#enough that these things were just emblazoned in my brain

[goatsandgangsters]

favorite callbacks/foreshadowing payoff in A Power Unbound that made yell "oh goddammit" at my book

MY MOST SATISFYING "OH GODDAMMIT" MOMENT. FULL ON HAD ME PACING UP AND DOWN MY APARTMENT GOING "OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY DID IT, THE CRAZY SON OF A BITCH, THEY DID IT"

it wins #1 because this line always made me SO suspicious, but I also thought it was such a longshot. between the suspiciously specific phrasing of "blow up" and alan calling the lockroom easy to misuse in the same scene, my prediction was actually that the bad guys were going to do some fuckshit with the lockroom, because ART introduced us to the concept of "using hair to channel magic" and having a room full of everybody's hair seemed... uh, bad.

so I was just wrong enough to be delightfully shocked and just right enough to feel so satisfyingly smug. 10/10 felt terrific.

"adelaide tapping her ring" is SUCH a sneaky little detail. because she's tapping her ring all throughout a marvelleous light, and then sURPRISE it was the contract piece all along, beautiful bit of same-book foreshadowing, well done everyone go home

so when it showed up again in a power unbound, I was like "aw cute. I like that she's still got that little habit, even though it's not a Plot Relevant Foreshadowing Moment anymore, what a nice detail"

and then adelaide pseudo-flipped me off with her ring finger and went SURPRISE, GOT YOU TWICE, WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY PLOT RELEVANT RING?

this one didn't take me by surprise, but it's exactly what I love about reading a careful and deliberate writer.

this is in the same scene where we find out about jack's secretbind. so when I read it, I thought "okay well, we just found out he has A Mouth Thing. but he subconsciously touches his leg as well as his mouth, so probably he has A Leg Thing too." and then did a quick "probably from the war, right? seems most likely" and felt confident I knew that Jack had some kind of leg injury long before A Power Unbound even came out

and it's just SO FUN, because when you have a really good writer like this, you get the absolute joy as a reader of reading One Single Sentence and going "I see you, I know that means something." it's delightful, it's my favorite kind of puzzle, it's so rewarding

the way robin gets super uncomfortable with the penhallick crowd gossiping about what happened to jack and then changes the subject to magical people born into unmagical families who never discover their magic

the way jack and alan are linked together through this one worldbuilding-during-dinner conversation from two books ago. beautiful. profound.

and finally. my grand final of moments that made me go OH!! FUCK!!—

that's the first mention of jack by name, ever, at all, in the entire series.

that is the very first detail we ever learn about him.

AND THEN HE DID IT AGAIN, AFTER ALL THOSE YEARS OF NO MAGIC, AND I WAS SO PROUD, AND I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, AND ALSO I HUCKED MY BOOK ACROSS MY BED.

HIS FIRST MENTION AND HIS FIRST ACT OF MAGIC AFTER OVER A DECADE, crying, crying forever, we have come full circle

[kelcemenow]

Things Never Change.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 462

Warnings Nothing to warn about here, it's all adorable girl Dad Travis!

Aaaand it's another Anon request! This one was quite vague and simple, so I just went with whatever my brain threw out! Fast forward to whenever Trav retires for this one...not that I want that to happen any time soon! "Travis kelce with his wife and kids at a game maybe superbowl"

"She isn't going to eat that, you know?"

Travis looked down towards the hotdog that he had been holding for a decent amount of time, with Maeve focusing all of her attention towards the action down on the field.

"Baby, you know I really got it for me, right?" He grinned with the corner of his mouth.

You gently nudged him with your forearm as you watched your daughter's chocolate brown curls bounce up and down as her head moved around.

"Do you miss it?"

Travis sighed a short laugh, "What do you think?"

The stadium roared around you as the Superbowl continued to play out in front of you, your feet vibrating in the stands, "I know, baby. Being back, it feels like 3 years ago all over again."

"It's weird. It feels so different being on this side of the field, but the place hasn't changed at all somehow." His gaze drifted upwards as he looked at the thousands of fans that surrounded him.

You noticed a slight smile as he looked upon the large 87 banner that hung down, his surname emblazoned on it.

You heart broke for your husband, "You know, if you wanna come out of retirement, I'd support you."

"I retired for us. For our family and our future. I couldn't stand by and watch you bring up our daughter alone."

You furrowed your brow, "I wasn't totally alone. You were around."

Travis sucked air in through his teeth, "Not enough. I wanted to be home with you and Maeve."

You both looked towards your 5 year old, her hands clapping together as she watched the Chiefs cheerleaders perform down at the side-lines.

"Besides, she's older now, it's a bit easier in some ways."

Travis told hold of your hands, his expression sincere, "Baby, I know you're trying to help, but I made my decision. Of course I miss it, I miss it every single day, but I want to be at home with you and our little girl."

Your eyes creased into a smile as you leaned down, picking up Maeve and resting her against your hip, her small hands clinging onto you. Travis grinned and ducked his head, laying a gentle kiss onto the top of her head.

Suddenly, the crowd bellowed, causing you to look out at the field for the reason for the noise. Instead, you noticed that your faces were showing on the screen towards the end of the stadium.

"Make some noise for Kansas City Chiefs legend, Travis Kelce!"

Travis held his hand out, a static wave to his adoring fans before turning the the side and bringing his arms up into his famous 'Archer' pose. You rolled your eyes quickly as the noise grew louder.

"Some things never change."

______________________________________________________________

And that's the last of my requests! I'm opening my requests back up so if you have anything that you want me to write, just get in touch! Also, if you want to be added to my Taglist, just let me know!

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[mysteryhackin]

Stanuary Week 3: Supernatural

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62606251

Do you ever have so many ideas it causes writer's block? Haha, that was me with this @stanuary prompt- apologies for it being so late!

It's been about ten years since Ford went through the portal, and despite all the crazy things that happen in Gravity Falls, Stan hasn't seen anyone from the outside who seems to know or care. Until two brothers disguised as FBI agents come to town to investigate some disappearances...

Stan let out a bored sigh behind the cashier counter of the Mystery Shack, once again wondering if he should close the whole operation when tourist season ended. It didn’t cost him anything to keep the Shack open, except time he could spend working on the portal, and there was always the chance some family with a weird vacation schedule would come through and give him lots of money, but the days went by so dang slowly.  Maybe he should think about hiring someone just so he could have a person to talk to...

The bell to the gift shop dinged and Stan instantly straightened up, switching on his cheesy grin and spreading out his arms.  “Welcome to the Mystery Shack!  What magic and mysteries can I show you-” he gulped for a split second as the two young men in suits stopped in front of him, pulling out FBI ID badges.

“Agents McVie and Buckingham,” the man with the short hair said, and he and his partner closed the ID holders and tucked them back in their jackets with a practiced motion.  “We’re investigating reports of some hikers who disappeared nearby.”

The rockstar names brought Stan out of his shock of seeing federal agents, and his brain started working again, causing him to notice certain details of the men standing in front of him.  The taller of the men had almost shoulder length hair, and even though they were both clean-shaven the two of them had a slightly disheveled air to them, something Stan had seen enough on himself during his time on the road…common enough, but not a trait of any self-respecting member of the FBI.  And after a few more milliseconds of observation, Stan noticed their complementary features and realized they must have been brothers.

His desperate showman’s smile relaxed into a slightly sardonic expression.  “Agents McVie and Buckingham, huh?” he asked, casually folding his arms.  “Nice t’meetcha.  I’m Agent Nicks, but my friends call me Stevie.”

The taller one’s expression flickered with uncertainty, but his brother- Stan decided that despite the height difference, he was the older brother-let out a slightly strained laugh.  “We get that all the time, but if you want to call our supervisor…” he held out a hand with a- rather impressive, Stan had to admit- business card with the FBI emblem emblazoned on it.

Stan didn’t take the card and snorted.  “Yeah, a fake phone number that probably has your buddy on the other end of the line to vouch for you, right?” he shook his head.  “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”  

The younger brother started.  “You know we can arrest you on obstruction-”

“C’mon kids,” Stan sighed, “You ain’t feds.  Now are you gonna buy something or get out of here?”

The brothers exchanged glances, clearly having a conversation without actually speaking to each other, and Stan felt a sad pang of familiarity as he watched them.

“All right, fine, you got us,” the older brother said impatiently.  “Cards on the table, we’re just looking for… uh, weird information about the town so we-”

“Weird?” Stan scoffed.  “Whaddya mean weird?”

The younger brother huffed.  “You know, like… cryptids, monsters, ghosts… abnormal stuff.”

“Oh geez,” Stan muttered, rolling his eyes, but it was to hide how intrigued he was.  Even though his brother was drawn to Gravity Falls for the anomalies, he didn’t come across many other people who were even aware of the odd happenings in the area.   

Both of the brothers’ eyes flashed.  “Look buddy, we try to help people when regular explanations don’t work out.” the older brother told Stan. “And when we started asking around about weird stuff that might have caused the hikers disappear, they told us to come to you.”

“Me?” Stan asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as he had sudden flashbacks to when police would question him about his whereabouts during certain crimes.  “Who?  Why me?”

The younger brother gave him a look.  “One of the waitresses in that diner in town-Greasy’s.  She said you were a scientist here to study the, ah,” he paused, taking out a notepad from his jacket, and read “unique flora and fauna of the unexplored wilderness.”  He gave Stan a once over as he put the notepad back in his jacket.  “You don’t act like a scientist,” he said.

Stan breathed a small sigh of relief.  The waitresses over at Greasy’s were OK.  He once more gave them a giant smile. “Science doesn’t pay, boys!” he told them cheerfully, which then gave him idea.  Maybe he could make some money off these shmucks.  “All right, you got me.  So listen, I’ll take ya on an all day tour of the, uh, “unique flora and fauna” tomorrow so you can look for your missing hikers,” he said, and then leaned an elbow on the cashier’s counter and gave them a big smile.  “For two hundred bucks.”

The younger brother’s eyebrows shot up.  “Two hundred!” he said.

Stan’s smile turned evil.  “Each.  Pay up front.”

The older brother scoffed. “No way, buddy.  We’ll find them on our own.  Today.”  They turned to leave.

“Wait!” Stan stood up straight, and despite the situation, felt his blood start to fizz.  He loved negotiating.  “I’m running a special for the off season- three hundred for both of ya.”

The brothers stopped and turned around.  “Three hundred, we pay you after the tour, and we go today.” The older brother said, a small smirk on his face.

Stan reflected the smirk.   “All right, three hundred, you pay me after the tour, we go tomorrow- you can’t tromp around the woods in those monkey suits- and at the end of the tour I’ll show you where the best pie in town is.”

The older brother’s eyes gleamed.  “Buy the pie and we have a deal.” He held out a hand.

“Done,” Stan said, taking the man’s hand and shaking it.  “Name’s Stan Pines.”

“Dave Colt,” the other man said, then jerked his head to his brother as he let go of Stan’s hand. “And that’s Scott.”  The younger brother barely gave Stan a nod.  “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stan couldn’t help his shark’s grin.  “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Yeah,” Dave said sardonically, and once more turned to leave.

“Oh, uh, one more thing,” Stan said hurriedly, as a thought came to him.  Stan didn’t want them to run into those jerks at the Society of the Blind Eye before he could get his money.  “Maybe leave talking about looking for weird stuff on the downlow.  The locals aren’t real friendly when it comes to people talking about the, uh, supernatural in this town.” 

“Uh… thanks,” the younger one- Scott- said doubtfully, and they continued their exit.

Stan could hear their conversation.  “I don’t think we can trust that guy Dave.” Scott said in a loud whisper.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Dave said, and the shop bell once more tinkled as they opened the door and left the gift shop.

“Heh,” Stan chuckled wryly aloud to no one.  “At least they’re not total idiots.”

Even though Stan practically had the Journal labeled “1” memorized, he still took most of the evening looking through it with new eyes, trying to find something the boys would be interested in enough for them to give him three hundred dollars and then get out of town.  It couldn’t be anything too dangerous- Stan felt a little bad about the missing hikers, but they were probably dead already and it wouldn’t matter if the brothers found what happened to them or not.

Ah, here we go… the Enchanted Forest should be good.  Show those two brothers who take things too seriously some gnomes and fairies, get three hundred bucks, snag some fairy gold for the pie tomorrow, he should be good to go.

As he tinkered with the portal, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander about the brothers investigating supernatural occurrences.  One who seemed a little more confident than the other, one who seemed slightly more studious.   They didn’t have a problem with lying and cheating a little, and, despite Stan calling them on their FBI ruse, still were skilled enough to get what they wanted.  He wondered how they would react in the presence of actual magic and anomalies, but Stan suspected they were probably seasoned in that area.

“That’ll be us pretty soon, huh Sixer?” he asked, pausing in his mechanic work to look up at the cold, empty, upside-down triangle that loomed over the cavernous room.  “Travelin’ around, looking at all the weird stuff, savin’ people and pretty girls... me and you, going on adventures together.”  He stared at the portal for a few more moments, then looked back down at his work.  “Pretty soon,” he muttered, and continued working.

It turned out the Enchanted Forest had been exactly where the hikers had been lost, and not only that,  they actually were still alive, just captured unconscious by an enormous tree creature.  And when the three men freed the unconscious hikers from said enormous tree creature, it of course turned its wrath on Stan and the Colt brothers.

Stan found himself looking up at the sky, hand on his stomach as he tried to slow down his breathing.  After Dave had been flung to the side and Scott had run over to him, Stan had delivered the final blow to the tree monster, and as it withered to the ground, he decided to voluntarily lie down instead of giving his legs the chance to give out on him first.

After a few moments, he started to feel a little better and slowly sat up, rolling his neck to get out the kink.  He was starting to get old, and was not happy at that realization.

He looked around and saw the hikers start to wake up, looking slightly bewildered.  He felt a warm feeling grown in his heart knowing that he had a hand in saving them, and couldn’t help but smile.

He then caught sight of the Colt brothers, who were now both standing up, apparently fine, and giving each other a hug as a single manly tear rolled down each of their faces.

“Oh boooooo!” Stan called, cupping his hands around his mouth, and knowing full well that would be himself and Ford if they were in the same situation.  “Stop bein’ such saps and help me get these knuckleheads back to the car.”

After they had dropped the hikers off to the hospital, Stan, Scott, and Dave found themselves at the counter of Greasy’s, savoring the last few bites of pie and the feeling of a job well done.

“Guess you boys are off to solve the next mystery, huh?” Stan asked as they stood up from the counter.

“There’s one mystery we still have left,” Scott said.  “About you.”

Stan laughed.  “They don’t call me Mr. Mystery for nothin’ kid,” he said.  “Sometimes there are things people just aren’t meant to find out.”

“This one should be easy,” Dave said.  “See, Scott here likes to look at old newspapers in the towns we investigate to see if we can find what we’re up against and prepare for what it is.  And he found a pretty interesting article.” Dave nodded to his brother.  “Show him, Scotty.”

Scott brought out an old newspaper from about ten years ago with the headline “Stan Pines Dead” emblazoned on the top.  “This you?  Stan Pines, right?”

Stan sighed.  Why did people have to be so nosy?  “No, it ain’t me.  I’m standin’ right here, ain’t I?”

“Are you?” Dave asked, folding his arms and not breaking eye contact with Stan.

Stan rolled his eyes and looked away to whip up a couple of fake tears.  Yeah, fake.  “My twin brother,” he said.  “Stanley.  I’m Stanford.  I stay here to... to honor his memory.”

“Oh.” both Scott and Dave had the decency to look stricken.  “Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, then swiped the paper out of Scott’s hands.  “No reason for you to stick your noses in other people’s bus-”

“Is he a ghost?”  Dean interrupted.

Stan was startled.  “What?  What kind of a question is that?” he snapped.

“Well, considering all the crazy stuff we’ve seen out here, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.” Scott said.

Stan burst out laughing. “Come on, kids, there’s no such thing as ghosts.  There’s no such thing as any of the stuff you think you’ve seen out here.”

Dave and Scott looked at each other.  “…you just saved us from a monster in the woods.” Dean said a little impatiently.

Stan waved his hand.  “That’s different.  Probably a product of radioactivity, or the whole thing was some kind of hallucination ‘cause of some mushrooms or somethin’ like that.”

Scott sniffed.  “Yeah, right.” he eyed Stan.  “Still...” he glanced at his brother, who nodded.  “I think we’re going to have to stay here for a while and check it all out.”

Stan’s expression froze.  That was the last straw.  He couldn’t afford to have two dumb kids poking around the town, poking around his past... and besides, he didn’t like the way Dave winked at Lazy Susan when she gave them their pie. 

Well, there was nothing else to be done. 

With the three hundred dollar wad of cash sitting happily in his pocket, he turned on his fake smile and put his arms around the brothers.  “OK, OK, you got me.  There’s lotsa weird stuff going on in this place, and I appreciate the fact you want to learn some stuff.  So as an added bonus with no additional charge, lemme introduce you to the, uh, foremost experts on the supernatural in this town: The Society of the Blind Eye.  Here,” Stan started steering them out of the door.  “Their meeting place is just down the block…”

There was only room for one supernatural-investigating-brother-duo in this town, and it sure wasn’t going to be the Colt brothers. 

Not with Stan being so close to bringing Ford home.  He just had to carry on.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - Christmas Reading List

Happy Christmas Eve, friends! I know it’s a time that can be stressful and I personally love to have a bunch of fic to read when I need an escape. So here’s what’s on my reading list this year. Enjoy!! 

tis the damn season by Areiton 

It’s a hot sweaty summer day, and Tony is naked next to you, when you realize you can never keep this. 

If the Fates Allow by BladeoftheNebula

“I saw him, Rhodey,” Tony blurted out miserably. “I saw him.”

“Oh wow, how was it?”

“Awful,” Tony moaned. “He has a beard now. A lush lumberjack beard, and muscles for days.”

Rhodey made a sympathetic noise. “Yeah man, I saw it last time I was home. It is pretty luscious.”

Tony Stark left Iron Valley, determined never to return - but it seemed fate had other ideas.

When his father passes away and leaves him the family toy factory, Tony must go home and face up to his responsibilities and the man who broke his heart.

take me home for christmas by parkrstark 

"He's gonna have to meet my dad. And--and, I can't be his boyfriend. He has to come as a friend." God forbid Howard knew he was bisexual.

"But he's okay with that. He said that was fine."

Tony scoffed. "Doesn't mean he should be. He's not my dirty secret. I don't want to hide him."

Or, the one where Tony and Steve meet each other's parents for the first time. Sarah and Joseph support them unconditionally, but Howard...he's a different story.

A Doggone Catastrophe by janonny

According to all the stereotypes, feathers and fur will fly when several different shifters have to work and live together. But the truth was that the animal instincts were easy to navigate. For Steve and Tony, dealing with their very human feelings was the hard part.

-

People liked to stereotype dogs and cats as hating each other’s scents, but Steve had never found any truth in that. Cats smelled like cats. Except for Tony. Tony smelled sweet, like the heat of a kitchen that had baking bread, like every delicious spice that warmed the tongue. His scent was best when mixed in with coffee, with oil and metal, when tinged with happiness.

America Isn't Chicken by Dr_Amuly 

After a Civil War, death, rebirth, a takeover by Osborn, brain deletion, and the fall of Asgard, Steve and Tony might just be starting to get back on solid ground with one another. Things aren't perfect, not yet, but they can be in the same room as each other without resorting to violence, and they've even managed to share a smile or two.

Seems like the perfect time, then, for Tony to try and fuck it all up with a stupid game of gay chicken.

Meanwhile, as if he didn't have enough to worry about, Tony realizes some kind of supervillainous trouble is brewing when increasingly advanced armors start popping up all over Manhattan, looking strangely reminiscent of his tech. On the other side of the world, Steve gets news that Zola is on the move in Russia, with some sort of nefarious plan at work.

Which will ruin them first? Will it be this unknown armored villain who is after Tony's tech? Or will it be Zola unleashing his mysterious plan on the world? Or will Steve and Tony prove to be their own worst enemies, destroying the tentative truce they managed to forge with their own stubbornness?

santa, won't you bring me the one i really need by quiddd 

Although Tony typically makes it a point to avoid anything that could be reasonably classified as Pepper-approved self-betterment, he will be making an exception this year in the form of a list of New Year’s Resolutions. —Well, not so much a list, exactly, it’s more like one very loud, very obvious, very critical proposition. He’s gonna write it down, put it on his calendar, say it to Jesus, and do whatever the fuck normal people do to make these things happen. In fact, even though they’re only halfway through December, it’s already emblazoned in his mind in big, flashing neon letters: STOP SLEEPING WITH EX-HUSBAND.

This is possibly an inappropriate thought to have while said ex-husband is pushing him up against his apartment door and trying to get his hand down Tony’s pants, but Tony has admittedly never excelled at being appropriate.

Frosty the Snowman by Captain_Panda

What's the meaning of Christmas? What is it, really?

Could it be the toys on Christmas day?

Or the friends we made along the way?

Are its joys discovered in a pile of snow?

Or those things that cannot be tied with a bow?

If it's not at the bottom of a glass of eggnog:

Then the meaning of Christmas must reside in a dog.

(AKA: The Christmas story where Steve Rogers adopts a dog, makes some new friends, and discovers that being a Scrooge is impossible with Tony Stark around.)

Ship to Shore by msermesth 

The Avengers beat Thanos. Everyone is safe.

(If you don’t count those five days they thought Natasha was dead.)

All that’s left is to return the stones, a feat that Tony is sure will end his new friends-with-benefits relationship with Steve.

someday by Areiton

Someday.

When Howard is gone.

When Steve doesn’t have the future of baseball hanging like a specter over him.

When the future they’ve dreamt of is the life they’re living.

“What if someday never comes? What if you don’t want it, then?”

Steve’s thumb traces over his lower lip, and presses his mouth shut. Silences his questions so gently it makes tears sting in his eyes.

[merge-conflict]

matteru

I was searching through my scrivener project yesterday because someone asked me how many WIPs I had and so I became very distracted looking through the insane mess and found this little bit I wrote for an AU I wrote with Sammy where Valentine and VS were both alive in the 2020s– this is the one where Valentine was dying from radiation poisoning and agreed to get Soulkilled and sort of ends up in a whole Smasher-esque situation working at Arasaka and then gets blamed for Saburo's death for political reasons. Anyway! I enjoyed this little Valentine/Goro snippet so I'm sharing it here (~2k words total)

It had been decades since Valentine had been in Night City, but very little had changed, except for the smell. The new smell wasn’t any better than the old one, but it was different in a way that she found difficult to pin down. Some new sort of metallic-earthiness, courtesy of an updated chemical cocktail being pumped into the air. God only knew what kind of new cancer was en vogue. Her own killer had been gamma radiation– her DNA had simply unraveled and that had been the end.

[He’s not going to show.] Johnny flickered into view by Valentine’s elbow, leaning back against the same railing she was looking over. She hadn’t seen him since earlier in the morning. He’d been busy chewing through the processing power and storage she’d allotted him in sullen silence. [We should get out of here.]

[He’ll come,] she said, placidly.

She wished in vain for her hard frame, locked away somewhere in the belly of the Kujira. It was bad enough to be labeled a traitor and hunted like a dog, but to be stuck in this soft borg doll when it happened was almost too much to bear. To be certain, it would have been impossible for her to pass through NC unseen in her frame, seven feet tall and emblazoned with the Arasaka logo in striking black and gold– but her synth skin was feeling uncomfortably fragile just now, chilled and clammy in the humid night air.

[How do you know he’s not going to turn you in?” Johnny asked. He sounded bored. She could feel his restlessness like something slithering through the cords of her thigh muscle.

[Why are you so sure he is?] She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, and the drone on her shoulder gripped a little tighter. When she’d arrived in the city two nights ago she’d had eight functioning drones, but all that was left was little Phiddipus Rex– a fist-sized array of cameras on legs, its face turned towards the city behind her, as it watched for movement in the darkness.

[Every corpo has just one thing on their mind: themselves.] Johnny tapped at his forehead for emphasis.

[And yet I can’t seem to get you off my mind.]

[Gonna get us fucking both killed,] Johnny muttered, shaking his arms out as he glitched in and out of view. [Just because you can’t handle getting cut loose.]

