-Wan also went into that confrontation wanting to die. He just was willing to be a bit more proactive to get what he wanted, largely because he hoped it would inspire Luke to kill Vader. 

Anakin laughed humorlessly, still looking down after Solo’s body. He’d wanted to help too, for all the good it did anyone. “Help who? Me or Luke?”

Obi-Wan sighed and wrenched him around. “Both,” he said, gripping Anakin’s shoulders in a way that wasn’t quite a hug but maybe could have been one once. “I thought it would help you both.” He gave Anakin’s shoulders one last squeeze before strolling off down the catwalk. “Of course, in the end, I was right.”

“Luke was right,” Anakin insisted as he followed Obi-Wan out into the snow. “You were just an idiot.”

Obi-Wan did not think it would help both of them and he was not right. Luke was right. Obi-Wan was a self-deluded idiot who wanted to die. 

The call of the Force pulled them to where Ben and a girl were fighting. The glow of their lightsabers cut through the gloom. Ben’s was a poorly constructed monster spewing flickering red along the blade and both sides of the hilt, but the girl’s was was an eerily familiar bluish-white. “Is that my old saber?”

“Looks like,” Obi-Wan said in that unflappable way of his, but Anakin couldn’t quite wrap him mind around it. Last time he’d seen it had been back on Cloud City as it fell along with Luke’s hand. Somehow it looked right in her hands now.

The two of them were surprisingly well matched. The girl had clearly never used a lightsaber before, but she obviously had training in some other weapon, a staff maybe. She wielded it like one. Ben had the proper training and experience, but she was fueled with righteous anger while he was bleeding out from self-inflicted grief. The power of the dark side swirled around them, egging them on. The girl took the offensive, slicing Ben, disarming him, knocking him down.

Studying the blade has really changed how I write fight scenes. It’s made me analyze on-screne fight choreography differently and given me a better sense of the rhythm of combat. 

“She’s going to kill him,” Anakin realized with a sense of horrified shock.

“Hm, possibly,” Obi-Wan said like they were discussing the weather instead of his namesake’s life.

“No,” roared Anakin and tore the ground asunder. He couldn’t let his idiot grandson die when there was still the slightest hope that someone, someday, might help him regain the light. He couldn’t let the darkness swallow this girl the way it had swallowed him when he’d hunted down the bandits who’d killed his mother.

Come on, you know the idea of that giant chasm forming as being the result of Anakin’s supernatural temper tantrum is deeply cool. Haha, get it?  Deeply. 

The whole world seemed to flicker like a bad hologram, and it occurred to him that he might have overextended himself. “Anakin,” came Obi-Wan’s voice, as if he was calling from a great distance. “Who are you trying to save?”

I imagine that it takes a lot of energy for a Force ghost to manifest, let alone effect the world around them. They either need to be on a highly Force-charged planet like Dagobah or be a Force powerhouse like Anakin. Team Jedi were only able to manifest on Endor because Anakin was there too to help. 

“Both of them,” he said and the world switched back on again as Obi-Wan lent him his strength.

Ben was still sprawled on the ground where he’d fallen, and, on the other side of the chasm Anakin had created, the girl looked like she was trying to decide if she could jump it. “Rey,” Obi-Wan called to her, “save your friend. Go!” She must have heard because she glanced in their direction before fleeing off into the woods.

“You better get out of here too,” Anakin told his grandson tiredly as the world faded in and out. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay here. It would probably be awhile before he was strong enough to manifest again.

“Well, would you look at that.” Obi-Wan’s voice was filled with wonder. “He actually listened for once.”

Ob-Wan get’s the last line because he’s a suitably snarky asshole.