It wasn’t a matter of wanting to be back at Arasaka, but it was pointless to argue with Johnny about the realities of her existence. He was nervous and he hated being in this body almost as much as she did. She couldn’t do much about the latter, but since they were stuck here waiting she might as well see if she could get him to stop feeling sorry for himself.

[You’re worried I’m gonna sell you out,] she said, placidly. [I told you I wouldn’t.]

[Great,] he snapped. [I feel much better.]

[You’re welcome.]

Despite the surge of spite from his corner of her brain, he did eventually relax. He wasn’t doing too badly, considering how recently he’d woken up. No one had prepared him for life after death. She wanted to be angry at him, for killing her, but she had other things to worry about and the collapse of Arasaka tower had been a long time ago. No use in holding a grudge against a man as dead as she was.

While she may have been staring out at the choppy, black water of the canal, her attention was on Rex’s cameras, so she noticed the first signs of movement before the automated alert could zip its way up her spine. She’d expected to see the lights of a car in the tunnel, but instead someone was quietly and dropping down the side of the concrete wall that led up to the street above. Only one figure– she recognized his height and gait immediately. Takemura.

For close to a decade they had played the same game: she had spread her net of drones and cameras across the Arasaka compound and he had tried to walk through them without being detected or detained before he reached the room where their master slept. That game was over. Saburo had met his death on his own two feet, far away from home and their well-tested safety net.

For the first time, she wondered if he was coming to kill her. He could never believe she had done it, of course, but he had loved Saburo the way only an Arasaka child soldier could, and he was loyal. Grief could make anyone unpredictable.

[Eyes up,] Johnny said, mistaking her calm for obliviousness. She ignored him, and let Takemura get closer. He would be able to see Rex on her shoulder, and know she was watching.

He stopped a few meters away, falling into a parade rest, attentive but not hostile. “Higurashi-san. I apologize for being late…I was busy with other matters.”

The nickname made her smile, despite herself. He wouldn’t have used it if he were here to kill her. But Johnny was nervous again, curled tense in her muscles. [What’s he saying?]

“I’m glad you came,” she said to Takemura, in English. “I know it’s a risk.”

“You did not kill Arasaka-sama,” Takemura said resolutely, switching to the same language. He walked to join her at the railing, stepping into Johnny, who glitched and then fizzled out of view. “And you were not involved in any plan to do so. Of this I am certain.”

Valentine turned her head to look down at him through her own eyes. He was shorter than she was, though he didn’t take it personally as some of the other soldiers did. She knew him well enough to read his face in profile and see that he was sincere. But she was unprepared for the feeling of relief that accompanied the realization, like she’d let out a breath she’d been holding all day.

“Thank you,” she said, abruptly turning back to stare at the dark water. The gesture was not neatly done. He knew her well enough to recognize her discomfort and weakness, but it was too late to undo.

Rex still watched out over her back. Their backs. But she could hear Takemura turning to look at her, as his voice met her and not the waters of the canal. “Did you learn anything from the mercenary you found?”

“She was only there for the relic,” she answered, automatically. The question had been an order, and Takemura presided over all matters related to Saburo’s security. Even now. “Both she and her fixer insisted it. They were terrified and arguing before I interrupted them, so I doubt they were lying. Neither she nor her partner killed him.”

“Then who?”

She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. “You know as well as I do.”

“He has ordered your capture,” Takemura said, with the same reluctance. When she didn’t respond he added, “You must lie low. Do you have somewhere–“

“Yes,” she interrupted. “I’ve found someplace safe.”

The last thing she needed was her competence questioned. She’d survived Arasaka for longer than Takemura had been alive, on her own wit. She’d killed all of the soldiers they’d sent after her in that shitty motel. Just because she needed his help for a few things didn’t make her helpless.

“Of course,” Takemura said, a little stiffly. “It is a pity the mercenary did not survive…her testimony may have been useful. We must find some other proof to take to Hanako-sama, to clear your name, and bring Saburo-sama’s killer to justice.”

Valentine met his gaze and held it. “So you’ll help me?”

He nodded. “You would do the same for me, were our situations reversed.”

“I would,” she admitted.

Johnny glitched into view behind Takemura’s shoulders, arms crossed and rolling his eyes. It took considerable effort for her to ignore him, although it was difficult to look directly at Takemura’s face when he was so full of sincerity. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it, but she couldn’t quite trust it. She wasn’t a person, she was a tool, and occasionally a weapon. Everyone else understood that.

“I went to the motel,” Takemura was saying, drawing her attention back to the present. “The damage was extensive…I am glad to see that you are unhurt.”

A guttural laugh escaped from her chest before she could stop it. This body made it harder for her to control her impulses. Made it too easy to forget what she was. “Lost my drones.”

That was the whole point of the drones, of her. Arasaka wasn’t afraid to throw bodies at problems, but drones were easily replaced, and they didn’t require decades of investment and implants and psychological evaluation. Or so the presentations her handlers and research team said, when they were asked to justify the cost of her continued existence and the project responsible for her creation. But none of that mattered when the emperor’s son committed patricide, and there would be no replacing the drones that functioned as her eyes and ears and hands outside this soft-shelled prison. Rex was all she had left.

“I am sorry,” Takemura said, quietly. He opened his jacket and pulled something from one of the interior pockets. “I thought you might wish to have this. Some of the black boxes were destroyed, but the others have been retrieved.”

“Which ones were destroyed?” she asked distantly, taking the piece of warped, armored carapace from his hand. It was only a small piece– easy to hide, she guessed, and she didn’t know what to think about the fact that he’d taken it. The outside was scored and pitted, but the inside was mostly untouched, and the luminescent paint she’d used still glowed from light exposure. The fractal design she’d painted there, meant to be visible only to herself during maintenance, was now cracked open and exposed. The Sierpiński triangles meant this was a piece of Sphecius. Sphecius, whose heavy armor had finally broken guarding her from a blow meant to crush her rib cage.

“I cannot be certain,” Takemura replied, apologetically.

“It’s alright,” she said, absently, tracing one of the triangles with her thumb. She would have taken the black boxes themselves, but once the drones were damaged badly enough they started broadcasting a signal to make them easier to find. There was a very similar box tucked up on the inside of her heavily armored breastbone, nestled between her hearts. “Thank you.”

The thanks felt inadequate in English, too trite and insincere. But she was aware again, of Johnny, watching through her eyes. Judging her reactions. He wasn’t the first to watch through her eyes, take note of what she did, measuring her thoughts and reactions. She wasn’t going to give him any further ammunition, even if it meant cheating Takemura of the thanks he truly deserved.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter Eighteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eighteen: Christmas Deals

Summary: It's Christmas at the Holmes household, but that doesn't mean there aren't problems.

Months later…

            “Oh dear god, it’s only two o’clock,” complained Mycroft. “It’s been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it only be two o’clock? I’m in agony.”

            It was Christmas Day once more, and Sherlock, (Y/N), and Mycroft found themselves in the Holmeses cottage for the first time. John and Mary had been invited, too, though that situation was far more complicated. Mary had come, but John hadn’t arrived yet. No one knew what he would decide to do.

            After the confrontation in 221B, the pair had split up. No divorce, but neither stayed with the other. John moved back to 221B, and he and Mary hadn’t spoken since.

            (Y/N) had recovered from their injury, and they, Sherlock, and John had gone back to their old dynamic, but Sherlock and (Y/N) could see John was…sadder, more melancholy. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but perhaps Christmas would heal the breach. (Y/N) was told that Christmas sparked such miracles.

            And now there they were, engaging in such “Christmastime bonds of family and friendship” with the Holmeses. Well, currently they were just being annoyed by Mycroft.

            “Do you know John used to make graphs of all the childish things you and Sherlock do?” said (Y/N).

            Mycroft scowled. “You’re not an example of a mature individual, either.”

            “Mikey, be nice to them! They’re our grandchild,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            (Y/N) smiled as Mrs. Holmes ruffled their hair and handed them another cookie. Mycroft fought not to glare. It seemed (Y/N) had become the favorite of the family as soon as they got a proper introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

            Their smile fell as they saw Sherlock reading the paper. “Lady Smallwood Suicide,” “Shamed Peer takes Own Life,” and “63-Year-Old dies following Letter Scandal” lay emblazoned on the cover.

            “Why are we doing this again? We never do this,” said Mycroft, drawing (Y/N)’s attention any from the news.

            “We are here because (Y/N) is home from the hospital and we are all very happy,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            “Am I happy? I haven’t checked,” said Mycroft.

            “Behave, Mike,” said Mrs. Holmes, putting down a mug of tea and walking into the living room.

            “Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end,” muttered Mycroft. However, he didn’t dare say it loud enough for Mrs. Holmes to hear and took a sip of his tea when she looked back at him suspiciously.

            Sherlock started his watch, and (Y/N) furrowed their brow.

            Mrs. Holmes headed into the sitting room and put down a mug of tea for Mary. She sat in front of the fire with a book in her lap and Mr. Holmes staring into space in an armchair near her.

            Mrs. Holmes tutted fondly when she saw Mr. Holmes. “Cup of tea, Mary. Now, if Father starts making humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

            “Did you write this?” asked Mary, holding up the book titled The Dynamics of Combustions by M.L. Holmes.

            “Oh, that silly old thing,” chuckled Mrs. Holmes. “You mustn’t read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!” She tutted as she heard Mr. Holmes start humming. “Now, no humming, you,” she scolded fondly before leaving him a cup of tea and exiting the room.

            Mr. Holmes chuckled. “Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius.”

            “She was a mathematician?” asked Mary.

            “Gave it all up for the children,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling as he glanced into the room where Mycroft and Sherlock sat. “I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s…well, she’s got the brains and beauty for the two of us.”

            Mary smiled. “Oh my god. You’re the sane one, aren’t you?”

            “Aren’t you?” joked Mr. Holmes.

            Mary lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea to avoid answering. At precisely that moment, John opened the door to the living room and paused awkwardly. Mary looked away and focused on the random page of the book she’d turned to.

            “Sorry, I-I just, uh…” John trailed off.

            Mr. Holmes looked between the pair. “Oh, do you two need a moment?”

            John squared his shoulders. “If you…don’t mind.”

            Mr. Holmes stood. “No, of course not. I’ll, uh, see if I can help with…something or other.” He bustled away to the other room and closed the door.

            He looked at Sherlock and (Y/N), and they looked up as he spoke. “Those two. They alright?”

            “Well, you know, they’ve had their ups and downs,” said Sherlock nonchalantly.

            (Y/N) glanced at the door. No shouting. No crying. That was good. At least, (Y/N) supposed so. They hoped the pair ended up happy. They cared about them. A slight sob filtered through the door. Scratch the no crying.

            “Is that good?” asked (Y/N), looking at Sherlock.

            “I’ve heard people cry in relief,” said Sherlock. “I believe you have, too.” He referenced when he returned from the dead.

            “I don’t remember that,” said (Y/N), looking to the puzzle book they’d been given for Christmas. They were nearly done already.

            “Deleted it?” said Sherlock, amused.

            “No, I remember being angry,” replied (Y/N).

            “Ah.” That would be accurate. Sherlock glanced at his watch. “I’m going to get some air while all that—” he gestured at the door “—works itself out.” He stood up and headed towards the door.

            “I’m coming, too,” said (Y/N). They weren’t sure how to deal with the emotions John and Mary were going through, so they’d just let it pass while they waited outside.

            Sherlock and (Y/N) walked outside of the cottage and stood in the breezy air. Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed slightly while (Y/N) tucked their hands into their pockets and looked over the hills. It was peaceful and quiet.

            Until Mycroft walked out after them. “I’m glad you two have given up on the Magnussen business.”

            “Are you?” said Sherlock in a bored manner.

            “I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you two…hate him?” said Mycroft.

            “Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets,” said Sherlock.

            Mycroft looked at (Y/N). “And you?”

            “Magnussen is like Moriarty. He uses people and doesn’t care what happens to them. I don’t like that,” said (Y/N) coldly.

            That made an impression on both men. They remembered everything that had gone on with Moriarty, all the danger and death. They remembered how Moriarty managed to take (Y/N) and the consequences of it. Sherlock and Mycroft both hated it. Neither had conducted themselves well.

            “The real question is why don’t you hate him?” asked (Y/N).

            “He’s never caused too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that,” said Mycroft. “He’s a businessman and, occasionally, useful for us. A necessary evil—not a dragon for you two to slay.”

            “Dragon slayers? Is that what you think of us?” said Sherlock.

            “I rather think we’re doing the right thing,” said (Y/N).

            “Sherl, Mike, are you avoiding spending time with us?” called Mrs. Holmes from the front door.

            “No,” said Sherlock and Mycroft quickly.

            “Just brotherly affection,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

            Mrs. Holmes gave them all a motherly glare and closed the door again.

            “I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” said Mycroft to Sherlock.

            “I decline your kind offer,” said Sherlock automatically.

            “I shall pass on your regrets,” said Mycroft.

            “What was it?” asked (Y/N).

            “MI6—they wanted to place Sherlock back to Eastern Europe,” said Mycroft. (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to him in, I think, six months. I warned them that he might not take it since he disliked his previous leave of Baker Street. But they still wanted me to offer the job to him.” He tutted and turned back towards the cottage. “I’m going in. The air isn’t agreeing with me.” He paused. “Oh, and…your loss would break mine and (Y/N)’s hearts.”

            “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!” said Sherlock, staring at Mycroft in shock at the sickening sentimentality of his words.

            “Happy Christmas?” remarked Mycroft as he headed into the house.

            “You hate Christmas,” said (Y/N) and Sherlock.

            “Yes. Perhaps there’s something in the tea,” said Mycroft.

            “Clearly. Go and have some more,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) cocked their head as Mycroft walked inside. “Dad, is there something in the tea?”

            “Yes,” said Sherlock.

            “What? Why?” asked (Y/N).

            Sherlock looked down and sighed. “Because it is time for me to face Magnussen, and I can’t have anyone running around getting into danger. Here…here, they’ll be safe.”

        ��   (Y/N) furrowed their brow as they put it together. “You drugged them?”

            Sherlock checked his watch. “It will go into effect in about…thirty seconds.”

            “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” said (Y/N) quietly. “I thought we weren’t keeping secrets or lying.”

            “Because this is dangerous. And I won’t let Magnussen get any information he could use against you,” said Sherlock. “I can risk myself. I won’t risk you.” Not to mention, this case had gotten them close to being killed. He had to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

            “But you’re not drugging me,” said (Y/N).

            “I could never do that to you,” said Sherlock. He knew it would hurt them oh-so-much. “But I need you to stay with me and stay careful. Please, (Y/N).”

            They stared at him carefully before nodding. “I’ll follow you.”

            But they, too, were willing to lie. (Y/N) cared about their dad. They would go along with his plan as far as they could without stepping in to protect him. It went both ways—even if the parent was supposed to watch out for the child, the child here was as fierce as intelligent as the parent. And if (Y/N) knew one thing, it was that Sherlock needed someone to look out for him. And who else but family? Who else but (Y/N)? They had been helpless with Moriarty. They wouldn’t be with Magnussen. They refused to be.

            Sherlock’s watch beeped. “It’s time,” he said.

            He led the walk into the cottage. Everyone lay in their chairs, asleep. Only John was crouching over Mary and trying to shake her awake.

            “Mary, can you hear me?!” he cried worriedly.

            “Don’t drink Mary’s tea,” advised Sherlock.

            “Sherlock, did you drug my pregnant wife?!” shouted John incredulously.

            “Don’t worry. I’m an excellent chemist,” said Sherlock.

            “What about—?” John glanced at (Y/N), knowing they didn’t like drugs.

            “It seems to be necessary,” said (Y/N).

            “And I’m sending someone to keep an eye over everyone. They’ll be safe,” said Sherlock.

            “What the hell has he done?” said John, staring in disbelief at (Y/N).

            “He seems to have made a deal with the devil,” said (Y/N). They crossed their arms and looked at Sherlock. “What exactly is this deal, so dangerous you wouldn’t tell me about it?”

            Sherlock took a deep breath and explained.

A few months ago…

            Sherlock sat in a small restaurant and finished eating his pasta as someone stepped up to his table.

            “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital doting over poor Mx. Moriarty?” said Magnussen.

            Sherlock didn’t allow Magnussen to have the satisfaction of getting a reaction at the use of that name. “Have a seat.” He got straight to business.

            “Thank you,” said Magnussen, sitting.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Sherlock.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Magnussen.

            “I want to see Appledore, where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you’ve got on everyone,” said Sherlock. “I want you to invite me.”

            “What makes you think I’d be so careless?” asked Magnussen.

            “Oh, I think you’re a lot more careless than you let on,” said Sherlock.

            “Am I?” Magnussen leaned forward.

            Sherlock smirked and leaned forward. “(Y/N) noticed it when you read the paper.”

            “Noticed what?” said Magnussen.

            “The dead-eye stare. Except, it’s not so dead-eye, is it?” said Sherlock. He reached out and took Magnussen’s glasses. “They knew you were reading but not the paper. I suspect a portable Appledore. How does it work? Built in flash drive? 4G wireless?” He frowned as he examined them and found nothing. “They’re just ordinary spectacles.”

            “Yes, they are,” said Magnussen, taking them back and smirking. “Maybe Mx. Moriarty can figure it out. Want to bring them down?”

            “This is between you and me,” said Sherlock. He wouldn’t give Magnussen a chance to get his claws into (Y/N).

            Magnussen chuckled and sat back. “Pity. You continue to underestimate me.”

            “Then impress me,” said Sherlock. “Show me Appledore.”

            “Everything’s available for a price,” said Magnussen. “Are you making me an offer?”

            “A Christmas present,” said Sherlock.

            “And what are you going to give me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?” said Magnussen eagerly.

            “My brother,” said Sherlock.

Present day…

            “Oh, Jesus,” said John, taking a step back from Sherlock.

            “Dad, this is risking so much. We should’ve tried to figure out Appledore ourselves, first. There’s something…something we’re missing, and he’s going to count on that,” said (Y/N).

            “You’re going out of your mind!” said John, staring at Sherlock.

            “I like to keep you guessing,” said Sherlock.

            Before the discussion—argument—could continue, the sound of helicopter blades split the air.

            “Ah, there’s our lift,” said Sherlock, straightening and leaving behind everything but his eagerness to take on this case. “Coming?”

            “I’m not letting you do this alone,” said (Y/N). They were going.

            “Where?” said John.

            “Do you want your wife to be safe?” said Sherlock to him.

            “Yeah, of course I do,” said John.

            “Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous,” said Sherlock. “One false move, and we’ll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason.”

            “What?” cried John. “But I had nothing to do with it!”

            “You’ll be there,” said (Y/N). “That’s enough.”

            Sherlock nodded. “Unfortunately, Magnussen is quite simply one of the most dangerous men we’ve ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us,” he said.

            “But it’s Christmas,” said John, indignant.

            “I feel the same,” said Sherlock. He glanced at John’s expression. “Oh, you mean it’s actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?”

            “Why would I bring my gun to your parents’ house for Christmas dinner?” exclaimed John.

            “It’s in your coat,” said (Y/N), nodding to it.

            “…It is,” admitted John.

            “Off we go, then,” said Sherlock, walking towards the door of the house.

            “Where exactly are we going?” asked John.

            “Appledore,” said Sherlock.

            Danger, thought (Y/N).

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

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@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

[senditcolton]

Would It Be Enough?

Knowing their morning routine so perfectly that you already have some of their breakfast/drinks laid out before they get to the kitchen.

part of my Valentine's Day prompts requested by anon | word count: 0.7k | warnings: none!

Dating a professional athlete came with its own unique set of struggles on top of all the other traditional conflicts. You knew that and you agreed to deal with them when you agreed to date Roope Hintz. The conflicts, the hurdles – they all came and you faced them together.

And it worked. It had been working for months now. You two made it work.

However, the only thing that you still hadn’t completely overcome… was the distance. Not the physical distance, like when he was in New York and you were in Texas. It was the distance between the two of you even when you both were in the same city. His career demanded so much of his time and it made you sad that the everyday intimacy that most couples experiences was a rarity.

You wished that the two of you could have casual nights out with no curfew. You wished that he would be able to attend your friend’s parties with you. But more than anything, you wished that you could wake up in the morning with him by your side.

To see the dawning sunlight fall across his skin, to see his blonde hair lit up to the palest of yellows, to watch his bright blue eyes open…

When you had the chance to experience those mornings, they were some of the most magical moments in your relationship. But they were few and far between. Roope would be up and gone, off to morning skate before you even roused from your slumber.

You mentioned your desires to have more of those type of slow mornings with him off-handedly one night. The words were followed by a quick reassurance to Roope that you didn’t hold any resentment towards him. You knew what you signed up for. It was just a wish.

But whenever you wake up to find an empty bed, like you did this morning – the ache in your heart remained.

A sigh escapes your chest as you burrow into the covers for a moment longer. You breathe in, trying to absorb the lingering warmth and scent of Roope that the sheets had trapped beneath them. Another deep breath, another few seconds of holding off the inevitable until you reluctantly throw the sheets off your body. You roll out of the bed, stretching before making your way out of the bedroom.

You walk down to the kitchen, ready to make your daily breakfast, but when you turn the corner, the sight of your insulated to-go cup sitting in the middle of the counter stops you in your tracks.

It was supposed to be in the cupboard. You were certain that you had put it away the night before. It isn’t until your groggy brain registers the white paper bag next to the cup. You walk closer until you are close enough to see the logo of your favorite café emblazoned on the side of the bag.

The piece of paper from your stationary resting on the marble island is the last thing that you notice. You pick up the decorated paper, your eyes dancing over a messy scrawl that you recognize instantly to be Roope’s. You read over the message, your heart softening at every sentence.

Kultaseni [sweetheart], I know that you wish we could have more mornings together. But I want you to know that even though I’m not always the first person you see when you wake up, I hope I’m the first person on your mind. Because you are on mine constantly. I’m sorry being with me isn’t normal. I hope this is enough.

His note makes tears appear in your eyes and you place the paper back down. Your hands eagerly reach towards the paper bag, opening it to find your go-to snack nestled in the bottom. And when you take a sip from your insulated cup, the flavor of your favorite drink dances over your tastebuds.

To anyone else, from the outside looking in, the action may not have seemed like much. But for you, it was enough. It was more than enough.

[pckwrites]

The Dragon and the Knight

The beast lay on the cold castle floor, withered and gaunt. Its once magnificent scales turned dull and brittle. Tough, leathery skin hung off bones like fabric on a clothesline. Penetrating the silence of the empty castle, the dragon heard the sound of an uninvited guest. 

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The familiar sound of steel plate armor. In old days, the dragon would have flapped its mighty wings, exhaled a torrent of flames into the sky as it prepared to feast. But those days were long gone, barely even a memory.

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” said the owner of the clink-clink-clink.

The dragon tilted his head and shrugged at the sight of a knight holding a large broadsword high above his head.

“Have at it. Achieve your glory. Save the town. Win the princess. Whatever it is you lot do, " the dragon murmured with weary resignation.

The knight hesitated, searching for a hint of deception. But he found none. He lowered the broadsword and removed his helmet to reveal a similarly withered expression and a head of wispy, gray hair, “Hardly any glory in killing a dying beast.”

He took a seat beside the dragon. A cautious distance, but close enough to hear him whisper. 

The dragon grumbled, “You had many chances. It’s not my fault you were a shoddy knight.”

“I think it is your fault, actually,” The knight replied with a wry glint in his eye.

The dragon let out a glimmer of a grin, “I’ll never forget that day you rode in with all your men, desperate to slay me—“

“Only to turn tail the moment my banner caught aflame,” The knight smiled wryly.

The dragon let out a hearty laugh, interrupted by a sickly cough. The knight frowned at the pathetic sight. He reached into his bag. The dragon instinctively shuffled away, but the knight raised a hand to signal it was no threat. He pulled out an old banner with burnt edges.

The dragon stared in awe, “You kept that ratty thing?”

The knight nodded, “Of course. Proof that I battled with a dragon and lived to tell the tale.”

“And that?” The beast’s claw gestured to the image of a striking red dragon emblazoned on the banner.

The knight ran his fingers along the fabric, “My wife’s handiwork. She was the one with all the talent. Thankfully my children took after her. Of course, before they…” As a rush of emotions surfaced, the knight held them back with an ease that gave away his experience. “Before things went awry.”

“Somehow the world is left with just you and me, “ the dragon remarked. 

After a lingering silence, the knight rose to his feet with a tired grunt. He lifted the steel chest plate off his shoulders and dropped it to the castle floor. A relieved sigh as the heavy weight had been whisked off him.

The dragon stared in surprise, “What are you doing?”

“You never meant to kill me that day. You saw me for what I was—a foolish, young brute that acted with his emotions before his brain,” The knight said as he removed his armor, piece by piece. “Now it’s time to return the favor.”

The dragon turned its snout, “I won’t be given charity. And besides, I no longer have any desire for precious metals.”

“Not charity…” The knight reached into his bag and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. He unwrapped the contents and tossed it before the dragon, revealing raw cow’s flank, “… a meal between friends.”

The dragon looked puzzled, but his questions were soon answered upon looking at the knight. Without the armor, his skeleton-thin physique revealed itself. He was an old man on borrowed time.

The knight made a gesture, asking to approach. The dragon nodded and the knight took a seat beside him. From his bag, the knight pulled out a small meal of cured ham and crackers made from oats.

In the halls of the decaying castle, the dragon and the knight shared a meal, comforted by the presence of a familiar face. 

[tmwcs]

MERMAIDS TALE?!?!! THIS IS THE JUICIEST PLOT EVER OH MY GOD… the concept of the adams and heeseung being one of them is SO GOOD like how does your brain come up with this literary masterpiece i’m?!?!

i regularly imagine prince!heeseung and new royal palace maid! reader… feel like heeseung would be so cruel to every employee, you’d be warned by everyone in the palace not to ever look him in the eyes or speak to him directly, or he’ll have you banished from his kingdom or executed… but then one day, you’re carrying something across the palace, so focused on not spilling or dropping anything, that you bump straight into a chest. not even thinking about it, you immediately apologise and begin to wipe at their chest to remove the spills, but then you realise how expensive the fabric looks, and then you see the royal crest emblazoned on his clothes… you look up, profusely stuttering more apologies despite their silence, and once you look into his eyes you can’t find it in yourself to look away…

heeseung hasn’t felt any emotion other than hatred in… well, ever. he loves the power that his position gives him, loves the feeling of control over his subservient citizens or staff. his parents can’t find it in themselves to care what he does or doesn’t do, mainly because they too are terrified of what he may do in retaliation. so when someone not only so carelessly bumps into him, but spills tea on his finest clothes, speaks to him directly, AND looks him in the eyes? he’s ready to have you executed in the worst way he can imagine… but then he looks at you, really looks at you… and he feels intrigued. unlike other staff, your body doesn’t tremble in fear at the sight of him, your clothes are stained with evidence of a hard days work, and the underneath of your fingernails are dirty from your work in the garden… but he can’t find it in himself to see it as anything other than intriguing. and for him, the boy who feels nothing other than hatred, it’s enough. it’s enough to start a horribly twisted and deep obsession with feeling something, with you.

oh my thank you! i can't wait to finish MT, it's actually a really good storyline and the chapter where i left off, it's getting good. i'll be posting the next chapter either next weekend or the midd of next week.

ooooooh this would be a fun drabble to make, like a nice little one shot filled with intense fluff......possibly some smutty things.....i should make one after i'm finished with DT series.

actually, your drabble reminds me of a time (back when i drafted MGR) where i started a small series of king heeseung, who dismissed every suitable bride and princess away from his kingdom after placing his last wife on banishment for misconduct, therefore unbecoming of the title of queen so he sends her back to her own kingdom she hailed from in disgrace.

he became very bitter and turned unkind towards everyone and just was very cruel to all of his servants. a witch comes across his path and he gets pissed off by her for not recognizing him so he puts her to death by burning her at the stake, before she dies she places a curse on him, where he turns into like a beast, and becomes murderous and disgruntled and all his servants were either killed and mauled by him or they ran away, leaving him isolated and in his castle alone.

but he ends up kidnapping you and locking you away in his castle because he grew obsessed with you and sick in love, despite being a beast. and he kept you for a long time..like a year, and towards the end you finally learned to love him because of some of the events that transpired within that year he had you captured (you may have suffered from stolkholm syndrome like realena from Se7en did) but there were alot of fluff and very like...heartwarming moments throughout the entire storyline, but the kicker was when you finally gave in and loved him, and he turned back into a mortal which led to the only smut scene in the entire series and it was INTENSE bc he had you for a year but didn't really do anything (aside from the stuff he did initially when he caught you bc.....he was obsessed...it wasn't like full on smut but....there were some things he did....) but i had titled it "Beauty and the Beast" (i know...i know..lol) and these were the images and gifs i had to show Heeseung's beast form (its from that movie Helsing, i thought the facial expressions and his humanoid physique was perfect for heeseung's beast form)

[jgmartin]

MONSTERCALL

The Dark Web.

The name itself is a meme. It’s become the boomer boogeyman, the back alley of the internet where you go to get your kidneys harvested and sold off to a billionaire’s all-you-can-torture buffet. It’s the skeezy part of town. The no man’s land of the digital world, chock-full of society’s most vile scum.

It’s also pretty boring.

See, the dark web isn’t that much different than the surface web. Sure, it has a cooler name and better privacy, but most people use it for the same shit. Social media? Check. Shopping? Check. Pirating movies? Duh. Did you know Facebook exists on the dark web? You do now.

My parents are terrified of the dark web. They speak about it in hushed breaths, sort of like Ron Weasley talks about Lord Voldemort. It’s as though they think uttering its name too loudly will invoke the wrath of some serial hacker, just waiting in the wings to delete their bank accounts.

Ridiculous, right? I told them they were paranoid. To prove them wrong, I even downloaded the Tor browser and uninstalled Chrome. There’s nothing to fear on the dark web, I said, so long as you’ve got half a brain’s worth of sense in you.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Now, I wish I could take it all back.

I stumbled across the website after a night of drinking. I’d been out with Jared, my best friend since childhood, reminiscing about the good old days of driving Mrs. Crabtree up the wall. When I got home, I felt a bit nostalgic so I went digging for old pictures on Facebook. Like most drunk missions, one thing led to another, and I landed on an old thread listing the most exciting websites on the darkweb.

Spooky, right?

Well, most were fairly vanilla. Some free textbooks here, a bit of hacked video games there. I scrolled down through the responses until I found one buried beneath the others. It had just a single upvote. 

I stared at the link for a few seconds, then cracked a fresh beer and said fuck it.

The website was plain, mostly white text on a black background. Across the top was a banner emblazoned with the words CALL YOUR MONSTERS. I cracked a grin. It was kind of cute, in an edgelord, emo kid sort of way.

After clicking through a few menu links, I landed on the ORDER A MONSTER page. It said that, for $99, they would deliver a personalized monster to a doorstep of my choice. Free shipping, too. The flavor text read:

Perfect for getting even with terrible bosses, backstabbing friends, and childhood enemies!

I laughed. The idea was absolute gold. They even had a Monster Call Guarantee of same-day shipping. How they managed to pull that off, I had no idea. Maybe they had a network of paid actors, patiently waiting to dress up in Halloween costumes and say a few canned lines on somebody’s doorstep? Or maybe it was like Build-a-Bear, where you got to design your own stuffed version of ghouls like Dracula and the Wolfman?

Who knows.

Whatever it was, I decided I was far too drunk to give a shit about how they made it happen. All I knew was a hundred bucks was a damn steal. I smashed the order button and it brought me to a follow-up page titled DESIGN YOUR MONSTER.

I practically licked my lips. This was the juicy bit! The website gave me a drop-down list of selectable options based on modifiable body parts. The mouth, for instance, had FANGS, BROKEN TEETH, NO MOUTH, MULTIPLE MOUTHS, and TOO MANY TEETH.

I thought the idea of too many teeth sounded ridiculous enough to be awesome, so I picked that and went down the list and selected the rest of the monster’s attributes, including its body type, its subspecies, and finally its ‘power’.

The next page said LEAVE A MESSAGE. I mulled it over for a few minutes before deciding to keep it simple. I typed 'boo' into the text field.

Once I was finished, I clicked COMPLETE and it brought me to a new screen that made me jump. It was a webcam video of me, staring shocked at my laptop. The stream was live. At the top of the page, a red text banner proclaimed PERFORM THE BLOOD SACRIFICE.

Uh, what? I cocked an eyebrow. As if in answer to my confusion, a list of instructions faded into view on the bottom of the screen. 

 1. UTTER THE NAME OF YOUR RECIPIENT

 2. PIERCE YOUR SKIN

 3. CONSUME YOUR BLOOD

I burst out laughing. This was too wild! Not only were they gonna deliver a ‘monster’ to somebody’s doorstep, but they were gonna include a goofy ritual video too. 

Alright, I decided, I’m game. I went downstairs and grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and headed back up to my room. Holding my hand up with a coy grin, I pricked my thumb with the tip of the blade.

“Jared Mayhew!” I announced dramatically, stuffing my bleeding thumb into my mouth and sucking it clean. Once I’d finished, I held it up, drunk and proud, as evidence of my dark ritual complete. Seconds passed and nothing happened. Then, the screen went black and a new page appeared.

ORDER COMPLETE! DELIVERY IN PROGRESS.

I sipped my beer, wondering how Jared would react to my spooky surprise landing on his doorstep tomorrow. I really hoped they included the blood sacrifice bit. Jared and his wife, Alyssa, both hated blood, so they’d never let me live it down— and that was exactly what I wanted.

A couple of seconds later, a new screen popped up.

DELIVERY COMPLETE. STANDBY FOR RESULTS.

Already? That didn’t make any sense. How did they manage to create my order and ship it across the country, all in the span of five minutes? 

A depressing realization swept over me. My drunk ass had been duped. There was no way they’d be able to ship something that quickly, so the only explanation was 

A) it was a scam, or

B) it was just some lame video-mail jump-scare.

Fuck.

Now the $99 made more sense. There was no way a tiny start-up could offer same-day delivery and a compelling product for so little money. It was a pipedream logistically. Who the fuck did they think they were? Amazon?

Defeated, I decided that was enough dark web shopping for one night. Time to pack it in. I closed my laptop, brushed my teeth, and hopped into bed.

My phone vibrated.

I stared at it, wondering who would be messaging me at this hour. Jared, maybe? He was just as drunk as I was and probably high as a kite by now too. I chuckled, picking up my phone. The screen indicated one new email— from MONSTERCALL. That was odd. I’d never given them my email.

ORDER DELIVERED!

CLICK HERE TO VIEW RESULTS.

View results? I heaved a sigh. This was either a virus or some guarantee that Jared got a corny ‘spooky’ email. Still drunk, still making poor decisions, I clicked the link and it opened a video feed.

Of Jared’s house.

I sat up, my tiredness vanishing in a tidal wave of what the fuck. The video was dimly lit, and the way it bobbed up and down looked like it was being recorded off of somebody’s cell phone. Jared’s small, two-bedroom home was there in all of its suburban glory. Something about the video felt off, though. Wrong.

I told myself to relax. This was just some prank or gag. The company probably put out a call for a fraction of the money to any locals, and somebody pulled the contract. No doubt they were going to walk up the front steps, knock on his door, and then say boo and run off or some shit. It wasn’t a big deal. 

So why was my heart racing?

The video neared the house, the footsteps going slowly. In the silence of the night, I heard the person behind the camera breathing. They sounded frightened. Scared. Why? 

Lights went on inside the house, painting the windows in a dull, yellow glow. I squinted, seeing dark shapes darting behind the curtains.

Thoroughly confused, I decided to message Jared and ask if he got my surprise.

TERRANCE: suuup dude, you get my special delivery?? haha

JARED: HE,P

JARED: SKMWTHING

JARED: INSIDE THE HOUSE

Dark splotches splattered against the glass. A moment later, a woman’s scream rang out, and the window shattered. Two hands reached out from behind billowing curtains, gripping the side of the windowsill. Then two more gripped the top. A figure emerged, lurching out of the opening and into the yard.

It looked familiar. 

Jesus Christ, it looked familiar.

It stood eight feet tall, with large bat wings flared out behind it, and four crooked, muscular arms clenching in and out of fists. The person behind the camera stumbled backward, muttering something incoherent. The creature swiveled its head toward them.

The video feed shifted. Images of the sidewalk flew up and down as the cameraman ran full-tilt from Jared’s house, heaving panicked gasps. I caught muffled fragments of prayers. Then a shriek sounded, followed by the flap of powerful wings.

The video crashed, tumbling in a blur of pixels. A man’s voice shouted for help, and then something heavy crunched, and his voice died with a wheeze. Another shriek filled the night, and a shadow appeared, gazing down toward the discarded cell phone. It had four arms, a pair of wings, and a mouth filled with rows and rows of teeth.

Too many teeth.

I lurched forward, swallowing the vomit in my throat. In one of the creature’s arms was a thirty-something man, struggling wordlessly against the monster’s might. His chest looked like it’d been caved in. The creature leaned towards him, pressed its teeth against his face, and slowly bit down. The man's legs kicked and jolted as the beast’s teeth began rotating like a blender, tearing his flesh from his skull.

It dropped him there, convulsing and dying, then beat its great wings and took off into the sky. Moments later I heard confused shouts. Footsteps pounded against the pavement. More hollers. People called for the police, other neighbors told children to get back inside.

I put my phone down, horrified. It had to have been a joke. There simply was no way that had actually happened. It couldn’t have. It was too gruesome— too violent. That was digital effects all the way. It had to be. Apps were great at that these days. 

Weren’t they?

______________________

The next day I got a call from Jared’s parents. His mother tried to talk, but she couldn’t get past the tears, so she put his father, Roger, on the line. He explained that something terrible happened last night.

My breath caught in my chest.

I told myself to relax, that there was nothing to worry about. Monsters didn't exist. I knew that. “What happened?” I asked, as calmly as I could.

"Terrance," Roger said quietly. "This isn't easy to talk about, and god knows it's going to be harder to hear, but last night somebody broke into Jared’s home. Police think it was around two in the morning." 

My jaw hung limp, my hand trembling as I held the phone to my ear. A terrible coincidence. That's all it was. A terrible, horrible coincidence.

"I don't know how to say this," he continued, "so I'm just going to come right out with it." Roger took a deep, shuddering breath, the kind I’d never heard a man like him take in all his life. When he spoke again his voice was as fragile as glass. "The intruder that broke in mutilated them. Jared and Alyssa."

"Mutilated?" I said in a small voice. The sound of Roger’s voice on the phone felt distant suddenly, like the world was falling away from me at a hundred miles an hour. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. These things just didn’t happen to people. 

"Yes,” Roger said. “God, Terrance. I hate to give you this news, I do. But you’ve always been Jared’s closest friend, and I didn’t want you hearing about it in the newspaper. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

He paused. “The police,” he began, pushing the words out. “They said the psychopath ate pieces of them. They say that the monster chewed their faces clean off their skulls.”

I held the phone to my chest as I vomited all over my bedroom floor. I hurled again. Then once more. 

“Terrance?” Roger’s voice said from the receiver. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I said, wiping puke from my mouth. “I mean, Jesus, no Roger. I’m so sorry. Holy shit.” My hand slipped through my hair and I gripped it painfully, praying that maybe if I just pulled hard enough, the pain would wake me from this nightmare. 

“It’s—”

“The funeral preparations,” I said, guilt pooling inside of me. “I’ll handle them. I’ll handle everything. You and Charlene need to take this time to grieve for your son. It’s the—”

“There won’t be a funeral,” Roger said, voice trembling. 

“What? Why not?”

A sound reached my ears, a sound I’d never heard in my life. I listened as Roger broke down sobbing. This man, this construction foreman who’d never so much as wiped a tear from his eye in the twenty years I’d known him, was crying his eyes out.

“Jared and Alyssa… they’re alive,” he said. “Hooked up to tubes in the hospital. The sick fuck left them, my baby and his wife, mangled on their living room floor. Can you believe that?” He wheezed, and I heard Jared’s mother weeping in the background. “The monster didn’t even have the humanity to put them out of their misery.”

My mouth hung limp. What was there to say to that? What words could alleviate that sort of pain? “I…”

“You need to be careful,” Roger said, and his voice evened out a little. “You’ve gotta be careful, Terrance, alright? You might not be my son, but you were over enough that I practically raised you. Pretty soon you might be all I’ve got left. The cops… Well, they told me they haven’t caught the bastard that did this. He’s still out there. So keep your doors and windows locked, you hear? And don’t let anybody inside you don’t know.”

“Wait—” I said. “They don’t have anything? No leads at all?”

“They’ve got something,” Roger said. “It’s… not much. A crumpled up note they found on Jared’s doorstep.”

“A note?” My heart thrummed. 

"Yeah. But it was just one word. Practically useless."

A lump formed in my throat. “What did it say?”

“...Boo.”

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

*dances in badly* FROSTYYYY! I'm finally regaining energy, which means finally regaining some kind of ideas for fics.

Of course, I'm going to request f!reader x Rex (was there ever a doubt? 😅😅) where it's possibly coming up to life day (my brain is desperate to skip autumn nejjejririejjwjwhw), or it's just cold and snowy, and they're both soing a scouting mission but get cut off from the main group, so have to find safety (cave, abandoned building, etc etc). But it's cold, so there's snuggling close together to stay warm.

Established relationship or this being a confession piece is up to you! I'm all for it being super soft and fluffy, but if you want to add a little small dash of rex having an arm or leg boo boo that gets a bacta patch on is up to you 💞💞💞💞💞💞

@eternal-transcience

Lost on Life Day [Captain Rex x Fem!Reader]

Warnings and Information: While scouting an uncharted planet to patch up some outdated intel, you and Captain Rex end up taking shelter from a growing snow-storm when a minor avalanche separates you from the rest of Torrent Company. Fortunately, no one has died. Unfortunately, several troopers, Rex among them, have been injured, and it will take time before help arrives. Will you be able to endure and weather the storm long enough for help to arrive? It would be a terribly tragic thing to die on a holiday of all days, after all… Second Person POV, undescribed, unnamed Fem!Reader. Reader’s job is (unofficially) a navigational (and/or signal) officer; currently in training. Confessional fic with brief moments of peril, anxiety, as well as minor/mild whump and angst. Injury and vague mentions of blood and other medical supplies such as autoinjectors. Reader is given parts of Rex’s cold weather gear out of selflessness/love. [Same thing, really.] Speculative armor functions. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. Minor use of Star Wars and real-world swearing. Some use of Mando’a. Reader is referred to as “kid” a handful of times, all in an affectionate/apologetic sense. “Little miss” is used once, playfully/sarcastically. Takes place on a fictionalized planet.

Word count: 10,791

There was never a dull day when it came to working with the 501st Legion. 

Whether it owed to their unconventional tactics, or if it was simply just the way things worked in the Grand Army of the Republic, this particular deployment seemed to get saddled with some of the more interesting and dangerous missions with an above-average frequency.  

Perhaps a lot of that reasoning was rooted in the absolute bravery and unshakeable loyalty these men had not just to each other, but to the whole of the Republic. 

This blue-brushed unit was led by an exemplary captain who bore the name Rex, crowned by a helmet that had been emblazoned with a Mandalorian symbol of honor - the Jaig eyes. As a member of the crew aboard the Jedi flagship—the Resolute— you have been given the means to befriend the captain and his men by nature of the ship’s forced proximity. And though the exact act of battle-borne bravery that earned him the right to carry such an esteemed mark remains obscured by mystery, you know with far more certainty that Captain Rex has been fighting since the very beginning of the Clone Wars. 

When the planet of Geonosis became the war’s origin-point, he was among the first white-armored soldiers that had been deployed against Separatist forces. Rex has seen and led his men through a lot of excitement, both after and since the reorganization from a Battalion into the Legion they are today under Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker’s command. 

It was rather befitting that the designation for the Venator-class Star Destroyer worked not only for one of the many, positive qualities of the Jedi Order, but for the intergalactic transport of this particular deployment of soldiers as well. They were all hard-fighting, admirable and courageous men. 

Men that you greatly valued the friendship of; learning to be more comfortable in one another’s company when the war demands their attention, and even when it does not. 

You initially think nothing of it when early this morning, in the pre-dawn hours, Captain Rex steps into the starport bridge where you are working alongside Admiral Yularen and the rest of the crew. He carries his modified helmet at his left side, leaving his face visible and free. An expression of focused professionalism is softened with a warm, patient smile as he draws nearer, seeing you diligently complete this morning’s work. 

Recently, you had begun training in one of the Republic’s many programs to become a navigational officer. The captain encouraged you to ‘change course’ when he noticed that you were facing growing dissatisfaction in your current position, hoping it would inspire you to remain stationed here. 

It’s hard to resist reflexively returning that smile, or to remember the usual phrases of formality as you turn to address him. 

“Good morning, Captain.” Anticipating that he must have a message from General Skywalker or Commander Tano to give to Admiral Yularen, you offer to help him in case the matter is an urgent one after Rex echoes your greeting. “I’m afraid the admiral is a bit busy at the moment,” you say, speaking of the ship’s captain, “but I’d be happy to help you with whatever it is I can.” 

Chuckling politely, Rex first expresses his surprise to hear you sound so… formal. “Starting to sound just like a deck officer already. But it’s funny that you ask how you can help when that’s exactly what I came to see you about.” When you give him a puzzled expression, yet nod for him to continue, he adds, “I have… a really big favor I wanted to ask of you.” His voice, often so coherent when issuing even the most chilling or unpleasant orders, is full of uncertain halting. Hesitation. 

You assume that whatever he’s going to say, he understands he’s asking a lot of you. “Sure. What is it?” Making up the difference, there is no delay in seeking to determine what Rex’s big favor is. 

Gently tossing a nod in the direction of one of the nav-tables, your friend signals for you to follow him so the two of you will be more out of the way. Shifting the helmet off his hip and onto the edge of one of these consoles, Rex frees up both of his hands so that he can speak to you. This way, both you and himself can speak and behave less like a soldier and a member of the crew, and more like friends. Foregoing the formality of titles and the like without worry for the eavesdropping presence of higher-ranking associates. 

Trying to find the words to say, the captain takes a deep, quiet breath. It must be something serious on top of being a lot to ask. 

“We- I understand that you’re not yet a navigational officer—officially speaking—but I thought it would be best to find all the help I could get. You’re still training; but Commander Tano believes you show great promise. I think she was even trying to suggest she could sense it,” Rex carefully explains, making a nod to common abilities Jedi utilized of and through the Force with an uncharacteristically timid expression. 

“And, both from what I’ve heard as well as my trust in Commander Tano, I certainly believe her.” 

Giving it considerate thought, you allow yourself time to process. Then, nodding slowly, you ask what the mission is. 

“Okay… Well, that’s, uh, sweet of you and Commander Tano, and all, but… I guess what exactly do you need so much extra help for, Rex?”

“We’ve been asked to scout out a planet that it seems nobody can recognize, or name.”

It could prove to be a potentially dangerous mission, but it would—should—be far less dangerous than some of the other missions they’ve been assigned. The astrological body had been picked up by Republic scanners from one of the many fleets as it was passing by, and all of the data fields had returned with very sparse information. No known, recognizable name, peoples, or even local climate beyond an estimate this was an ice giant. They couldn’t even be certain there was even animal-life down there due to perpetual, shifting storms. 

The only thing anyone has been able to confirm of the planet is its size: 7,010.08 kilometers, a bit oddly specific… 

Speaking to you with the same amount of respect he would show any of his brothers, Captain Rex further explains, “I’d like you to join us as an extra set of eyes out there once we make it planetside. Situational awareness and communications will be crucial down there. I’m asking if you’ll join because you get along well with my men. They trust you. And I think we’ll need all the trust we can find.” General Skywalker and Commander Tano were busy with making preparations before all of you were due to exit hyperspace, but they had already provided the necessary permissions to Admiral Yularen and Captain Rex to temporarily add civilian crew under his command for the mission. At this point, it came down to your choice to join, or stay aboard the Resolute. 

“Well, uh…”

The reasoning seems sound, but you’re not wholly sure about jumping to accept just yet. A chance for real field experience? That would be the kind of thing that would look incredible on your training record. (Especially if it was with the 501st!) But you needed to make sure you had good-fitting gear before anything was made official. If you needed to scramble to borrow something, you’d want some extra time to take care of that.

“I just need to check that I have all the necessary equipment, first.” 

There are more than three rapid blinks in surprise. “You’ll-? You’re agreeing to join?” Rex asks, his voice brightening with hope. 

You can’t help a friendly chuckle before correcting him. 

“Well only if I either have or can borrow all the necessary gear. Won’t be any good to the team down there if I risk becoming half-frozen, now will I?” 

“Would you like some help?” Rex kindly offers. 

You graciously accept the captain’s offer, figuring it’s only fair. After all, you’re going to provide quite a lot of it once you’re on the planet’s surface, now aren’t you?

Once all of the appropriate gear has been collected, you and the rest of Torrent Company touch down on the unrecognized planet less than an hour later. 

Together, you’re set to embark on the lengthy process of surveillance and charting the findings. Accepting Captain Rex’s help in finding everything you needed pays off the instant your boots crunch down into the fresh, wind-driven snow. Great galaxy and all her stars… It’s well below freezing down here. The low temperatures prove a great concern to the well-seasoned pilots—General Skywalker among them—with the gravest reserved for the landing gear and engines. 

If it was necessary to make a hasty escape, they couldn’t very well do that when half of the most critical components were turned to ice. “Worse than I thought down here… Captain Rex - a word, please?” General Skywalker quickly asks to confer with Rex in order to shake out the last few details of his plan, who had been in the process of helping you properly fit the supply pack you were instructed to carry over the rest of the thick, cold-weather gear. 

Though he seems regretful to leave you, Rex wastes no time answering. Duty calls. “Of course, General.” He summons the 501st’s medic to take over for him. “Kix, mind helping our good friend here for me?”

“Consider it done, captain.” Kix responds. 

Taking over for his commanding officer, Kix finishes appropriately tightening the last shoulder strap. It needs to straddle that delicate knife’s-edge of ‘sturdy’ and ‘loose’; and who better than the man who you’ve heard has performed more than a few life-saving surgeries out in the battlefield if it’s not Captain Rex to finish what he’s started?

“How’s that feeling?” Kix asks after giving the other strap a final cinch. “Give it a wiggle for me, kid.” 

Kid: It was one of the Clones’ most common terms of affection when it comes to who they care about; shared both among themselves and those they had grown close to. 

Sure, it could be paired with a stinging insult on occasion, or used for a bit of mean-spirited teasing. But it had never been weaponized like that against you. “Kid” was used with less reservation and far more freely than the words the GAR had adopted into their speech from the language of Mando’a. When the moment called for more intimacy, more impact, these sons of Kamino called you ‘burc’ya’ - the Mandalorians’ word for friend. Your bonds with them were ‘burcyan’. The one applicable word they did not share with you was ‘vod’ika’ - though their reason for withholding it was understandable.

While half of its significance meant ‘close friend’, too often the Clones used it for the other half: sibling. 

For that reason, it was a precious word to them. And precious few things truly belonged to them. You would be “kid” if it meant they could have something to hold on to, just between brothers.

“Fits great. Thanks, Kix. Appreciate all your help.” 

Kix chuckles softly. “Wasn’t all me. But you’re welcome, kid. Excited to have you with us for this mission as one of our navigational officers.”

“Navigational officer in-training,” you’re somewhat firm to clarify. “It’s not official yet. I’m honored by Commander Tano’s level of trust in my training, and grateful that both she and General Skywalker signed off on the necessary data-work to give me permission to be here. But Captain Rex-”

“Thought it would be best to recruit all the people we can trust. I know.” Kix finishes on your behalf. “Sorry, kid; it’s not ideal to put together this plan without involving you first, but I’m afraid you’re the last one to find out about it.” 

Seeing as what’s done is done, all you can offer is half a shrug. “No, not ideal. But oh well. Honestly, if it had come from someone other than Captain Rex, I don’t know that I’d’ve agreed to do it.” It’s not like you didn’t have the choice to say “no” either. While he strongly suggested he wanted you to, Rex did ask you if you would agree to join when he spoke to you on the starport bridge. 

You were here by your own choice. It would be the responsibility of others to help make sure you would remain safe in the meantime. 

“Snips, I’m going to stay behind with a few troops and the pilots to make sure our ships remain operational. I want you to take command of the operation and assist Captain Rex with making sure Admiral Yularen’s future navigational officer makes it back to the Resolute in one piece.” General Skywalker, addressing his padawan, speaks loud enough to be heard by everyone over the subarctic winds lazily snaking through the landing zone. A rather efficient way of signaling to the troops they’ll be on the move soon, quite honestly. “You should take Artoo so he can help her boost the signal through the planetary storms.”

Commander Tano accepts the altered assignment. “Understood, Master.” The silver and blue-plated astromech demonstrates his excitement by rocking side to side on his two primary legs, chirping and warbling in a high, rapid pitch. “I’ll make sure Artooie doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

“And Lieutenant Jesse,” Skywalker adds, scanning the surrounding company for the trooper in question. “I have an assignment for you, too.” 

There’s some commotion near the back of the company before a clear, loud “Sir! On my way!” can be heard, the preceding rapid footfall announcing he’s hurrying forward to be properly addressed. 

“Very good,” General Skywalker replies once Jesse has moved in-sight of him, “I’d like you to be our third point-of-contact in charge of her safety. Can I count on you to do that?”

Opposite to the Republic crest tattooed over the left part of his face, Jesse promises with a firm salute both him and Captain Rex can count on him for this assignment. A loyal soldier and patriot, not to mention one of the Legion’s oldest soldiers, the ARC trooper is someone in whom you have absolute trust. He’s fun-loving and possesses an adaptable sense of humor; but when push comes to shove Jesse’s among the first to shove back. Just like his captain. 

You’re in good hands. 

“That settles it then. Ahsoka, you and Torrent Company can set out whenever you’re ready.”

Officially assuming command, Commander Tano issues the necessary orders to button up the last of the landing and preparation procedures before anyone sets foot beyond the landing zone, where together you’ll begin heading up a ridge to the north-northeast, first thing. 

“Carry only what’s necessary. We’ll make a plan once we have an idea of what we’re looking at from the ridge, so we won’t be deploying any speederbikes until then, understood?” Several soldiers around you reply in the affirmative, while you’re a little more unsure about a few things. What was considered necessary? 

Everything you had seemed pretty necessary since it was supposed to help you communicate between Commander Tano’s team and General Skywalker, and the crew aboard the Resolute, if it was needed… Should you ask?

Maybe she could sense it, but Commander Tano was quick and sweet to assure you not to worry after asking a trooper to help with a particular task. “Here, Tiethis. Looks like they need you to do your thing.” He’s handed a rope and pointed in the direction of a couple of crates full of gear that will be left behind at the landing zone, where his brothers are struggling to keep it all in one place due to the persistent winds. “Hey,” the Togruta padawan greets you kindly once Tiethis trots off, “If it helps, you can lighten your pack by caching a few things between me, Captain Rex and Jesse, to start out with. I know this is your first field exercise and you must be nervous. But you’re gonna do great, I know it. The three of us will be here to help if you get stuck.”

You chance a light, disbelieving laugh. “Thanks; but I think you mean “when”, Commander Tano.” You’re training, bound to make mistakes. 

She counters your pessimism with optimism. “Well, if or when you do, the three of us will still be there to help.” The promising reminder that you’re not going to be left to struggle by yourself is a comforting one. 

No, you’re certainly not. Not under the captain’s watch. 

Rather than take the entire company up to the ridge in order to put together a comprehensive plan of action, a small scouting party is created to get the lay of the land first before the whole company embarks anywhere by speederbike. 

Marching up there by foot would be the easy part, seeing as that’s the first and only clear step to this plan. After that, it’s anyone’s guess: the Republic was unfortunately a little too vague on what exactly the 501st had been deployed here to look for. (And that was more than a little frustrating.) You would be joining them to perform a bit of land surveillance before plotting out any kind of path, or opening a com-line to General Skywalker to report visual findings. 

And you’ve found what—right now—looks like a barren wasteland. 

Below the ridge, the landscape is made up of wind, snow and ice. In the distance, tall, craggy mountain ranges jut out of the snowfields - ominous, gray dorsal fins cutting through an otherwise serene surface. 

It’s a start. But you’re not sure you’re going to find more than that without retrieving some equipment from your pack. Maybe these shapes in the mid-ground obscured by snow-flurries will come into sharper focus with the borrowed pair of specs. A higher-end datapad than the one you own is added to your belt as you’ll be needing that next for a written sitrep. 

“Don’t forget: explain what you see.” Captain Rex helpfully reminds you. “Once you get the scopes properly calibrated for snow-based environments, of course.” It’ll make it harder to see what’s out there otherwise. 

Right, right… How do you do that?”

“I’ll help you with that, little miss.” Jesse offers. He fiddles with them for some time before declaring, “Here! Try that.”

While you surveilled, Rex and Commander Tano were going to talk over the next steps. Cook up ideas of what the Republic might have wanted them to look for. One brave soul breaks the weighted, nervous hush as you make a minor adjustment to the newly calibrated scopes. “What do you think they call this iceball?” the unmarked trooper asks. In an act of boredom or restlessness, he kicks his boot through the fresh-fallen powder as he speaks to the thus-far nebulous idea of potential inhabitants. 

The 501st learned their lesson after Orto Plutonia and the Talz: never assume a planet is uninhabited.

Carefully looking out into the vast stretch of snowfields, you now see the shape in the mid-ground are tors. (That’s the name for a geographical feature of free-standing rock formations created by weathering and erosion.) You note they look a little taller than ordinary. Maybe too tall to be a recognizable structure like a hut or other architectural dwelling that would suggest civilization. And though it was a long shot, you find yourself disappointed that it wasn’t. There are no foot-tracks to be seen (that can be picked up by the scope), nor navigational markers - save those left by Republic forces behind you. 

The instinct in your gut tells you this planet seems truly uninhabited. “I don’t think anyone calls it anything…” you murmur more to yourself than anyone in particular. “So far, the only thing I see down in the snowfield are a few spread-out tors. No plants, animals or people.” 

Unless someone among you (who isn’t one of the Jedi) knows how to “talk” to whatever wildlife you find here, any name this planet may have once had will remain unknown until there is contact with native inhabitants. For now, the written report will have to include a few placeholders until you can come up with something better (or find someone who can give the company answers). 

Expedition ICEBALL Carried out on the planet WHOKNOWS Led by Commander Ashoka Tano of the Jedi Order, and Captain Rex [CT-7567] of the Grand Army of the Republic 

That’ll have to do. The scouting party shouldn’t keep the others waiting for too much longer. 

Rex calls in the first report to General Skywalker so he can show you how it’s done for next time. Skywalker promises to help the men get the swoops and speeders ready by the time those who went to scout return; from the landing zone you’ll be heading north to investigate a point of interest near one of the distant mountain ranges you picked out with your scopes. It’ll prove safer to travel that way. Just somewhat inconvenient when it comes to securing a very vocal astromech on an improvised cargo rack on the back of someone’s CK-6 swoop or BARC speeder while covering greater distances. 

Given the chance, you think R2D2 would try to race some of these shinnies to help them learn a little humility by leaving them in his dust. He’d also probably race the older soldiers just for the sake of fun. Little guy certainly has been keeping things entertaining and spirits high around here. 

It'd be criminal not to mention how Artoo has proved he’s an invaluable resource to the company on this mission. Like he has many times before. On one of the many stops the company has made to check the surrounding area, the blue and white astromech scuttles off on his own for a time before coming back, whistling and beeping up a storm. 

Bw-woop! Woop!

“Artoo? What’s going on, little guy?” 

It looked like he’d just gone over a small hill, what could have happened to get him so worked up? Being careful not to stumble through the ankle-high snow, you make your way over. You could be wrong, but he sounds like he’s trying to get your attention specifically. This was as good a time as any to brush up on your Binary. 

“You got something to show me?”

Scuttling around to nudge you from behind, Artoo urges you to crest this relatively non-descript hill with a surprising amount of eagerness, even for him. 

Woo-WOO! Wheeee!

It won’t take being fluent in Droidspeak to understand this blue and white unit from the R2-series sounds pretty damn pleased with himself about finding this. 

Gathered together in a shallow depression, there are maybe six dozen creatures of some kind. They’re small, and coated in thick, puffed wool. Antlered. This is the only wildlife you’ve seen on the surface thus-far. They look like they could be ruminants; when one bleats, the mouth reveals the grinding molar teeth found among herbivores. 

“Artoo… Go get Rex and the commander. They’re gonna wanna see this.” 

The whole damn company will want to see this. There’s life down here! 

Comms become absolutely necessary if you have any hope of being heard over these forceful gales of wind and snow out in the open like this. 

A voice comes in on the short-range channel. “Think there’s a farm somewhere?” The question largely receives a rippling of uncertain murmurs in reply, though there is one unmistakable complaint among it all. 

“Not this again…” 

You offer a laughing retort. “Just because there was a farm on Saleucami, doesn’t mean there’s a farm here, Jesse.” There’s another laugh when the ARC trooper looks over to you and performs a highly exaggerated shrug. 

Rex had asked you to stay and watch from a distance as he, Jesse, and several brave troopers took as many pictures as they were safely able upon the young Jedi’s request. The captain would never order his men to do anything he himself would not do. As the nav officer in-training, Rex was not fond of the idea of you being involved, though you had asked if you could help.

“There’s no guarantee. They could just be wild.” 

This earns you another shrug. Less exaggerated this time. “Can’t rule it out, though. Look how docile they are!” Jesse replies, referring again to the possibility of farms. 

Farms would be an incredible clue of civilization. It’s one of the most solid markers in planetary exploration - proof that someone is being provided for, more than likely nearby.  

“No,” you agree simply, “Can’t rule it out yet.” 

Jesse did have a point. These creatures do seem relatively docile; none have shown the least bit of fear towards any of the troopers snapping stills around them. Maybe that means there is a farmer not far from here, someone who’s trained or gradually desensitized them to complete strangers. 

But tame behavior and looking friendly—perhaps aside from the wide, branched horns—is not enough to guarantee that they are threatless and domesticated. These creatures, whatever they are, may genuinely be wild, potentially feral…

For that reason Kix stands just as watchfully beside you, using a medic’s trained and critical eye to give his brothers stern warnings to give these ruminants breathing room. 

“Zipp, if you wanna be a pilot, your eyes need to be sharper than that. It keeps stamping its left hoof because you’re getting too close.”

“Sorry!” the rookie yelps, stumbling back. “I wanted to get a better look at the dirt in its wool…”

Almost a hundred heads turn in the trooper’s direction upon hearing the four-letter word. 

Did Zipp just say he found dirt?  

Over the open channel, Rex can be heard asking his soldier to repeat that several times, looking to be sure he heard correctly. Cautiously pinching a small amount out of the animal’s wool confirms this is, in fact, soil of an unknown composition. Where had the dirt come from? The company had been calling the planet by the nickname “Iceball” for good reason; there was no bare ground to be found, only ice and deep snow drifts. 

“If our hooved friend here has dirt in its wool, then they must have come from someplace else…” Rex hypothesizes. “Maybe there’s more of them.”  

When he lowers his rangefinder to search the horizon of this winterscape, the impression he’s looking for the wrong thing comes to you rather suddenly. He should be looking for something else. 

Something lower than the horizon. 

“Captain Rex! What about tracks?!” you call out to him on the channel. “We can follow tracks or where they’ve pushed through the snow back to where they came from!”

Impressed by your suggestion, Rex gives you a deserving mark of his respect. 

Thrice, he knowingly taps the blue emblem of the jai’gaalar’s eyes adorning the top of his helmet. Like the ancient avian of Mandalore, Rex sees the big-picture stuff when it comes to this war against the Separatists. When it’s not literal, it’s in the abstract sense. Thinking. This is part of what makes a man like Rex a triple threat and why you admire the blue-brushed captain so much. 

For his brains. 

Before he summons Artoo, you are left to imagine if that special smile given to someone you care for is under Rex’s helmet when he surprises you with a compliment. The kind that’s fond, tender, and makes you feel warm inside. “I knew I requested the right person for this mission: we’d probably feel pretty lost without you here, kid… Come help us look for tracks before the wind covers them all, little guy!” Rex could just be saying that in order to be modest, but… something tells you he isn’t. His words sound like they are more than just genuine.  

Apart from potentially covering the tracks, the wind brings concern of growing chill. Weather sensors in the second-generation Cold Assault armor worn by the men searching around the divot for prints trill out multiple, impatient warnings that temperatures are taking a slow, steady plunge. Best guess is a forming storm spotted from the gunships in the planet’s northern pole prior to landing has matured enough to start creeping further south. 

If it fledged, then you’re all going to have to move quickly. 

Current exploratory protocol dictates that so long as the duration of time that soldiers stay in-field does not exceed more-than-reasonable thresholds, Torrent Company and the remainder of the 501st aboard the Resolute are permitted to make as many expeditions as necessary in order to find their answers. The insulated gear dramatically increased a trooper’s tolerance for such extreme weather. The second gen of the HT-77 gear was better, and had seen great improvements that was worth the price increase from the 4,000 credits of the first. 

But as the Clones had been told by their trainers, they couldn’t expect the ‘77 to work miracles.

If the weather becomes so severe, or the risk of injury to you or the soldiers becomes too great, then this exploration must be curtailed and everyone will be instructed to leave this iceball behind until it is safer. 

Artoo makes his second incredible discovery of the day just when others vocalize their fear: maybe it’s too late to find anything, and the company should head back. Locating the creatures’ trail coming down from the north, he urges everyone to get back to the swoops with a garbled staccato of chirps and half-whistles. At six-dozen in number, the animals collectively cut a deep furrow through the snow. It would potentially be wide enough to use it like a makeshift road.  

“Good find, Artooie! Let’s not waste any time!” Commander Tano instructs her men. 

Tano leading the way, every bike races down the animal-made path to a mountain range with an unusual crescent-like shape. 

There in the deep belly of the curve, a cave’s yawning mouth awaits the explorers. Evidence of the same cloven hoofprints belonging to the ruminants can be found in abundance, here. While it must be safe enough for them to live inside—judging by the odor alone from standing outside—there are still many potential dangers to be found in any given cave system. 

So you think it would be best to call in another sitrep before anyone sets foot inside. 

This would end up being the last sitrep you make; the signal is thready even with Artoo boosting it for you. 

“General Skywalker? This is the nav officer with Torrent Company.” 

“I read you; go ahead.” the Jedi Knight responds. 

“Your resourceful little astromech found some kind of creature out here. Large group of them. Some kind of small herbivore. We followed their tracks back to a cave. It’s in the middle of one of the north…west mountain ranges relative to your position at the landing sight. Just disembarked our speeders, sir.” 

There’s a contemplative hum. “So you haven’t explored it, then. But I’m guessing the company is getting ready to.”

Commander Tano and Captain Rex, who had just conducted a short deliberation, have reached a decision. Flashing a thumbs up, everyone is given the answer that they’ll be proceeding inside shortly once the bikes have been dealt with. 

“Affirmative, General.”

“Understood. Tell Commander Tano and the captain that I trust their judgement to keep everyone safe. Thank you for checking in.” 

You promise to honor this request and sign off before the signal gets lost completely. Now full of worry and uncertainty, you turn again to your friend and ask in a fraught tone what the plan to explore the cave is. If Rex and Commander Tano don’t have one, the hope is they’re working on one… You and many of the rookies who had been listening in would really feel better knowing there’s a plan to deal with something Wampa-like living in the cave system, at the very least. 

“What are we going to do, Rex?”

With a comforting hand on your shoulder, he says, “Everyone’s going to stick together. We’ll pool half of our rope supply to mark our route, to start with, and use it as a guideline.” Beginning with the rope from Commander Tano’s pack, Rex hands Jesse a few tools to start from the mouth of the cave. Given several pitons and a hammer, the rope will be secured to the cave’s walls or floor. 

A tube of concentrated colorant is also offered in the shade ‘GLARE RED’ - the GAR uses this stuff as a visual aid to mark important items. It behaves more like a paste than paint, and as the name kind of implies it shows up as a visual glare in most optics equipment. It works just as well with the naked eye; such a stark red is rather impossible to miss. 

“This will keep us from getting lost. And I’ll be right there the entire time.” Rex promises you. 

So long as one one’s blasters froze to the inside of their holsters, you should have nothing to worry about. 

Moving as one group, exploring the cave and its rootlike system of passageways is done one cautious step at a time. 

Somewhere after the thirtieth iteration of “Piton, rope, color.” carried out every fifteen feet you’ve ventured through the mountain, you began losing track of time. The direction you seemed to be facing. Now, you’ve lost complete sense of both. With each light source building off of another’s radius, much of the passageways you’ve walked through have been well-lit. That serves as a great comfort; the blooming sense of trepidation knocking your heart against your ribcage lessening the better you can see.

No matter what may be skulking around in the dark, other than Artoo bravely scouting ahead, Rex is never more than half a step away from you the entire time. 

Walking beside you with his hand on your shoulder once more, nowhere in the galaxy feels safer than this. 

Following R2D2, Commander Tano walks further ahead than the rest of the company. The yellow-green blade of her activated shoto lightsaber bathes the walls of the passageway in a slightly eerie light, something that makes the medic’s cryptic observation all the more disturbing. “What the- Commander Tano?” Kix calls in a voice hedged by discomfort, “Take a closer look at the sides of the passage walls. Doesn’t that seem a little… unnaturally formed? They look too smooth; almost like the tunnel is man-made.” The Jedi’s attention drawn, Kix demonstrates his finding voluntarily. Sweeping his hand along the wall, he locates very few spots that have a rougher texture than the rest of it. 

“Maybe it’s an old magma tunnel, or something?” someone suggests. 

Kix shakes his head, uncertain. “No. No, I don’t think so, vod...” He looks behind the expedition team down the passage they’ve already explored, murmuring. “I think the tunnel’s width is too uniform to be natural.”

Unable to confirm any explanation for the time being, the 501st agrees to continue on lest they begin to lose their nerve and folks start to get that ‘eopie in the headlights’ look about them. (Perhaps you, most of all.) First, though, everyone takes one calming, centering breath to negate the surging anxiety they feel. Steady heads and grounded nerves will provide the best protection against the unknown, the unseen, and the unexplained. Your trust in one another must be absolute, here. All should have faith in their brothers, their friends, to rise to the occasion and have their six in times of peril and need. 

There must be five more repetitions of “Piton, rope, color…” before Torrent comes upon a large, inner chamber close to the heart of the mountain. 

Here, soldiers find a few items of interest yet not quite of note. 

Shed antlers are strewn throughout. Many are small. Perhaps a younger buck’s de-antlering at the conclusion of the year’s mating season, or an unlucky yearling who did not see the end of the revolutionary cycle. Some are larger. These are brittle; potentially due to age, deficiency, or lack of preservation against the cold. 

Jesse nabs one set - small, still attached to a skull by the pedicles. There’s a smattering of material with a soft “mossy” appearance peeling from the calcified bone that makes several shinies groan uneasily. You can visualize the disgust under their helmets from the way it exudes in their voice. 

“What are you doing with that…?”

“Collecting something for the vode in Analysis.” the ARC trooper replies matter-of-factly. 

“I-Is that a good idea?”

Jesse shrugs. “Don’t see why not.” If he’s told to return or ditch them later, he will. 

“Where are you gonna carry it? That won’t fit in your pack.” 

Kix is requested for assistance. Once the medic has gotten a series of pictures of how the antlers connect to the skull, Jesse snaps the skeletal remains apart with a few swift motions. “Just the antlers should be enough.” he concludes decidedly. The sickening kra-chik! of each antler coming loose makes one rookie gag. 

Artoo warbles with concern, scuttling to the trooper as fast as he can when they double over. 

Woo-wooh?

“I’m okay, little guy. Eeugh… It just sounds like breaking plastoid.” 

Hooo…

Torrent continues to explore this chamber for a few minutes more. No stone has been left unturned before the company proceeds through a tunnel found in a recession of the southern wall. The behavior of this slightly narrower tunnel differs from those prior - you climb in an endless, upward spiral, altitude alarms chirping all the while. Just before the spiral ends, the sound of high wind can be heard before this passage connects with another open space you predict is just below the summit. 

Everyone finds themselves in one final, upper chamber with a pair of naturally formed “windows” in the mountain rock to explain where the sound comes from. These sizable exposure-points have allowed a significant amount of snow to accumulate within, making it colder than the rest of the cave system previously explored. 

And here, you find proof of what you’ve been looking for at long last. 

Carved into the chamber wall is a series of messages kept safe and sheltered against the relentless gales and freezing of the elements. All of them have been written entirely in Domabesh, curiously; this creates a buzz amongst the Clones with linguistics training as they set to work on transcribing these for the mission reports. 

You feel the palpable high in everyone’s spirits now that there is evidence of life somewhere on this planet. Life that’s been here for a long time! This script has existed for at least a thousand years. Likely more. It may have potentially less prevalence than Aurebesh throughout the galaxy, but it’s not quite so forgotten that making heads or tails of the lettering will be a fruitless task. 

The elation sours before long, however... A soldier by the name of Chatterbox postulates that these messages may very well be ones of woe when Captain Rex asks what the messages say. 

“I’m not positive if it’s an earlier form or off-shoot of Domabesh yet, sir, but… I don’t think we’re going to find anyone here.”

“What makes you say that, Chatter?”

“The messages are all warnings, Captain. This one is a kind of farewell.” 

Chatterbox shares what he’s pieced together of an initial transcript with the company, and hearts grow heavy with unease as he reads. 

We humble, surviving people of Dethellum, leave a short series of accounts so that all this planet may know this is no habitable world. We have sought other planets after the Sky’s Great Shaking dis-anchored our beloved home from its place in the galaxy and flung us out among foreign stars.  For a time our people lived by burrow and cave, but there were too few for our vast number when the Lasting Hibernation bore down on us. We lost many. In desperation we made great scores in the Most Sacred Bow in hopes our stars would show us more favor.  But it was not to be. We leave by star-boat. May the Great Weaving guide us to greener worlds. If you have found our parting message, we implore you do the same. None will be here to bury you.  This world is lost: do not allow Dethellum to take your life along with it. 

While nearly sick with dread, you cannot recall ever hearing of a planet by this name. Nor can anyone, perhaps other than Commander Tano. 

Recognizing something from her lessons at the Jedi Temple, the Togruta asks to borrow Chatter’s device and highlights a selection of words. “Could the ‘Great Shaking’ be the Legacy Run disaster…? That was, er, 7745 by the Coruscant Reckoning Calendar?” Commander Tano’s pause as she reads something is brief, but heavy. “For more than two centuries and thirty years… The Republic and Order assumed this planet was completely destroyed by the Run’s near-collision with another ship. There was so much debris ejected from hyperspace, so many anomalies. But it’s… still here.” Many troopers have questions about the bewilderment and awe in their commander’s voice, but they will have to wait.

“We should keep looking… See what the other inscriptions say.”

Every last one is full of despair. Laments that their most frost-resistance crops could no longer grow. Sorrow that the last “fourtusk” had been slain and eaten. Great grievings that become too distressing to read any longer. Dethellum had become another victim to the Emergences, a name given to those further disasters in the aftermath of the Legacy Run tearing itself to pieces when the ship’s age caught up with it. They had probably become one of many civilizations that were just… wiped out. 

Apart from Dethellum’s accounts of woes, Torrent does find more items left behind by its people that suggest a potential connection to the ancestral heritage of another member of the Order (one that General Skywalker would need to confirm), and acknowledgement of the Force and its wielders. 

Three stone slabs that have been arranged to make a triptych have been found and dug out of the snow. Each sport rudimentary depictions of people with long hair and bright, yellow eyes. Among these, figures in long, hooded clothing stand opposite one another, a series of thin rectangles used to convey crossed blades. 

One blade had been painted blue. The other, red. 

It seems the concept of the Jedi—and a… precursor to the Sith?—was familiar to them. 

“Do you think they found another planet like they hoped? Still live somewhere, out in the galaxy?” Jesse wonders aloud, gingerly tracing the grooves and lines in the stone. 

“Can’t say for certain. But I’m betting there’s a decent chance. Get a few more stills, and then we should be on our way.” Captain Rex advises, looking to the northern pole of this frozen astrological body from one of the mountain’s natural windows. “Storm seems to be growing in strength…” Rounding his shoulders, he symbolically shakes the sense, the worry, of danger creeping on the horizon off of himself. 

Right now he needs to be level-headed; sitting and fretting is something the company doesn’t have time to afford if his instinct is to be believed. The soldiers that are charged with securing the samples in their personal packs should be offered help first. Ahsoka expressed that it would be important that the utmost care should be used to insure any located artifacts made it back to the Resolute in as close to one piece as possible. Something Rex certainly agreed with. 

Once he’s finished with them, Rex moves to check in on you. You’re knelt in the snow, looking for a way to stash something in your bag for the return trip. Torrent’s been advised they’ll need to move fast, so everything that isn’t critical to navigation is best stowed away.

“Can I give you a hand with that?”

“I’d love that,” you answer with a grateful smile. “Packing gets trickier the second time around, somehow.” 

Rex shares a hearty chuckle with you. “That it does. And how are you holding up?”

“Good; just eager to get back to the Resolute.”

The snow gear was doing an excellent job of keeping you warm, but you could really go for something warm to eat or drink right about now. And a thick blanket of some kind to burrow under until Dethellum’s chill had been forgotten. And a hot water soak in your personal quarter’s refresher.

You’d decide on what to do first once you got back to the gunships. Right now, you need to be more focused on not tripping over something while following the way back through the mountain using the rope left behind earlier. Jesse and the other ARC troopers collect the rope as the company makes its way back outside, seeing no sense to leave it behind. 

“What if the Republic plans to make other trips to Dethellum and explore the same mountain we did? Wouldn’t it help them find that chamber near the top?” 

Your confusion is reasonable, in his opinion, but Jesse has his own rationale for undoing the rope and piton system. 

“It would! But having this rope would be a good idea in case of an emergency.” 

Whatever kind of emergency would necessitate the use of this much rope is not something you wish to think about, so you utter a short “Oh, okay…” sort of phrase and turn your focus on helping the company round up the bikes. They had been left not too far from the cave entrance outside, though some of the speeders that had not been equipped with landing skis had managed to drift a little ways off. 

Something that would have a massive domino effect on what was to come when the mountain began to thunder.

A distant crackle and rumble starts from the very peak. A terrible sense of dread comes over the captain—the hair on the back of his neck standing on end—as the sound carries downhill, intensifying. His armor’s early warning system bleats panickedly in his ears. Then whoops. Finally, wails. 

This great noise is not from the storm. It's from something started by the storm. 

And you’re all sitting mynocks down here. 

Barreling down the mountainside is a lethal wall of snow, rock and debris, pressing down on all of Torrent Company. 

But most importantly: you. 

Rex throws open the comm channel and wastes no time; there is precious little of it to make his most crucial set of orders on this mission.  

“Everyone, double-up on the bikes! It’s an avalanche – get out of the path!!” 

Plunging into panic, you throw yourself into the rider’s saddle of the nearest swoop and punch the throttle forward. Running on base instincts, you’re fleeing southeast rather than following the flash-training on natural disasters. Escaping an avalanche means traveling in a direct, sideways route whenever possible if you’re not already caught up in one. 

Fortunately Rex is not far behind on his own speeder. He’s able to catch up with you quickly, signalling for you to follow. 

Unbeknownst to you, Captain Rex is the only one who followed after you in the commotion. 

When disaster strikes, there’s no one there to help you.

Everything happened so fast. 

Whether taken by surprise or dangerously distracted, two shouts of great alarm are made when Rex is suddenly launched forward, thrown from the speeder above the controls. 

He lands a short distance ahead, and some part of his armor makes that sickening KAR-CHIK! on impact. 

“REX!”

Punching the accelerator, your heart yo-yos between your throat and knees as you race for him. The two of you are still inside the avalanche's path, within its outer skirts, so you fervently pray to any galactic deity out there that he might be alive. To the Force itself. 

Crumpled but stirring in the snow, you dig Rex out and lift him into the saddle of your speeder at record speed. Owing to hysterical strength, you escape the snow-slide’s torrential course in the nick of time as you ride ahead in search of shelter. 

Reaching the eastern end of the ‘Sacred Bow’ mountain range, you locate a small cave in the foothills. After disembarking and finding nothing inside, you take the time you didn’t have before to carefully ease Rex off the speeder and keep him upright as you help him inside. With the winds blowing their hardest since your arrival and the fear of a second or even third avalanche, this is going to be your best bet for shelter. 

The pain that comes with such dramatic, repeated exertions of energy begins settling in as you carefully prop the wounded cobalt captain against a part of the wall deeper in. You’ll have to push through it for now. Rex needs you more. 

You hope to coax a few words out of him beyond pained groans. “Rex? Oh Force… Please talk to me. Just let me know you’re not dead, or something.” Momentarily stripped of their gloves, your hands carefully feel up his armor for fracturing or other damage to the plastoid. Panic stings through you when nothing is found on the first pass and Rex remains too still for your liking. “Please, Rex - I don’t know if you’re hurt, or-!”

“Been in… w-worse shape…” he bites out at last. It takes great effort to form every word, he’ll have to be forgiven for the lack of enunciation and the heavy slurring of his voice. “Are… You… okay?”

You’re relieved and stunned (and in pain) all at once. No. No, you’re really not okay, truthfully. Heart become a wild dove, you’re struggling to remain calm in a critical situation where you cannot afford to lose composure. You try to brush it off and insist to him that you need to make sure he is okay before you call Torrent Company for help, but Rex won’t let it go. “Are you okay?” he repeats, speaking with more force this time. 

You’ve read enough holo-novels and mags to recognize what’s happening here: Rex is more concerned about you than himself. If you tell him that you’re fine—or at least in better shape than him—he’ll stop resisting your efforts to look over him. Rex’ll allow himself to drop his vigilance, his worrying and protective nature, and relinquish himself to your care. 

You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m cold, and scared, and worried about the others. But I’m mostly okay... S-somehow.” Until you make contact with the company, there’s no telling how many troopers have been hurt. Or worse. Musculature injuries will be chump change compared to the loss of Rex’s men. 

“Good…” comes the soft, relieved sigh. “Good.”

“We should try to reach the others once I take care of your injuries,” you say. Carefully, you resume patting down his armor for damage, even carefully removing his helmet since you’re sheltered from the wind’s reach. This is the first time his helmet has been removed since boarding the gunships and touching down on Dethellum. A moment that becomes so overwhelming by how much quiet pain you find in that warm, deep tan of his handsome face. 

You incorporate these “tells” into your assessment, repeatedly asking “How badly does it hurt?” as you carefully prod along. 

Thick brows buckle and bunch together when you’ve brushed over developing bruises. A sharp wince as each arm is examined. Whiskey-dark eyes flaring in alarm before you determine the large patch of red staining his thigh armor comes from a punctured tube of GLARE, not a nicked artery. The short, labored breath when you find an injury on his upper back that he couldn’t tell was there. 

Not without you removing the back section of his armor, lifting part of his thermal bodysuit away, and pressing down on it with a glob of bacta and a glue-stat that you’ve pulled from the medkit in your supply-pack. 

“You really don’t feel that?”

“No, I don’t,” Rex admits in another pant, “probably from the adrenaline.” Or from the throw. Or how he landed. Or the cold. There were probably a dozen rational explanations for why he couldn’t. But those mattered less to him than making sure you had enough material to take care of yourself, too. 

Having lost his own pack, likely when he was thrown from the speeder, Rex refuses to take the singular dose of painkiller in your autoinjector. 

“No, cyare… Keep it for yourself. It’s your medicine.” 

“W-what? Why?” 

You’re not on Drongar; this isn’t a rare medicine like bota. Rex needs this now. The muscular pain you feel is growing more unpleasant, but you can wait. Typically his altruistic nature was downright admiral; hell, even attractive. Right now it only creates a surprising amount of guilt. Rex got hurt because of you. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I panicked and now you’re hurt, and now I-” You have to make this right. You have to put him at ease, and then find a way to get in touch with the others. There’s so much that has to be done to ease this guilt and give the two of you the best, fighting chance at survival. “I made such a mess…”

When he takes your hand, you know the captain is going to kindly—nobly—try to shoulder the blame instead. 

Rex has a little more than that in mind, however. 

“No, kid… I’m sorry I got you into this mess in the first place. I’m the one who asked you to join the ground crew. The one who made the call not to send you back to the Venator before the storm started getting worse… You shouldn’t be here. I care about you, and I put you in harm’s way.” 

“What are you talking like that for? We’ve been friends a long time; of course I know you care about me.” 

He shakes his head gently. That isn’t what he means.

“If you don’t already, you should know I mean I care about you in another sense…”

Oh no: he didn’t get hurt because of you. Rex got hurt for you. “I-I’m going to spoil the moment by asking if you’re freezing to death on me, talking like this, aren’t I?” Quickly easing him forward, you return the back plating and wrap him in the emergency blanket for good measure. A short dig through your pack finds an extra knitwear cap smooshed down at the bottom. 

It’s pulled over the naturally blond, close-shaven curls of his hair before Rex can get another word in. “S’okay, cyar’ika…” he murmurs comfortingly. A thick-gloved hand reaches just high enough to cup your cold-stung face, his thumb brushing over the apple in your cheek. “You couldn’t possibly spoil anything… And I’m not going anywhere.” Rex promises tenderly. 

Not when he has the General and the Republic to fight for. His brothers. 

You. 

You'll find a way to make it out of this together. He's sure of it. 

It'll just take a little hope that someone is there to answer the emergency transponder once the device has been activated. 

Bundled together under the emergency blanket, you and Rex have never been more grateful, or happy, than you are now to hear so many voices at once when the signal goes through. 

 Rookies and experienced soldiers alike speak at speeds that would put hyperspace to shame. 

“It’sthecaptainonheremergencybeacon! They’rebothalivethanktheForce!” 

Kix laughs apologetically, trying to move further away from the triumphant ruckus, and not for the first time. “Sorry, Captain! Jesse’s having a hell of a time settling them down. We’re just relieved to hear from you. You two were the last we needed to hear from after the snow slide!”

“The last?” Rex asks in worry. “Did we lose anyone?”

“No! I’m relieved to report we didn’t lose anyone, sir - everyone’s alive!” That news is more miraculous than a miracle. (Thank the stars. Thank the Force!) Knowing it’s nothing a long dip in the bacta tanks can’t fix for the brothers caught by the flow kept the medic’s spirits high while they worked with Skywalker’s astromech through the storm. Every available trooper was determined to locate the final two members of the company. And now they knew you were okay. “How’s the kid holding up?”

“I’m in better shape than the captain, Kix,” you reply, adding that it’s great to hear from him. “He’s injured, and shaking more than a nervous tooka; this sweet di’kut insisted on sharing a few parts of his armor to keep me warm. Scared me half to death because I thought it was paradoxical undressing at first.”

“How injured?”

An uneasy chuckle bubbles up out of you. “Can’t say for certain. I took care of what I could with what I have.” Better than nothing. You’re training to be a nav officer, not a medic. Basic and portions of emergency aid is all you’d be capable of without Kix on the comlink to walk you through a far more dire situation. “Should I check again for something I may have missed?”

Kix admires your willingness, but encourages you to holster it for the time being. “Wait on that for now. Focus on keeping sheltered, okay? Adjust the warming function so we have a better chance of finding you two nice and toasty.” He waits patiently for confirmation the advanced thermo-regulator sensors are sending more power to the heat-coils carefully strung through the plastoid armor split between the two of you. “Really couldn’t convince him to take turns?”

“He told me “Not a chance, cyar’ika”... So I compromised.”

It’s not difficult to imagine the smiles from his brothers when you hear Jesse join Kix on the comm. 

“How sweet of you, captain!”

“Jesse…”

Ignoring the warning, the ARC trooper assures you they’ll find you before long. “We’ll get to you as fast as we can, kid. Just hang tight. Keep your beacon on.” 

“Safely. Don’t forget safely, please.”

“Heh. You got it, ma’am. Jesse and Kix out.” 

Now came the impatient agony of settling in to wait for rescue. Not knowing how long it would be before seeing the faces of friends and brothers. Or how long you would need to keep each other calm, warm, and safe. But at least it could start with setting aside the transponder and moving closer together. Once adjusted, you and Rex each pull your ends of the first aid blanket tighter around yourselves. Locking in whatever warmth you can now will nudge the odds in your favor. 

You’ll be able to wait out until nightfall, if you have to. 

Rex feels there’s more he has to tell you before there’s any planning for that, first. More he should’ve said when you had cleaned and bandaged up his final injuries of blood earlier. Speaking in a sorrowful tone that threatens to cleave your heart in two, he again apologizes for getting you into this mess. 

“I’m so sorry it all happened like this, ner burc’ya…” He never meant for you to come in harm’s way like this. Never. Never in a million lightyears. Nor did he want to confess to you like this. Confessing something so important—so heartfelt and personal—in a horrible or dangerous situation was a scenario he had always hoped to avoid. “On today of all days, no less.”

“I don’t follow,” you confess softly. “What’s so special about today, Rex?”

“It’s Life Day.” 

You stifle a gasp of surprise. Having been so preoccupied with your work aboard the Resolute and the training to become a proper navigational officer, you had lost track of the holidays and didn’t even notice. It takes a little clever reflection to add truthful sentiment to your apologetic explanation when Rex, curious, asks why. 

“When every day I get to spend with you feels like Life Day, it’s hard to notice when the real deal comes around, Rex.”

With or without his brothers being included, it’s easy to lose track of time in his company. Hard to miss the way he makes you feel. Or ignore how much you care for him. About him. The way he helped you out of a few back scrapes when the Venator was under Separatist attack thrice in one standard week had just been the beginning. Now, you… 

You love him, undeniably. 

It’s for his brains, his brawn, and even his beauty, too. It’s for the Triple-B-Threat and so many other, innumerable reasons. Ones you would prefer not to share in such harsh conditions. 

In the light of your own confession, Rex has another he feels would be appropriate to share. 

“Well in that case… I got you a gift. I’d like to give it to you when we make it back.” When you ask if he really did, Rex answers with an unbelievably tender nod. “Can I tell you what it is, cyare?”

It may be a while before Jesse, Kix, and the others in Torrent find your beacon; trying to keep one another talking in the meantime would be the smartest idea. Not just for morale, but to ensure the other was fairly cognizant. 

So you agree. “Mhm.”

“It’s a book. Chatterbox got into book-binding recently… Asked him if he wouldn’t mind helping me make something special for you.” 

“Awh, Rex… You made me a book?” 

His head bobs beside you, the movement small. “Finished it last night. Haven’t wrapped it yet.” 

Putting together a hand-made book just for you is such a thoughtful gesture that you could practically swoon. “Kark the wrapping paper - I’d love it even if you gave it to me in a pillowcase!” you declare. You can feel Rex starting to chuckle before he quickly regrets it, spurring a new swell of pain. 

“Oh no,” he says with a decided shake of his head, “you don’t want one of our pillowcases… Deserve far better than that. More than a book, even.”

“Rex-”

“Mesh’la… You deserve the whole galaxy. And someone who has the power to give it to you.”

This is no time for humility. You panicked, and your friend put his damn life on the line to keep you safe. Not because you’re one of his brothers. Or because you’re part of the company today. But because he loves you. 

“I don’t want the whole galaxy, Rex.” Pulling him closer, cold-trembling lips crown his forehead with a row of kisses before finally locking his lips with his own. “I’d rather have you.” Such a tender declaration would ordinarily embolden the injured man now in your arms, but collective pains and freezing temperatures keep each of you from doing something a little more reckless. Maybe even sensual and passionate. 

So he finally agrees to take the painkiller when you offer it again from your medkit. The combination of the puh-chunk! and hissed release has never sounded so good. Immediate relief ebbs over him when the pharmaceutical enters his system, drawing a gentle sigh out as the tension fades away. 

“Practically a natural.” Maybe you should think about helping Kix, if you ever grow tired of being a nav officer. 

You rebuke him with a gentle laugh. “Hush. It’s so simple a B1 could do it.” That may be giving them too much credit. It makes Rex smile, at least. 

A welcome disturbance to the comfortable quiet fallen over you, the emergency beacon begins to ping in a steady rhythm. Someone has a lock on the signal and opened the one-way channel to communicate with you. 

“Captain Rex, this is General Skywalker. We have a lock on your beacon and we’re approaching you now. Heard that you had a little more excitement than the others from Artoo. How’s our nav officer doing; is she okay?” 

Hah. Figures there’d be a few details lost or omitted in just a few rounds of Holo-call. 

Spirits high, Rex smiles as he picks up the transponder, “Good to hear your voice, General. It’s a helluva Life Day miracle that she’s largely unharmed! I took the worst of it; but I should live to fight another day.”

“It’s a Life Day miracle that you’re both still with us, Captain. We’ll have you picked up and taken back to the Resolute in no time.” the Jedi promises. “Skywalker out.”

It was hard to argue with that. A shame you’d be leaving before determining whether or not Dethellum possessed any sort of atmospheric light phenomenon like many other polar worlds, but…

What better Life Day gift could there be than to make it out alive of a perilous set of circumstances with the people you loved and cared for most?

You may not believe me, but this is the abridged version of LoLD! I'm an over-explainer + writer by nature, I'm afraid... But I hope you all enjoyed this fic! A huge thank you to Kim for making a request and becoming a part of my 200 follower milestone celebration with everyone's favorite cobalt captain. 🩷

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dukeoftheblackstar @dystopicjumpsuit @dreamie411 @msmeredithrose + @returnofthepineapple @lonely-day3636

[FFF Masterlist] [TCW Masterlist] [Taglist] [Requests: CLOSED]

[potatoes83]

Random...

Good morning, and happy new year! I didn't make it last night to see the ball drop on TV, was pretty much assed out with the dogs around 10:30. To be fair, it's always been somewhat of a disappointment. Years ago, probably when we were old enough as kids to stay up to ring in the new year, my grandma Fran told us about how they drop this ball in Times Square. From the top of a tall building. And between the way she described it, and the places my brain went, I envisioned this massive solid steel ball being pushed off the top of a building, smashing at all speed into the ground and flattening cars, mailboxes, whatever was unfortunate enough to be there.

See, it's New York, a place I've never been, but had of course built up in my head. And it's only one time a year, and if you could get away with that sort of thing anywhere, it would be New York.

So there I am, mind-blown that I am about to witness such a spectacle. I have no idea what year it was, at least 30 or more ago, so Dick Clark would have still been alive and hosting, not that I knew or cared what a Dick Clark was. Couldn't even tell you who the corporate sponsor was back then. But oh my goodness, it's 11:59, here we go...

... and this shiny sparkly wire frame thing SLOWLY begins a descent on a pole well above Times Square. Now I mean, the ball is an impressive feat of engineering, and I think it's been redone like three times in my lifetime to become even more grand, but based on what I've worked myself up to in my head, catastrophic disappointment. I mean damn. I was expecting carnage, I was expecting this massive ball to leave a crater in the pavement, flatten a couple cars, maybe come to a rest in a storefront, just absolutely wreck up the place. Because again, it's New York. They spend the next couple months rebuilding, everything's back to normal, it's just collateral damage for something that the entire nation, and probably the entire world watches.

And understand, I am all about tradition. That ball has been dropped in Times Square for over 100 years. And if you're gathered with friends and ringing in the new year, it would be kind of weird to not have the TV at least on in the background, so you could count down along with an entire city and nation. But the whole thing still does seem rather flaky to me.

I don't know what sort of tradition Dick Clark started, I've never thought to look back to the '70s and '80s to see how it went but at least in my memories of the last 15 years or so, you've had everyone wearing the stupid swag, the giant foam glasses that say Nivea on them, or the big foam purple top hats with Planet Fitness emblazoned on them, and trust me I'm all about capitalism, but that level of consumerism is obnoxious. Like, there are very few brands that I consider parading about with their name to be a fashion statement. Oh boy, I got big plastic Nivea glasses. Yeah, I'm going to wear those again in my lifetime. They might be a good skin lotion brand, I don't really know, but I'm certainly not that invested in them.

Then there's the "music", and I use the term loosely. You either have the female artist singing about what an unabraded whore she is, and that's really a Sophie's choice because it's typically in the mid thirties this time of year, so they desperately want to show off as much skin as legally possible, but also keep from getting hypothermia. For the gents, it's almost always going to be that one song where you hold the microphone sideways, and the lyrics go: uh, uh, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, yeah, yeah, uh...

If you're into all that, you do you. But I'm just not. I don't care who the corporate sponsors are, I don't care about hearing the same song, doesn't matter who's singing it, or what it is, it all sounds the same, and I think one of the biggest things that happens to you when you grow up is that when you are tired, you go to sleep. When you're a kid, you're sitting there imagining this time, I'm going to stay up so late, I'm going to stay up past midnight every night, yeah wait till you get here. Last night, I became tired, so I turned everything off and went to bed.

So I missed the ball drop. I literally didn't lose sleep over it, and I'm not that invested to look it up on the you tube. I actually watched the replay of Russia ringing in the new year as I was drifting off to sleep. President Putin finishes up his speech, they zoom in on the spasskya tower, the clock chimes down, and they play the anthem while the cameras pan to different shots around the Kremlin. I'm not Russian, but I totally have a thing for tradition, history, architecture, old clocks, and I don't care what political spectrum you're on, Alexandrov wrote one hell of an anthem; it's an orchestral masterpiece.

I don't know how other English speaking countries do it, but like, it would be nice if after Auld Lang syne, maybe we did hear the Star Spangled Banner. I could give a fuck less what mushbrain Biden would wander out of the day room and attempt to read off the teleprompter in his fake oval office set, but I would rather enter the new year with our national anthem than some singer which is apparently called 'jelly-roll'. Like seriously, and this is not a bad thing, I was looking up some history, came across the list of headliners for last night, and the only singer from last night's revelry that I recognized is LL Cool J, who was big in the '90s. I have no idea what a jelly roll is, or a megan thee stallion, or any of the rest. And again, that's not a bad thing.

I don't know about resolutions, seems to be less important the older you get, at least in my experience. But last year, we made a concerted effort to try to more productively spend our time. Instead of sitting on our ass and watching reruns, we were working out in the garden. If the weather was temperate, we grilled and enjoyed a fire in the backyard instead of sitting glued to the couch. That was a big part of it, just getting away from the idiot box. And as part of that, I have been deliberately disconnecting myself and avoiding 'Hollywood royalty', 'influencers', 'YouTube sensations', and all the rest. Not sticking my head in the sand, and no, I'm not going monastic or amish, I still enjoy a bit of TV time every now and again, and the YouTube black hole remains a guilty pleasure, but it's amazing how much better, how much more productively you can spend your time.

Last year was a good year, and whether I quantify that as a resolution, or just continue on the path I've started, I'm looking forward to 2024. A lot of good things happened last year, and plenty of bad, but that's life. And all we can do is move forward. I'm no self-help guru or anything, I'm an imperfect broken sinner same as anyone else, but more and more, I am taking things that just don't work or fit in my life, and I'm divesting them. You can't be happy all the time, but if something is not only not bringing you joy, but is in fact bringing you downright misery, then why the hell are you doing that?

I wish everyone who reads this a very happy and prosperous new year. Make it a good one. Seek joy, keep what works, distance yourself from what doesn't. In the immortal words of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: every shiny dream that fades and dies, generates the steam for two more tries! Always look forward, keep trying, and fight the good fight! In the words of Steve Deace, fear God, tell the truth, make money... Good advice!

🥔

[abibliophobiaa]

Another Love - tasm!peter parker x f!reader (3/3)

a/n: well, here we are. almost 50k words later and we are at the final part of this crazy brain-child i had one day after i knew i would be doing an april au event over on @spidervee’s page. i've loved every minute of it. also, definitely the first time i've written this much in a long time. or ever, for that matter.

warnings: 18+ to be safe - minors dni. blood. gore. typical time period violence. i've also mentioned pregnancy multiple times in previous chapters, so just want to throw out that it is mentioned. briefly. and peter and reader are parents by the end. also mentioned only briefly, as i know not everyone is into that. but it is a royal!au and heirs are a thing. 

cross-posted on my ao3. 

| PART ONE | PART TWO | MASTER LIST |

*

“holy water cannot help you now,

see i’ve come to burn your kingdom down.”

seven devils - florence + the machine

*

Time was a fickle thing. One moment, you were careless and free. Troubles all a faraway memory. Thoughts pushed far from your mind, focused instead on the present. 

Of running through fields. Dancing beneath firelight. Whispering poetry against wine drunk ears. Playing chess in no more than a fur cloak to cover your form. Hot eyes trailing along bare flesh. Of plush pillows and heated hands. Of pleasure so deep, it made your head swirl. Dragged beneath the depths of it. A breathless surrender. 

Even then, you knew it to have been limited. Merely shards of sand falling through an hourglass. Counting down until this very moment. 

You had two months. Two months of wedded bliss at last. Selfishly, it wasn’t enough. 

You kept repeating those words in your mind as Peter dragged you back to the garrison. Lifting your armor he had fitted for you when you began training. Helped you into it as you stared off into the distance. 

Not enough time. 

I am out of time…

“I need you to try to avoid battle as much as possible. Your primary goal is to assist the other healers.”

You barely heard him. Eyes drifting to his face to look at him. Taking in those kind eyes, full of assurance toward you when all you felt was dark, cold dread. It swallowed you in those inky, black tendrils. Till all you knew was breathlessness. 

“Did you hear me?” He asked. Curled his finger around the tip of your chin, turning your head to him. “Hey. Hey…look at me. I am here. I am right here, please do not go where I cannot follow you.”

Your fingers reached up to cup along his cheek. Memorizing every feature. Every line and sharp angle. The thickness of his brows. The curve of his nose. The gentle slope of his jaw. The indent just above his top lip. The way his bottom one jutted out just so. Perfectly made for your own. And his honey brown doe-eyes. Always so full of emotion; your favorite as of late being the love he so deeply bore you. 

“I heard you.”

Your words were so soft, you weren’t even sure you’d truly spoken them. Hollowed, just as your chest felt at the reality etching its way into it. Replacing every shred of joy and replacing it with bitterness and fear. 

“You got a little quiet on me. You are generally very outspoken.”

You forced out a laugh. Your lips dragged downward once more, eyes trailing over your breastplate. Over the family crest; the name you shared with your husband, emblazoned on the metal. 

“We are out of time.”

“Do not say such things.” He demanded, forehead pressing forcefully into yours. 

“What if it is true? What if we have been given a short glimpse at eternity and that is all we get?” Your eyes watered, pinching shut as you shuddered on an exhale. 

“Then I will die happy knowing it was spent with you,” he said, tugging you to your feet.

“Please…do not speak of death like it is an option.”

His hand smoothed down the side of your neck. Your shoulder. “Love, it is not an option. As I said, we will see the sunrise again. I am certain of it. We have many years yet, all of which we will spend with one another. You may even grow to tire of me.”

“I would never tire of you.”

He leaned forward and kissed you once more. Lingered for a bit before Lord Bartrand cleared his throat, hand crossed over his chest. Peter quickly dressed himself and turned to the man, clasping your hand in his. 

“You must address the army, Your Grace. Morale is high—though Carstell soldiers have still not arrived.”

“How many soldiers did Hollowhall bring?”

Lord Bartrand glanced down. “It looks to be thousands. Likely three—maybe more.”

“We are outnumbered,” you whispered out, feeling your heart stutter in your chest. 

Peter turned to you then, smiling. “It is the hearts of the soldiers that matters. Not the number.”

You believed him. Had to believe him. And it was hard not to when he looked into your eyes with an assurance that made you feel like every inch of you glowed. His words inspired. That heart of his steadfast and brave. You loved him. Reminded him of such, as Lord Bartrand looked away for a moment to give you the privacy of a whispered affection between the two of you. 

“I am sorry your honey moon has been cut short,” Lord Bartrand said, as the two of you fell into step beside him. “But your people need you more than ever, Your Graces. We may lose many lives before the battle is over.”

The reality of it settled on you then. Knowing that many of the soldiers here today might meet the end of a blade today, dying for something they believed so fiercely in. Brave soldiers who had a heart for their country—and those of your father’s, coming to defend their once gilded Princess. 

As you stepped out and into the open fields near the garrison, you were met with the countless soldiers standing pressed together in a sea of bodies. Their swords were already in hand, raised with their fists as they shouted their love for the King. And for you. 

You remained at Peter’s side, never allowing your hand to part from his as he tugged you nearer to his chest. Ran a hand along your armored side as Lord Bartrand moved to attach a billowing red cloak to your husband’s armor. The wind made it trail behind him. Stark against the midnight sky, illuminated by torch light. 

Those faces staring up at you made your breath catch as it settled in the back of your throat. So many of which you didn’t even know the name of. Faces you might find buried in a few days time. Whispering words to console to grieving widows, to their children…loved ones. They lived and breathed for Ayelandia. For the hope of a long reign to come. You would not disappoint them. 

“People of Ayelandia! People of Glendhaven! Hollowhall soldiers stand at our doorstep. They would hope to overtake our lands—to take what is ours. But we will not let them. Our hearts beat for our home, and we will do whatever we can this day to preserve it!” Peter began, his voice loud and clear over the din. “In the words of late Queen Gwen, ‘No matter how buried it gets, or lost you feel, you must promise me that you will hold on to hope and keep it alive. We have to be greater than what we suffer. My wish for you is to become hope.’ So we will do that. We will be a hope for our people. A beacon. We do not surrender!” 

Shouts of Long live the King and long live the Queen permeated the air. A chant that beat loudly in your ears as you stepped down the stairs leading toward the swelling crowd. Greeted the soldiers with an arm across your chest as you passed. Reminding them tonight you were one with them. Golden ring twined in your hair, symbolic of your training and acceptance from the Guard. 

So, with your heart beating wildly in your chest, your husband gripped your hand in his own and led his army toward the fields of Ambrosen. 

To war. 

—x—

A healing tent had been prepared some weeks ago on the fields of Ambrosen. Lined with numerous cots, bandages, linens and herbs and ointments which you knew would be vital in the hours to come. As soon as you entered, you counted everyone within. Ten healers. You hoped it would be enough. Hoped none of them would come in the line of battle. 

Bronwynne appeared at your side, wearing only a slip of chainmail over her simple frock, and an apron overtop. You reached forward to wrap your arms around her neck, drawing her near to you. She trembled beneath your grasp, eyes leveling with yours. 

“This is really happening?” 

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yes. You go ahead and make sure everyone is prepared. I am to join my husband briefly, but I will be right back.”

Bronwynne, with a newly secured assurance, began making her way about the room. Distributing orders to the rest of the healers. You had argued with Healer Agatha to stay behind with the other women and children of Ayelandia, despite her many protests. But she had conceded eventually, understanding it was in her best interest. 

“We are all well equipped thanks to you, Healer Agatha.”

Her eyes had burned with unshed tears. Her palms coming up to clasp your forearms. “We are so very blessed by you, Your Grace. Lion heart. Ayelandia will see you and your husband reign for years to come.”

You brushed at your eyes, slipping from the tent to join your husband where he stood on the rampart. Overlooking the field of soldiers baring torches, ready to fight. His fingers tangled with yours, lips pressed against your cheek. 

“Archers, prepare the first volley!” 

Peter shouted, archers all around you moving their arrows into position. You had gripped a bow as well, alighting the tip with flame. You met his eyes briefly, before he gave the order to release the first wave of flaming arrows. 

The results were immediate. Soldiers at the front line screaming and shouting their agony. Some silenced immediately with a bolt to a head or a throat, while others screeched in their pain as fire licked at their forms. Your breathing halted, hands trembling as you reached for another arrow, watching your husband move into position as he prepared one as well. 

The second wave was released a moment later, and all hell broke loose on the battlefield. Hollowhall soldiers rushing forward toward those of Ayelandia and Glendhaven on the lower levels. Swords clashing in a flurry of rage and ferocity. The sound elevating itself up and over the ramparts, amplified only by the screams of the dying men and women below. 

You shuddered beside Peter, preparing to grab another arrow as his hand curled around your wrist. You gazed up at him, understanding settling over your face. You pressed your forehead against his, nodding slowly. 

“I will go join the other healers. Strike lucky and true, husband,” you whispered. 

The teased title curled his lips. Memories of your earlier days flashing across your minds. Of banter and displeasure at first. And then a companionship…melting into curiosity. Morphing into love—a love so deep and so certain. You had never known anything like it. Would never again, you were certain. 

“I love you,” you reminded him. 

“As I love you,” he said softly, kissing you one last time before you began running toward the stairs leading toward the battlefield. 

Nothing prepared you for the sights within the healing tent. You had seen wounded men before. Had witnessed death. Watched a man lose his life for treason many months ago now. But experiencing the men and women struggling on cots in varying degrees of distress eradicated any experience you had thus far. 

People moaned and cried around you. Healers flitting in and out of cots, tending to each of their patients. Deciding what methods might be used to save one—and what methods might bring another relief in their final hours. 

You held the hands of the dying as they slipped away from the world. And whispered words of comfort to others as you stitched their wounds back together, before bandaging them and sending them back into battle. For what felt like hours, bodies kept filtering in and out of the healing tend. Each one worse than the next. Each making you feel all the more helpless. 

Your breath halted when one of the familiar faced recruits you had trained with was brought inside and presented on the bed nearest you. His face twisted in pain. Hand pressed against a bleeding wound on his stomach. Charred marks scoring his body, where a Hollowhall soldier must have gotten him with a flaming arrow or a burning spear. He reached out for your hand, breathing coming out in short, puffed breaths. It wouldn’t be long now, you assumed, from the amount of blood seeping from the wound. 

“Please…please, Your Grace. I do not want to die alone.” 

Bronwynne glanced up from where she stood with her own patient. Bloody palm print scored across her face. Stained there by the woman who had died under her care only minutes ago. You glanced back down at the young man, settling down on the cot beside him. Hand clasped around his own as his murky eyes raised to yours. 

In the distance, one of the other healers began to sing. An unfamiliar Ayelandian tune. Of crossing over into freedom—of passing beyond into death. A comforting tune of a life outside of this one. Of a peace in death. A hopeful thing to ask for as you watched the man’s eyes slowly begin to close. His breathing becoming slower as you pressed your fingers against his throat. Counted the far and few in-between heartbeats beneath your skin. 

“You are not alone, my friend,” you whispered, inhaling through your tears. Brushed your face against the sleeve of your shirt. “You have served well. You can rest now.” 

His head nodded once slowly. 

Then again. 

And the beating against your fingers stopped. 

You slipped away in your mind for a moment, then. Like a phantom in the night as you stood to your feet, wiping your bloodied hand on your pant leg. Watching as soldiers lifted the body from the cot and replaced it with another. Watched as soldier after soldier met the same fate. Bleeding from wounds no medicine would ever be able to heal. 

It seemed futile. Your capabilities limited. More—you wanted to do more.

“You need to take a moment, Your Grace. You look as pale as death,” Bronwynne muttered, stirring you from your stupor. “I will tend to this patient.”

You nodded, walking over to grab a canteen of water. Sipped it briefly before your stomach churned and betrayed you into the nearest bucket you could find. You pressed the back of your hand to your forehead, breathing slowly in and out of your nostrils. Trying to block out the moaning around you. The grief-filled cries. The requests to tell loved ones of their dying family members last words. 

You took another sip of water and returned to your patients. One after the other, passing in and out like the waves on the Ayelandian shores. Cleaning and tending to wounds until your fingers ached. Until you felt you were unable to do anymore. 

It was on your second break to grab water that you smelled the fire. Rushed out of the tent to watch the smoke billowing high above the ramparts separating Ambrosen fields from the gates of Ayelandia. The white cloud unfurling into the sky, and the amber glow radiating beneath it. Your heart lurched. Icy, cold dread spilling into your gut. 

Your eyes searched around the battlefield to find your husband. Your sword drawn and poised at the ready. Commander Ayla spotted you first, rushing over to your side as you walked across the fields. 

“You are not meant to be in the heat of battle,” she grunted, intercepting a Hollowhall soldier with her sword. Kicked him backward and sank her blade deep into his chest. 

You gasped at the way his blood bubbled in his throat. “I need to speak with the King.”

“I will take you to him, Your Grace. Stay close to me.”

Nodding, you rushed after her. Eyes trying to not focus on the people battling around you. Men standing over one another as they dealt final blows. Throats being slit from behind, spraying arcs of blood into the winter air. Arrows sinking into flesh and silencing life. It was chaotic. Constant movement resulting in death. 

Multitudes and multitudes of death. 

There, in the distance, you finally saw him. Red cloak flowing behind him as he struck down a soldier. That golden crown on his head catching your eye. Muscular arms hewn from years of training flexing and moving with each swing of blade. He was a vision on the field. The true king defending his kingdom. 

His eyes darted toward the two of you as you approached, his hand immediately rushing out to grasp yours as he rushed you away from the heat of battle. Pressed you against the trunk of a tree once distanced enough.  

“It is the healing houses,” you gasped, clutching at Peter’s arm. “I must go. Someone has lit them aflame—you can see the fire from here.”

“You will absolutely not race headlong into a fire.”

You squeezed the hand around his forearm tighter to draw his attention, ducking as a Hollowhall soldier ran toward the two of you. Stabbed straight and clean through the heart by your husband as you tugged him along behind you. Gasping for breath, hand tugging at your increasingly too-tight armor. 

“Our storages are there. I cannot help anyone if we run out of supplies. Do you understand?” You pleaded with him, glancing up into those horrified brown eyes. “I have seen so much death; we will experience even more if I do not do something.” 

He nodded. Understanding the reality of the situation you were presented with. Either run and try to save whatever you could or remain on the battlefield and suffer many more casualties. There was no easy decision—though Peter leaned down and kissed you all the same. 

“You come back to me. That is an order from your King.”

“Giving me orders now, love?” You smirked, pressing another kiss to his mouth. “I will be right here as soon as I am able to. I will bring Bronwynne with me; we can bring along sacks and try to salvage as much as we can. I fear we will lose many preventable deaths if we do not.”

“Promise me.” It was a whispered plea. Anguish deeply set on that handsome face. 

You imagined he was thinking of Gwen. Grown cold in death. You would not leave him this night. He had promised a lifelong love. A love that continued even after death. You would find him. Your heartbeat in tandem with his…its perfect partner. 

So you nodded, turning on the heel to find Bronwynne fending off a soldier with a tiny dagger, before Lord Bartrand ended his life. Shouting for the both of you to make a break for it while you had an opening. 

You rushed along with her toward the gates. Only to find them already lifted. That wasn’t right. Your heart picked up in your chest, fear pumping into your blood. There were supposed to be guards posted. 

Where were the guards? 

“Wynne, something is amiss.”

Her eyes drifted to the distance. Unfocused and rounded. “The men were slain. Look.”

You trailed your gaze to where she was looking. Hand coming to cup over your mouth at the sight of the guards with their throats slit on their posts. 

“There are women and children here. We must help them evacuate—”

“The healing houses, Your Grace!” 

“These are our people, Wynne. We will search the healing houses first and then help the people. Have you ever held a sword? You will need it.”

“No,” she muttered, as you reached to grab one from the ground. Settled at the booted foot of the soldier slain before you. “But I will do what I must.”

You made your way through the streets on quiet feet, entering the healing houses. Coughing at the cloud of smoke billowing from the highest point of it. Fear propelled the two of you forward, rushing down toward the lower levels before the fire overtook them. Packing as many supplies you could carry into slings positioned at your back. 

That was, until you heard the coughing from the corner of the room. Lifted your head in the direction it had come from, feet drawing you nearer. There, in the corner, you spotted Healer Agatha. Hand splayed over her stomach. Covering a bleeding wound beneath her apron. 

Bronwynne’s footsteps echoed behind you as you moved the healer’s hand aside and lifted the edge of her apron. Saw the blood pooling beneath it. By your estimation, she did not have long now. Mere minutes separated her from death. Your hand clutched in her own, eyes boring into hers, pleading. 

“What happened? People were supposed to be evacuating to the tunnels. There were boats docked at the ports to rush the women and children to Carstell—to stay with our ally.”

She gasped out a breath. Eyes searching for your face. Clouding. “It was if someone informed them. The Hollowhall soldiers. They cornered the civilians. Cut them down in the streets—”

“No,” you breathed out. Holding back a sob as you glanced over your shoulder to Bronwynne. 

She didn’t meet your eyes. Only stared off into the distance. 

“They…lit the houses on fire. To draw out the other healers. Killed them, too. I tried to fend them off—” 

She broke off into a fit of coughing. Blood dribbled at the corner of her lips, your thumbs coming up to brush it away. 

“You fought well,” you said, noting the dead body of a Hollowhall soldier near to her hip. 

“Your Grace, you must leave here. You must…I fear there is a plot…”

Her head rolled to the side. Eyes staring up into nothingness. Gone now from this world. You lowered her eyelids, pressing your fingers to your lips before positioning them in the middle of her forehead. Standing straight on wobbling legs. 

Too much. You had seen too much death today. But you could not shake the sinking feeling her words had instilled. Someone had warned the Hollowhall soldiers the citizens of Ayeladia would be escaping to the boats. 

An informant lived in your midst all this time. 

But who?

“Your Grace, we can still help the surviving women and children to safety. There is hope to be had yet,” Bronwynne reminded you, pulling you back to reality. 

You slid your eyes toward hers. Noting the blood all over her hands. Her dress. Her face. You were certain you looked the same now. Unrecognizable. You supposed war did that. 

Wondered if anything would ever be the same. 

But she was right. There were lives to still be saved. Death still capable of being prevented. 

So the two of you worked to do just that. Searching through the homes to find the living. Greeted time after time with loss. Grief settling like rocks in a pool in your gut. Each door darkened by the Hollowhall soldiers who had already managed to get there before you had. 

You prayed many had already made it to the tunnels. Knew the courtiers likely already had, spilling from their chambers to rush to Carstell aid. But these people were just as deserving. Your people. The blood of your husband and therefore your blood as well. Spilled in vain, for a nefarious king’s selfish gain. 

Your fingers brushed across the forehead of a woman, sprawled out in the street. Rage pooling violently in your chest. 

You heard it then. The faint cries of a young babe coming from the tavern. The door cracked ever so slightly, you questioned you had seen it properly. 

Gesturing for Bronwynne to follow, the two of you slipped inside and your heart leaped at what you saw there. Dozens of your people filled the room, wielding chairs and knives and tankards in their hands. 

“It is the Queen!” Someone whispered, and the room began to grow louder in volume. 

You stood atop a table. Drawing their attention to you.  “We must make haste. The castle is not far from here. I promise you that you will be safe yet. The tunnels are still opened and there are ships prepared to take you away from here. But we will need to be brave—to fight. Are you all with me?”

Those faces which greeted yours were full of uncertainty. Many already grieved by loss—you could see it in your eyes. They were tired; you did not blame them. Were tired yourself. All seemed lost already. But there was hope. 

A little boy stepped forward first. Gripped an empty tankard in his hand and walked over to your side. His tiny hand reached upward to touch yours dangling at your side. Fingers curling into your own. You glanced down at him, heart shattering with the weight behind his young gaze. 

“I will fight with you, Your Grace.”

“As will I,” a woman said, stepping forward, clutching an unlit torch in her hand. 

“And I,” said another, wielding a broken off leg of a chair. 

Your eyes watered as the room erupted in an endless sea of children and adult alike coming forward and taking up arms. Bravery so gallantly displayed before you in the face of uncertainty. 

The unlikely band of soldiers walked behind you through the streets of Ayelandia. Defending themselves to the best of their ability as enemy soldiers attempted to attack. Thrusting lit torches at them. Throwing chairs. Goods in the market. Anything they came in contact with at them.

The Hollowhall soldiers were met with skirmish after skirmish as they attempted to attack the Ayelandian citizens. Your people rising up to defend one another, even if it meant laying down their own lives to do so. These were you people. This was what your husband had meant. About it not mattering that you were outnumbered…because it was the hearts that truly matter.  

Bronwynne walked beside you at the front, hands curled around the hilt of her sword. Shaking and uncertain, though she had no time to think as a soldier rushed toward her with his sword at the ready. 

You rushed forward to defend her, grunting as his blade slammed hard against your own. Gasping at the weight of him, you pushed as hard as you could forward. Screaming in your rage as another woman came forward and crashed into his side, knocking him off his feet momentarily. 

You seized the opportunity. Slid your blade through his chest, striking that vital organ within. Stomach immediately curling inward on itself at the realization. That you had ended a life. His eyes growing wider as his blood pooled around you. 

Felt yourself growing sick as you vomited onto the cobblestones below—uncaring of those around you. Shrugged off Bronwynne’s hand as she reached forward to console you. To tell you everything was okay. 

Because it was not. Nothing about this was. 

Still, you could only push onward. The castle itself was eerily quiet. Still luckily guarded by soldiers. Unaware of what had occurred in the town only a mile or so away. You loathed to think of it as the men settled their eyes on your bloodied form, shouting for the doors to be opened for the Queen. 

Parted them to allow the people of Ayelandia safe passage. The halls were nearly emptied inside—many of the people already evacuated. Save for the few who trickled here and there toward the tunnels. 

The pace of the people behind you picked up. Certainty beginning to imbue every footfall. Of safety being within reach. You noticed Bronwynne’s disappearance soon thereafter as you ushered the women and children toward the doorway to the underground tunnels. Bidding them safe travels as they rushed onward with torches lit in their hands. Muttering their thankfulness toward you. 

Only saw Bronwynne once more some time later. Her eyes rounded in fear. “There are children hiding in the library!”

Bronwynne’s words struck fear in your heart. There are children hiding in the library! 

Yelling at the others to run and make their way down the underground tunnels, you raced back the way which you came. Legs burning as you darted up a flight of stairs and sprinted through the halls of the castle. Berating the decorator for placing the library so far from anything else. 

Gasped out loud at the sight of the guards who had been posted at the doors to the castle now in bloodied pools on the ground. Prayed that there were no enemy soldiers chasing the women and children through the tunnels—that they would find safety at the end, and not the end of a sword. 

Panicked breaths reached your ears. Mind only recognizing they were yours as you raced after Bronwynne. Not understanding why she wasn’t slowing down for you. 

The door opened in the distance, her form slipping inside, as you slipped in behind her. Searching for her familiar, slender silhouette as you worked your way through the unfamiliar stacks. 

“Bronwynne, I do not hear anything,” you whispered in the night. 

Wondered, briefly, if the soldiers had already silenced the young ones. Shuddered to think of the dozens of broken bodies you might find, slain before their time. Only there was nothing. No light was visible, save for the few candles left lit earlier that evening. Now nearing the end of their wick, flame flickering dully from their containers. 

“Wynne, where are you?” You asked, frustrating rumbling in your gut. “This is not funny. There are ships awaiting our arrival. We must get the women and children out and rejoin the battle. There are people dying.”

You stepped down another path. Noting the brighter flicker bouncing off the wall. Casting the shadow of a form against it. A man, you presumed, by the width and height of it. Slouched against what looked to be a plush couch. He shifted to stand, silhouette growing as he moved in the night. 

Exhaling shakily, you gripped Poison at your thigh and slowly slid it out from its sheath. Pressed the blade to your lips for good luck as you crouched down into a hunter’s position. Heart thudding in your chest like a drum beat. 

Your foot skidded on something beneath you. The object slid across the flagstones at your feet. Your hand clapped over your mouth, trying to hide the rapidly increased breathing. Air trying to escape your lungs. Every inch of your body trembled in panic, dreading the moment someone might find you unguarded and exposed in the library. 

Bronwynne appeared to your left, then. Her eyes trained on your face. Rounded and bright and full of…tears. Your resolve crumbled. A raw awareness replacing every bit of worry had spun you into a panic only moments ago now. 

“You should be heading to the ships, Wynne. You need to get far, far away from Ayelandia for now.” You whispered the words. 

Heart splitting into two as the familiar form of Prince Harry slipped into view. Icy blue eyes and slick brown hair. A silvery crown sitting lopsided on that proud head. He twirled his dagger in his hand, looping it around and around as he whistled. Eerie smirk curling those lips upward. Eyes roving your form as he stood there, taking in every inch of your being. Enjoying every second without remorse. 

“Wynne…go to the ships,” you pleaded. It sounded like your throat was being scraped by shards of glass. Felt like it, too. 

“I cannot.” 

“P-please.” 

It was a mere beg.

A last resort.  

“No.”

Betrayal spilled into every beat of your heart. The downcast eyes. The forlorn expression. The way her teeth chewed miserably at her bottom lip. It throbbed in you. Ate at you, until it became every fiber of your being. You thought back to every encounter. All those moments spilling together in front of you like pieces of a puzzle. Tried to distinguish the moments you might have known. Moments where she had shown her hand. Pieces of a deeper deception you had never seen coming. 

Those early days in the storage room. Secrets shared. Stories of your childhoods told. Jokes exchanged with hysteric tears in both your eyes. Problems worked out from the struggles in your marriage. Her desires. Her many wishes. Her dreams. The inner workings of your own thoughts. Machinations of your mind. 

As of late…war planning—war planning.

An informant; you had supplied an informant. 

The way she positioned herself at his side. As if he drew her to him by some invisible force. They were lovers; had been, for some time now. All those memories of her writing to an unnamed man. Her wondering if she would see another spring. The fear and guilt imbuing her every word. You hissed to yourself, reaching toward your hip to draw your sword. A last, futile attempt at freedom. 

A careless swirl of metal against his own. Grunting as he blocked yours and kicked your wrist. Your blade clattered into the corner of the library. Books tumbling as you threw yourself forward and tossed some sitting atop a bookshelf behind you, making a break for it. Screamed as Prince Harry gripped you by the back of your head. Fingers wrenching you to him. 

“Do not hurt her!” Bronwynne shrieked. 

You snarled at her. How dare she even try to save herself now? You roared at him. Kicking limbs furiously from the tight grip he held you in. Dug at his flesh with your fingers. Whimpered as he hooked an arm around your neck, pressing something into your nose. You inhaled, eyes growing heavy at the scent of the ether. Your eyes grew hazy around the edges. Color seeping into darkness, swirling and blending behind your eyelids as they drooped. 

“So happy I did not marry you. I wanted a tamed wife, not this beastly thing he turned you into.”

Your legs tumbled from beneath you. Fingers growing limp around his forearm. His breath fanned along the shell of your ear. The scent of the concoction and liquor filling your nostrils. Your limbs grew heavy and useless. Head fuzzy, like there were thousands of bees buzzing within them. You opened your mouth to speak—but your mouth came up dry. Tongue like cotton, swollen and unable to form speech. 

“Sleep, Your Grace. You are going to need your rest.”

There was darkness. You surrendered to it. 

You saw Peter. In the wispy fog billowing around the floor. His form bent over, hand cupped around his eyes. 

Searching…searching for you. 

You worked your mouth into a scream, only to find no sound came out. Why wasn’t Peter seeing you? Where had he gone? 

Wasn’t the field of Ambrosen littered with the dead now? All the gore and decay of battle marked earth. This couldn’t be, and yet with further clarity, you knew it was. Your feet moved forward. Carried you toward him. Toward those beautiful arms extended toward you. Waiting for you. 

He called your name and you raced toward him. Fingers reached out to touch him. Gripping onto the fabric of his tunic, his eyes widened as they took you in. Hands reaching up to brush the hair away from your cheeks. Kissed you soundly. 

The taste of iron spilled into your mouth. Bitter and acrid. A coughed whisper of your name spilled into your flesh. Peter’s breathing shallowed. Blood seeping past his lips. Down his throat. Pure, unfettered horror lined those features as he stumbled forward. Crashed down onto his knees, blood spilling from a wound in his gut. 

You glanced down and saw it then. The dagger embedded there. 

Poison, streaked with his blood. Red. So red. Life spilling onto the grass before you. Growing, growing…growing. Spreading in a deep, dark pool beneath him. There was so much. Too much. Life draining home him rapidly. Horror lining his features. 

“Why?” He asked you. 

Eyes trailing downward. 

“I…”

“How could you do it?”

You followed the line of sight. Gasping. Screaming, as you pulled your dagger from him. 

Watched the life seeping from him. Pulsating from him as his own heart gave out. 

As if the blade were the only thing keeping him alive. 

“I love you.” He tried to whisper, only blood bubbled against his lips. 

Perfect rosettes spilled onto the grass. 

Dropped. Dropped. Dropped. 

Bled into the puddle. Joined together like a marriage. 

In the next moment, you were nestled beneath Peter beneath a canopy of leaves dancing in the wind on branches above. One hand cradled against your cheek as he rocked into you. A slow, steady movement. Sending you closer and closer to completion. 

Gasped pants against skin. His lips against your chest. Fingers rubbing at that highest point between the apex of your thighs. 

Each thrust another promise. 

He loved you. He cherished you. He worshipped you. He adored you. Would spend every day for the rest of his life reminding you. 

A memory, yet also not. 

“Open your eyes, dove.”

Tendrils of sleep curled in your vision. Noting the way the scene warped around the edges. The heaviness of your mind as you stared up at him. Those kind, longing eyes only for you. 

“I do not want to. Just want to stay here forever with you.” 

The words were yours, and yet they weren’t. Muffled somehow. As though you hovered inches from your body and the words took some time to form in your own mouth. 

“Open your eyes…”

“Just a while longer. Please.”

“Only a little while longer,” he whispered, pressing his forehead into yours. “I will never tire of you like this…”

You rolled up and over Peter. Pinned his hands against your hips. Watched his irises turn black as you rose above him and sank down against flesh. Moved. Slowly at first, and then with abandon. Chased that string of webbing closer and closer to the brink.

“Open…your…eyes…” 

When you woke, Peter wasn’t there. Instead, the darkness of the tent filled your gaze. Hand locked into place by a chain. Tethered off at the end to a rig in the ground. Tugged at it. Screeched until your throat rubbed raw from the strain. Begged for someone to come. Anyone. Shouted his name over and over again until you rocked forward on your knees and sobbed into the earth. 

There was a moment of silence before you tried once more. Screaming for help. Shouting your husband’s name in the dark. Bronwynne’s. You remembered, then. The way she curled at Prince Harry’s side. Her comfortability in his presence. The way she looked at him with love. In a way you had never seen her before. Driven enough by it to betray you. 

The memories of your dearest friend in Ayelandia stricken by it. Bitter anger burned in your gut. The thought of retribution howled in your veins. Revenge for the betrayal. For so blindly trusting her these many months. You felt stupid. Screamed once more at the reality of those dead because of Bronwynne’s betrayal. 

Healer Agatha. Those soldiers. Women. Children. Did she grieve at all for them? So blinded by her adoration toward the Prince. 

“No one is coming.” 

Bronwynne glanced up at you from the other side of the tent. Positioned behind a desk, feet propped up on the wooden surface. You growled at her low in your throat, clambering to your feet to rush at her. Clawed at her face with your hands, only to come up a few inches short. Whimpered as your wrist screamed in protest. 

She had sealed her fate. There was nothing you could do to save her now. Either she died by your hands or by your husbands, treason against the crown was punishable by death. Even in Ayelandia, where there were lesser rules and regulations. Order needed to be maintained. Yet it grieved you still; despite her betrayal. To watch the young woman who had been a confidant, always present at your side, lose her life would leave an irrevocable scar on your heart. 

There was, however, the matter of getting yourself free from your bindings. The rig buried deep into the earth as if it had been prepared for you. You knew it was likely it had been. That this, too, was planned months ago. During the stormy season in Hollowhall, before death marched onto your doorstep. 

“Whatever you are planning, it is not going to work,” Bronwynne said, shifting on her chair to better look at you. 

Those sad, rounded eyes met yours. 

You found hatred there in your heart burning for her. 

“Do not look to me with pity,” you hissed, tugging once more on the chain for emphasis. “I am your Queen, I cannot help you in this. You will be beheaded, Wynne. You understand that, do you not?”

“I will be far away by then,” she said, waving her hand in the air in a mindless circle.

“And where do you expect to be? We are in the middle of a war. There are only two ways this can go. Either Ayelandia or Hollowhall wins.” 

Bronwynne’s lips quirked upward. Wistful. “Prince Harry said he will marry me. Can you even think of it? Me, a Princess.”

You tampered down the desire to snort. To roll your eyes at the careless nature she carried. That there weren’t the sounds of clanging swords and dying men filling the campsite that very moment. Instead, the woman stared far off into the distance. As if recalling a memory, or conjuring a fantasy in her mind. 

“Do you honestly think King Norman will allow you to wed his son?” You pleaded the words with her. Crawled across the tent and sat before her. “King Norman. Do you know what his desire was and has always been for as long as I have known that man? He wants to rule not just one country but many. His son intended to marry me, but my father would not have it. Did Prince Harry tell you that?”

“He did not wish to marry you—he loves me.” 

“Wynne, what he feels for you likely is a form of love. But people like Prince Harry…people like me cannot afford to love. Not truly. It is not the way; we are often bought and bartered, like sows on a market. It is how it has always been!” You cried out, just as Bronwynne slammed her palm down on the desk. 

“What do you know of it?!” 

You inhaled slowly, shaking your head. “Prince Harry’s marriage contract to me was drawn up before I ever married King Peter. His father, King Norman, wanted Glendhaven to join them. We have a large army. We have skilled soldiers. We are next in weaponry only to them. A marriage bond between Hollowhall and Glendhaven would have amounted to King Norman having dominion over large portions of the world. It was his goal.”

“What does this have to do with me?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.  

“Prince Harry will not marry you, as he cannot marry you. You cannot offer his father anything to advance his kingdom. You have been used—”

The slap echoed in the tent. You felt like you’d been dragged over hot coals. Cheek burning as you reached up to touch it. The woman sitting before you bore you no love. How had you ever thought of anything otherwise? There had always been a goal. Some secret mutterings in the dark; an ulterior motive driving passion. A ringing clanged in your ears, eyes pinched shut against the blinding pain. 

How far the two of you had come, now. From two giggling women in a storehouse to enemies. Thought back to that day in the clearing when the two of you had played like children. Minds focused on nothing but the warmth of the sun and the joy elevating your hearts. 

Only now it was tarnished by blood and ruin and death. Lives lost by her hand, and in some part for trusting her, your own. You loathed thinking of it. Swallowed the pain burning in your chest at the memory of Healer Agatha bloodied and open-eyed at the moon. Ripped from the world. Those children and their mothers, frozen in horror where they lay. Mouths rounded in silenced screams.

“He will marry me. He told me himself countless times. I am to be his wife.” 

The words sounded frantic in your ears. As if even she struggled to believe it. Wanted to believe it herself. You turned from her then, stalking over back to your crumpled-up bedroll in the corner of your makeshift jail cell. Ran a hand against your stricken cheek as your eyes rolled up to her once more. 

“What is King Norman’s plan for me?”

“You will be used as a bargaining chip. The acceptance of Hollowhall as ruler over Ayelandia, so long as King Peter turns himself over for you.”

You laughed. A horrifying low and chilling sound. Disbelief rattled you to the core. “A bargaining chip? Even if my husband rescinds the throne to King Norman, they will take him as a prisoner and murder him. And then after that, I will be killed as well.”

Bronwynne shook her head. Those blonde curls bounced over her shoulders. Reminding you she was still a young girl. Hadn’t seen much of the world, yet harbored such darkness in her heart if she would have sold you over for a lie of lover’s affection. So innocently foolish. You almost pitied her for it. To be so doe-eyed and captivated with a man you failed to see how deep the poison in his family ran. 

“He will not. That was part of the deal. They told me you would be left unharmed.”

“They lied, Wynne.” You shook your head, standing to your feet. “Even if they take Ayelandia, there will be people who will rise up for my cause. Those who would see me still on the throne. Loyal supporters of my husband. There will never be a day of peace again in my country. There is also the chance I am with child. If that is so, do you not think my child would have a claim to that crown that threatens Prince Harry’s? They will have to kill me, too. To silence any chance of unrest.”

Bronwynne shook her head. Eyes watered. “No, he promised me.”

“You have sold me to my death, Bronwynne. I know you now to be cruel, but never knew you to be a murderer as well.” 

“No. You are wrong,” she rushed over to you, clasping your hands in her own. You hated the fact she was touching you. Felt burned by it. Yet met her gaze anyway, tears brimming on her lashes. “He will not kill you.”

“What else did he promise you?” You asked, breathlessly. 

“He said once King Peter rescinded the throne King Norman would declare Prince Harry as the King of Ayelandia. We would then marry.” 

“And of my role?”

Bronwynne’s mouth worked on the words. Eyes dropping. As if she finally understood. Pain bloomed in her features. Stark as death, in the way she looked at you. As if already picturing you in a grave beside your husband. Gone from this world. 

“He…he never mentioned it.”

“Do you understand now, Wynne? What he intends to do? I know you care for me…in a way that is hard to grasp in this very moment; but please know his intent was never for me to survive this war.”

She swallowed. Your own chest burned as she squeezed your hands tighter. Her bottom lip trembled. “He p-promised.”

“He lied,” you whispered. The sorrow in your voice was genuine this time. “You must help me. Free me from these chains…please.”

Bronwynne shook her head, teeth pinching her bottom lip. “I cannot do that. You know I cannot.”

“Please.” 

She exhaled, running a hand through her blonde curls. “I do not have the key. I am not even certain of where it is held.”

You returned to the other side of the tent, dropping down onto the bedroll. “Then I am as good as dead yet.”

You weren’t certain of how long they kept you there. Locked away without so much as food or drink. You could tell the sun was beginning to rise, the darkness dissipating into golden light. Your wrist ached where you’d tugged against it for the past few hours. Skin already bruising around the edges. 

You hung your head low. Wondered if you might yet start screaming again. Maybe earning the pity of a defecting soldier, fueled by a sudden desire to honor Ayelandia’s royals. Sighing, you curled up onto your side and brought your knees upward toward your chest, hugging them. Pictured your husband’s face in your mind. Prayed he was still alive this very moment. 

Wondered if you’d ever be able to run your fingers through his hair ever again. If you’d ever be able to reach upward onto your toes and press your lips to his. If you’d ever even hear his voice. You wished you could hear him now. If only to comfort you—remind you that everything would be okay, when in all actuality it felt like everything had fallen apart around you. 

“Oh good, you have stopped your incessant screaming,” Prince Harry said, sauntering into the tent with a dagger in hand. 

You jolted upward onto the bedroll. Feeling his eyes on you as you shifted onto your knees before him. Bronwynne entering a moment later, taking up residence once more at the desk. 

Prince Harry leaned down toward you. Pressed his pointer finger and thumb to your chin. Pinched it as he shifted your jaw toward him. Wincing, you met those icy blue eyes. 

“Things are going to get exciting soon,” he said, smirking. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

“I am a Queen,” you hissed out. 

“For how much longer is questionable, my dear.” He released your chin. Twirled that dagger around in his hand. “You know, it will be fun seeing King Peter. The last time I saw him…he was in a bit of distress. So sad what happened to his wife. It is such good luck for him he found a new one.”

Ice spilled down your spine. “What did you just say?”

His lips only turned further upward. Those eyes closing as he tilted his head upward, laugh spilling from his lips. You knew then. You knew his intended meaning. Screamed and raced for him, his cackling only strengthening as he dodged your attack and stepped away far enough you were met with empty air. 

His wife. Peter’s wife. He had been there. Harry had been in the room and…no. 

“You did it. You killed her.”

“See…that was quite an unfortunate event. I had intended to kill your husband instead. She had gotten in the way, but it weakened Ayelandia all the same.” He laughed again. “We could have avoided a war if it had been him that day. But this is more fun, do you agree?”

You thought of Queen Gwen in Peter’s arms. Body broken and bleeding onto the stone floor as he held her to him. Begging her to stay with him. To hold on just a while longer. Until a healer could come—until he could put her back together again. As if his love might have stitched her mortal wound.

You thought of your people on the battlefield. Fighting for their lives this very moment, while a coward of a man stood before you. Taunting you.  

You hated him. Hated the both of them. All of Hollowhall. Screamed at him, incoherent words spilling from your lips. He had taken so much from your husband, and now he intended to rip him from you as well. You wanted to kill him. To watch Poison slip between his ribs, right in the spot Peter had shown you would kill a man, and watch as his own life seeped from him. 

“I had help, of course. How do you think I slipped out of the castle so easily after?” Prince Harry said, running a hand down the side of Bronwynne’s neck. “Thank you for that, my love.”

She glowed under his affection. Like a flower blooming beneath the sun. 

So even then Bronwynne had been dreaming of sitting beside her Prince on the Ayelandian throne. Had pictured it for years now. Waited for the perfect moment and was willing to commit regicide to do it—had actually committed regicide, despite the intention being for Peter to have been the one to die that day. And she was willing to attempt once more, solidifying her rule once and for all. 

Your stomach heaved. Limbs carrying you to the nearest bucket, emptying out the contents of your stomach there. Prince Harry wrinkled his nose, tossing you a dirtied rag. 

“Clean yourself up. We have a gathering to attend.”

“The two of you, then. All this time…?” 

Prince Harry’s lips dragged into a smirk. “Ayelandia was always our ideal first step. Some of its land resides close to Hollowhall’s border. Technically it should already be ours. But we had planned on Glendhaven helping us invade it.”

“It is why you intended to marry me,” you said, grimacing. 

He nodded. “Your father’s army is impressive. And I would have had a pretty wife. There are worser things a man of my station could be given.”

“You are disgusting,” you hissed at him. “You killed an innocent person.”

Prince Harry paused in his pacing, head turning to look your way. “It is the cost of war—of ambition. Lives will be lost along the way. You and your husband are no better. You beheaded one of my soldiers as well.”

“They attempted to kill us—”

“Fighting for something they believed in! Do not look down upon me for the loss of human life when you have ended lives in the name of your kingdom. We are no different, Your Grace.”

“Darling, this is a waste of time. Let us eat before we begin the negotiations.” Bronwynne reached up to press her hand to Harry’s cheek.

“So today, then.” Your words were soft. Laden with fear at the prospect of watching Peter be killed.

Prince Harry reached down and pushed a strand of hair away from your face. Tucked it behind your ear. You trembled as he leaned down and pressed his lips to the hollow of your ear, inhaling slowly as he whispered. 

“Oh, but we would have been so happy.” He said, and you shivered against him. “You certainly would have kept your pretty little head if you had married me instead.” 

And then the two of them were gone. Slipped out of the tent leaving you trembling in their wake. Wondering, at last, if you were finally running out of time. 

—x— 

Bronwynne returned sometime later with a bucket and fresh linen. Some sort of delicious smelling soaps had been dropped into the water, and you nearly sighed into the cloth as she reached up and pressed it to your cheek. Wiping away the smell of sickness. 

Neither of you spoke for some time. The discomfort between you thick in the air. Her recognition over the fact you were no longer friends hanging in the air. The woman before you wanted your throne. Would be willing to put you and your husband to death to do so. It wasn’t something you could or would ever forget. 

“I am sorry. I know you do not believe me, but you must understand I was mistaken. He assured me nothing would happen to you.”

“He lied to you. You see that now, do you not?” You whispered, staring up at her through your lashes. Frowned. “What else might be be lying about? Think of it, Wynne.”

She exhaled, pressing the damn cloth into your chest. Grimaced to herself. “I looked for a key while he was distracted by some of the other men. Believe me when I say I tried to free you.”

She had no reason to lie to you now. You were likely to be placed in a jail cell in a few hours time depending on how the evening rolled out. 

“I did grieve Queen Gwen, I hope you understand that. I am not this unfeeling woman. She was never meant to die; it was a needless death. Harry told me there were things we needed to do…obstacles we needed to overcome to ensure we could be with one another,” she said, brushing near your lip. “I never meant to like you, though. Becoming your friend—that was all real for me, Your Grace. I love Harry, yes, but I love you too.”

“Then help me,” you begged. 

She glanced down at the bucket. Tossed the linen inside. “I am trying. I will do whatever I can.”

You nodded, understanding she was limited by what she might do in order to help. Without a key, the only person able to free you was the very man who intended to become King of Ayelandia after the bargaining took place. 

“I know we can never be friends. But I never wished for him to hurt you.”

“I know.” 

The words were a forced out lie. But the uncertain smile lining the girl’s lips before you brought some peace to your aching heart. You stood up then, running your fingers through your hair. 

“When will they begin negotiations?” You asked. 

“Prince Harry had a Hollowhall informer speak with Lord Bartrand. King Peter has been summoned.” She exhaled softly. “You will be brought before the King in an hour’s time.”

So soon. 

In an hour you would see your husband. Very likely for the last time. Your heart twisted at the notion of it all. Of seeing those eyes fall on you one more time before he was taken from you. 

You had a year—twelve months with him. 

It hadn’t been enough. Though part of you understood that no amount of time would have been enough for the man who had earned your heart. The person who filled those crevices and filled them with himself. Entwined his soul with yours, in a way only two people made for each other could. 

Your hand wiped at your eyes. A sob spilling unwillingly from your mouth. “Then it is to be done.”

“It is to be done,” Bronwynne whispered, glancing off into the distance. 

Part of you wanted to blame her. To shout at her and remind her this was all her doing. That when the life slipped from Peter and you lost your love, it was because of another woman’s selfish ambition. But you reminded yourself there was still some time yet. A possibility Prince Harry revealed his hand and Bronwynne was able to free you once and for all. 

There would be no negotiations without anything to bargain for in the first place. If Prince Harry lost his captive, Ayelandia still had hope yet. All was not lost. Your kingdom not yet fallen. 

The two of you settled into uncomfortable silence as Bronwynne returned the bucket into a far corner of the tent and kicked her feet up onto the desk. Leaned back in the chair and tilted her head to the ceiling. Your fingers plucked at the earth, finding it so strange now to sit in a room with her and want nothing to do with her. 

There had been a time Healer Agatha would have raced down into the storehouses to reprimand the two of you for causing a ruckus. Now, it was as if you both were strangers; in a way, had always been so. 

Sighing, you tilted your head up and took in Bronwynne’s profile. Her pretty jawline. That slender nose which upturned at the edges. Freckles dotting the highest points of her cheeks. You’d loved her once. Part of you still did. 

You played on her sympathy toward you. 

“Do you know where he put my dagger?” 

Your sword had been discarded somewhere in the library. But if you managed to get your hands on some sort of weapon…there was an opportunity to attempt a final attack. A last ditch effort before submitting to whatever fate had planned for you these next hours. 

“Your Grace…you know I cannot.”

“You can, Bronwynne. You can.”

“It is not beyond me to think you might try to kill him. I cannot let you do that.” 

You toyed with the chain at your wrist. “Your lover is going to kill my husband.”

She had no words for that. The silence which greeted you bringing no comfort. Countless lives already lost. How many mor sufficed? To what end would one go for absolute power? 

“At least there is comfort in knowing I will join him soon thereafter.” 

You thought back to the moment in the alcove. Basking in the afterglow of simply being with him. The way his words had burned into your skin. That he would love you long after you departed the earth. How foolish to imagine you had a whole lifetime stretched out before you. 

It almost came as a relief when Prince Harry and Bronwynne entered the tent after slipping out for some time. Ignoring Bronwynne’s affection as she reached forward to press a kiss into his cheek. Her face dropped as his footsteps carried him over to you and unhooked the chain from the post. Before moving to lock both your hands together, despite your protesting. 

“So you do not stab me in the back,” he said coolly, dragging you by the arm in front of him. 

“My love, you promised,” Bronwynne reminded him, voice shaken. 

“Will you mind your tongue, woman? My father already has half a mind to leave you behind in Ayelandia.” He grumbled out, your eyes narrowing at him as Bronwynne paused in her footsteps. “Let their people do whatever they wish of you once they have heard word of your actions these years.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she whispered. The sound seemed choked on your ears. 

“Then do not pester me so incessantly and I may not be inclined to listen to him.” 

He whirled on her, face inches apart as his eyes bore down into hers. His lip curled up a moment afterward, ire slipping into something sensual. Something wicked which made your stomach churn as his hand spanned upward and around her throat. Fingers pressed into flesh, her eyes blown out in fear. 

“This is what you wanted, is it not?” He leaned forward and pressed a slow, forceful kiss to her cheek. “Then mind your tongue and do not question what I am doing.”

“Can I have a moment? With my friend before…” Bronwynne asked. Voice low. 

“I suppose. Make it quick, we have a meeting to attend,” Prince Harry grumbled, slipping out the parted flap of the tent. 

“What is it—”

Bronwynne cut you off with her palm flush against your mouth, finger pressed to her lip to try and shut you up. Understanding, you watched as she pulled her hand away, moving toward the top of her corset to pluck what looked to be a key. You nearly cried with joy as she pressed the metal piece into your palm, leaning closer to you to speak, so as to not alert the guards posted outside. 

“Too many are near us now for you to run. But as soon as there is an opportunity, you run. I cannot save your husband, but I can at least try to wipe some innocent blood from my hands this day.”

“How did you?” 

She smirked. “There are ways, as you know, a woman can obtain exactly what she wants.”

“Thank you for this kindness. Wynne, I cannot save you from punishment. But…my husband may yet be merciful,” you whispered, leaning forward to wrap your chained arms around her neck. 

This time, the affection was not forced. You could not deny the life laid on the line for a chance at your own safety. Exile was a kinder punishment than execution; Peter might be inclined to allow her life outside the walls of Ayelandia, instead of forfeiting it completely. 

“Now this might hurt a bit—”

“What?” 

“My love, we are ready to move!” Bronwynne called. 

You reeled back as Prince Harry entered the tent once more, Bronwynne’s hand connecting with your cheek. You grimaced at the feeling of your already bruised face burning once more. The split lip you bore parting as blood dribbled onto your chin. The moan which spilled from your lips brought a smile to Harry’s face, those cool, blue eyes trailing your features as he tugged you beside him. 

“Wynne, you did not have to ruin her face more than you already have,” he cackled, giving her a playful shove as you walked through the campsite. 

“I needed to remind her of what her place will be when you come into your power, My King.”

Your heart lurched at the title, though you steeled your face into an unfeeling mask. Eyes narrowed. Jaw hardened. Shoulders tucked back. You imagined a string from your belly button to the top of your head, pulling your spine straight. Tilted your head up, imagined you were sitting on your throne back at the castle. You were fierce. You were lethal. A beautiful, deadly thing as your husband had called you. You would not break. 

Not even as soldiers parted around you. Blood staining their armor. Some missing limbs. Some groaning in the throes of agony, bleeding from sword wounds. So many Hollowhall soldiers. You knew Ayelandia had to have been depleted. Carstell delayed for battle due to choppy seas. You whispered a silent prayer there was still hope yet. Glanced up at the sky and saw the beginnings of the sunrise starting to form. 

It had been at least one day since you had seen your husband. You anticipated as much, given the fact you had been drugged and left to sleep for hours. 

You had lived through another sunrise. 

And today you had lived to see another. 

You kept your eyes locked on the ground as you walked toward the fields of Ambrosen. Heard the comments from jeering men as you passed. Of being the foreign bitch. Of what they would have liked to do with you had you given them the chance. These men, who viewed women like possessions. Objects to be attained. You wanted to kill every last one of them. Nearly screamed it at them all. 

Instead, turned toward the crowd and growled out, “I cannot wait until my husband and his men repay you for every atrocity you have bestowed our lands.” 

Prince Harry tugged you along harder at that. Your feet skidded beneath you as you were whipped against his side, your heart pounding as the battlefield stilled at the sound of a horn blowing. Men and women soldier alike separated. Every eye turning your way as Prince Harry pushed you forward. 

It was then you saw him. Peter, in all his battle regalia, whirling toward you. That red cloak billowing about his shoulders. Blood seeped from a wound on his forehead. Dirtied features on his face dropping as he beheld you. His relief rushed across his face, ignited something within your chest. You wanted to run to him. To wrap your arms around his neck and never let go—slip away from the brutality of war for just a moment. 

King Norman approached Prince Harry on your path down the battlefield. His voice echoing on battle scorched land as he shouted. “King Peter, it seems you have lost this battle. You are outnumbered. We have your wife. Give us your word of concession of your crown and we will end this war. There need not be anymore bloodshed.”

Prince Harry allowed you a brief moment, muttering, “I am not so cruel as to not give you a moment to say goodbye. You get one minute.” 

Your feet stumbled to reach Peter where he stood. The two of you dropped to your knees before one another. His hands coming to press against your cheeks. Fingertips running across your bruised face. The split lip. The burns from the fire at the healing houses. 

Those eyes—his beautiful, kind eyes watered as he took you in. As if he were seeing a ghost; in many ways, you felt the same. Sitting before him, your forehead pressed into his as you sobbed against his mouth. Disregarding the men and women standing around you as you kissed him. Over and over and over again. Aware it may very well be the last time. 

“I am here, dove.”

“So scared…I have been so scared.” You leaned forward to kiss him once more, whispering, “It is him. Prince Harry. He killed her.”

He nodded then. Understanding. “Everything is going to be okay. And look, my love, we made it to sunrise.” He swallowed, standing to his feet and bringing you with him. “I did promise you.”

“I love you.” 

You whispered the words. Heart splitting as he mouthed them back to you and turned to look over your shoulder at Prince Harry. 

“It has been some time, my friend. And what a situation you have yourself in,” he laughed, twirling that annoying dagger in his hand. Leather jerkin rippling as he moved. “You know…to lose one wife is a tragedy. But to lose a second one? Well, that is simply irresponsible. Which is why you must give up this fight. You do not need her loss on your head as well.”

You turned to Peter. The short jerk of your head meant to be a screaming ‘no’ from your own lips. But you found you could not form words. Only began working with the bindings at your wrist as Lord Bartrand and King Peter began talking amongst themselves. Prince Harry and King Norman a few paces away. Leaving you there in the center, trying to gauge who was nearest to you. 

Commander Ayla and a small group of your fellow recruits were nearby. Enough so, that if the opportunity presented, you could run and find cover with them long enough to obtain a weapon and fight. You saw another group a little further away. You could even form a shield wall under your command if needed. 

Sighed in relief as the latch around your wrist popped. Pushed the links together enough so no one would be likely to notice you’d managed to free yourself. Glanced over to Bronwynne as she stood there. In her too large armor. 

Many things happened in tandem then. The glint of metal was the first. Your heart pounded as Bronwynne approached the Prince, her small knife hidden up her sleeve. No one saw it coming as she sunk it into his side. Her screamed ‘RUN’ coming out garbled as Prince Harry slashed a blade across her throat in the next second. 

You tumbled over your feet as you raced toward your husband. Him and Lord Bartrand calling for defense against oncoming arrows beneath the veil of a shield wall. Body crashing into Peter’s as he tugged you into the center of the group, chains around your wrists at last clattering to the ground.

Through the little gaps you could see in the shield wall you saw it then. Bronwynne’s body on the floor. Her hand stretched out toward you. The other cupping the ugly wound scoring her throat. 

To stop the inevitable. 

To plead with her lover as the life and love seeped out of her. 

Your first friend in Ayelandia. Your betrayer. Now gone from the world before she turned one and twenty just as she feared. You thought back to her words. A hoarse sob at the time. She had thought she might never see another spring—and your heart lurched at the notion she had not.  

“S-she—he killed her. Peter, he killed her…they were lovers—”

“It is not the time, my love. Right now you need to pick up a sword and prepare to fight. Hollowhall outnumbers us, but Ayelandia and Glendhaven are strong. We will not submit to their rule, do you hear me?”

You nodded your head, standing to your feet as a soldier tossed you an extra sword. Your body ached from the hours of captivity, but will ruled out. The world exploded around you in a flurry of steel and blood and destruction. Your movements limber as you ducked and rolled away from oncoming soldiers. 

Striking down foe after foe as you fought for your kingdom. Hollowhall soldiers dropping every where you looked. A newfound strength pumping in the hearts of your soldiers. In your own self. 

Your husband battled nearby. His back turned to you as he blocked and swung at his enemies. Slaying them as they drew closer to him. Your heart battering in your chest as you moved closer, breathing easier once his back pressed against yours, the two of you striking down your enemies in tandem. 

Until, that is, Prince Harry snarled and rushed at the two of you. Breaking past the soldiers littering the field around you. You brought your blade down to attack him, grunting as his sword clanged against yours. His foot came up then, kicking you backward onto your rear as Peter attacked the Prince. 

Rage burned in his eyes. Unbridled and terrifying. The knowledge of one wife’s murder fresh in his mind as his blade came down against Harry’s again and again and again. Paired with the fact he had captured you and held you hostage. Used only as a bartering piece for a kingdom he would never rule over. 

“You will never touch another person I love, if that is the last thing I do,” Peter shouted at him, swinging upward with his blade. Meeting metal. 

You whirled on your feet, parrying an oncoming attack from a Hollowhall soldier. Grunting as you kicked him square in the chest and ducked below his blade, before stabbing upward in a deadly arc. Grimaced as blood poured onto your wrist. Dark and final, as his body slumped forward at your feet. 

It was then you heard Peter’s strangled cry as Harry’s blade sunk into the vulnerable gap in his armor. Your own scream deafening on your ears as Peter pulled out a dagger and jabbed it low into Harry’s neck. Silencing him immediately. You rushed to his side then, pressing your hand into his wound. 

“I am okay. I am okay…” He ground out, covering your hand with his own. 

“Peter—”

You heard it then. All of you did. The thunderous pounding of what sounded like a drum beat. Faraway at first, before it became deafening. Echoed on every ear on Ambrosen fields. The pounding, you realized, of hundreds upon hundreds of Carstell soldiers, led by King Eugene bearing the Carstell flag. 

He whirled it around above his head, the Hollowhall soldiers shifting in the direction of their newest enemies. Uncertainty filling their gazes, searching for their king to direct their steps. Their now decimated ranks clearly outnumbered. 

Your hand pressed tighter to Peter’s side as soldiers from your newest ally’s began pouring onto the fields. Their swords and arrows finding purchase in enemy Hollowhall soldiers. Screams of ‘THE PRINCE HAS FALLEN’ and ‘RETREAT’ bellowed from King Norman and the garrison commanders. 

The world swirled around you in a flurry of chaos. Soldiers rushing back to their encampments. Hollowhall men retreating with haste, carrying the dead body of their cruel Prince as they escaped back to their camp. Carstell soldiers chasing them down,  ending their lives before they might slay yet another. 

Only you remained at Peter’s side, grimacing at the way his breathing had changed. Becoming ragged. Face breaking out into a sweat. Cheeks flushed as you lifted his chainmail and inspected the wound below. A wound that would not normally kill a man—thankfully. But you knew right away he needed to lie down and rest. 

“You are okay,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek as Lord Bartrand appeared at your side, requesting to know the health of the king. “He has been wounded. We…the storehouses have been depleted, but I will need fresh water, linen and thread. Anything to sew up his wound. He has lost a bit of blood.”

“Bind it for now,” Peter grunted out, squeezing your palm as he stood to his feet. “I must address our ally’s.”

“Peter—”

“Please, my love. I will be a quiet patient after I thank the people for allowing us to see another day.”

You hated the suggestion, but still rose at his side as he did. Winced as his form hunched over as he stepped toward the center of the field. His voice rang out clear above the crowd as a horn sounded. An Ayelandian flag erected in the middle of Ambrosen. Cheers ringing out as Peter declared Ayelandia free from Hollowhall influence. 

It was a sight to behold. The thousands of soldiers coming to crowd around the King, awaiting to hear what he had to say. Adrenaline still pumping in all the hearts of the men and women standing around you. Those who had fought and lived to see another day. To bring peace back to your country. 

You stood beside Lord Bartrand in the distance, stained with the blood of the many lives you had slain in the past two days, glancing over toward the woman left behind by Hollowhall soldiers. 

Bronwynne, who had betrayed you and spared you all in the matter of days. Stirred by love into betrayal, only to find the love she bore Prince Harry was contingent upon what throne he sat upon. 

As Peter gave a speech of bravery and of friendship, crowd raising their voices in victory, you found yourself stepping closer to Wynne’s body. Dropped onto your knees and closed those beautiful eyes once and for all. Pushed her bloodied blonde hair from her face, wiped at the dried blood on her fingers with the hem of your tunic. 

“Sleep now, Wynne.”

And as the cheers around you lifted toward the sky, your gaze drifted upward. 

To the sunrise. 

To the promise of spring to come. 

You were, at last, free. 

—x—

As requested, you were brought supplies to your bed-chamber. Husband currently sitting in a bathing tub filled with soaps you knew to carry healing properties within them. You kept the needle and thread on a nearby tray, presently focused on the task at hand as you rubbed a lavender scented concoction into your husbands hair, cleaning the bloodied strands as he sprawled backward leisurely into your touch. 

He’d been like this for some time now. All honeyed moans, happiness and comfort radiating from him despite the fact his skin appeared paler than you would have liked. His under eyes a blueish hue, veins straining against skin. You knew he needed sleep, but there would be time for that yet.

Your fingers roamed through the strands once more, before sliding down the sides of his neck and settling over his shoulders. Fingers pressed into the highest point there and began rubbing. Slow circles along muscular flesh.  

“You are a dream, my love.” He sighed, gripping your hand mid massage to press a kiss into the inside of your wrist. 

At your shudder, he tugged you closer to him. Tilted his head back so your lips would press against his. Moved against his mouth slowly, still grateful you were reunited with him once more. As his mouth opened beneath yours, you trailed your tongue along his bottom lip. Heat making your toes curl as a moan rumbled against your flesh.

“There is more than enough room for you to join,” he said, smiling up at you with hooded, blown out eyes.  

“You are in no condition for any of that.”

“A man cannot enjoy a bath with his wife without it leading to something else?”

“Precisely, my love.” You pressed another kiss to his lips, reaching to grab a cloth and run soap along your husband’s bloodied face, grimacing at the cut on his forehead. “This one should not need to be stitched.”

“I will keep my looks then?” 

He teased, tugging you closer still. You groaned in acquiesce, stepping into the bathing tub in your thin sleep shirt you had slipped into. He shifted to allow you to sit between his legs, back pressed against his chest. Careful to not aggravate the wound on his side. 

“You will keep your looks yet,” you murmured sleepily, smiling as his arms slid around your abdomen and settled there. Hugged you close. You closed your eyes, humming quietly. “I could sleep for ages.”

“And we will once we have dinner with the soldiers and citizens.”

You shifted in his arms, glancing upward at his face. His profile was on full display,  your fingers inching upward to trace the slope of his forehead. The line of his nose. Brushed along his bottom lip as he opened his mouth against it. Pressed a slow kiss to your flesh before reaching over with his palm to cup your cheek. 

Those dark eyes met yours before fluttering shut, lips slanting over your own. A slow, sensual kiss that promised more. Your breathy sigh fueled him onward, hands coming to shift your hips over his. Slotted your thighs on either side of his, careful to not aggravate his wound. Pulled back as a stuttered breath slipped from his lips. 

“You should be resting,” you whispered, eyes rolling backward as his fingers curled around your throat. A nip and scrape of teeth against your collar bone. “Your wound—”

“I do…” He pressed you flush against him, rolling your hips in a circle onto his. “Not care…” Awareness building in your stomach at just how little he truly did not. “About the wound.”

“Peter.”

He kissed you once more, fingers brushing beneath your sleep shirt. Trailing around the side of your rib cage. “I am a man who just wants to make love to his wife. Will you have me?”

Your nodded reply was all he needed. The two of you became a mass of tangled limbs, lips, fingers and teeth against skin. Of panted gasps as you allowed him to tug your sleep shirt up and over your head, before you lowered yourself down onto him. Watched his head roll back with his eyes as you began to move, his fingers trailing up your spine. 

You came together a second time after Peter had finally allowed you to stitch his wound and bind it with a new dressing. His smile warm as his form shadowed your own, fingers hooking around a knee as he parted you to him before settling himself there. Swallowed your gasp as he moved over you, and then within you. 

And in a way…it had become like that. All the parts of him you loved most, woven intricately in your own heart. Stitched into the innermost parts of your own self. 

And you knew, simply in the way he looked down at you, he felt the same. 

Creating a moment so infinite...so wholly yours. Untouched and unmarred by the world. 

Hours later, as soldiers drank and celebrated in the vast courtyards of Ayelandia, you walked around the exterior of the party with your husband. Arm looped through his own as you went. Your heart soared at the idea of another day within his love. Of being so cocooned in it, you might never resurface. 

Today, he had told you, you would celebrate the war won. Tomorrow, you would come together as a country and mourn the lost. To remember those loved and now gone. 

“When I heard you were taken…I did not think I would ever see you again. I nearly lost myself when they informed me. Having you here now, I find that I never wish to let you go,” Peter whispered, brushing his lips against your own. 

“Every moment I was gone it was your love which kept me grounded.” You cupped your hands in his own, squeezing them. “We will never be parted again. Promise me.”

“I promise you,” he breathed out, drawing you closer and kissing you deeper still. 

Wrapped his hands in the back of you gown and bunched the fabric there, pressing himself further into your body. Breaking off in a pained moan. His hand moved toward his side, palm clutching where he had been stabbed. 

“You need to rest.” You admonished. “You have already exerted yourself too much.”

He smirked down at you. “If I remember correctly, my wife, you were very happy to participate in such exertion.”

“You are very…persuasive.” You teased, drawing him alongside you. “There is something I wish to tell you, however...”

He turned to look at you then. Curiosity brimming in his gaze. “What is it?”

“Your Graces,” Lord Bartrand said, approaching the two of you on the walkway. 

“Lord Bartrand, you fought bravely, my old friend,” Peter said, chuckling as his drew the older soldier toward him in a hug. 

You lingered behind, palms smoothing along the bodice of your gown as the Lord in question looked over your husband’s shoulder in your direction.

“Your Grace, the people are already singing your praises. Said you led a band of women and children through the castle like a true commander.”

“Now…I would not say that,” you mused, coming to stand beside the soldier as the three of you continued on your stroll. “Though some of the women did smack Hollowhall soldiers over the head with chairs. And that was the bravest thing I have ever seen.”

“You must tell us all about it,” Peter said. 

And so you had. News you wished to share with your husband placed aside as you recounted the stories of what happened when you rushed to the aid of the healing houses. How you had found the women in the tavern. Their bravery as they took up arms with a willingness to fight for what they believed in. 

Shared the story of Bronwynne’s betrayal. Of Harry’s plotting. Your eventual capture after leading the people to safety. The true confession of Gwen’s murder. And even the too-late redemption of Bronwynne coming to your rescue. The sadness in which you regarded her love gone cold. How it must have felt in those final moments as her lover ultimately murdered her. 

So foolish. 

And yet your husband gripped your hand in his own. Brought it to his lips and kissed it slowly. Thanked Bronwynne for the sacrifice that had led you back to him. 

You carried on for what seemed like hours. The firelight basking the soldiers in an orange glow as you eventually joined them. Joining in the celebrations and drink with your husband. Until your eyes began to flutter closed at the table you were settled upon, Lord Bartrand seated on your right as Peter jested with your step siblings and King Eugene by the fire. 

“Does he know yet?” Lord Bartrand asked, eyes sliding toward yours. 

You lifted your head from your palm, sleep clinging to your vision. “I do not know what you speak of,” you said, barely containing your smirk. 

The next morning you woke curled against your husband’s chest. Uncertain of how you had managed to end up there. Could vaguely remember the events of the night before. Sighed and stretched your arms above your head as you shifted out of his arms and walked over to the mirror in the corner of the chamber. Sliding your eyes to your face there. The purpled cheek. The split lip. Burn scoring your forehead. You had survived. 

You shuddered, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pushed memories of the battle and death from your mind. Instead, searched through your wardrobe to slip on a simple black gown. A Queen garbed in black to honor the dead. 

You were midway through brushing a comb through your hair when your husband appeared over your shoulder in the mirror, fingers sliding along the side of your neck. He held out his hand for the brush, gripping the cool handle as he ran it through your strands. Stopping every so often to press a kiss into the skin of your neck. 

“Today we will honor the lost. I just cannot help but to be overwhelmed with gratitude that you were not one of them,” he whispered, voice shaking as he spoke. 

You tugged him down onto the chair beside you, smoothing your palm up his chest. Rested it over his heart. “It was you who promised me we would live. Prince Harry is gone now. He cannot hurt anyone else we love now.”

He pulled you against his chest then. Fingers threading through your hair as your arms slid around his waist, ear pressed over his swiftly beating heart. Squeezing him tighter as he cried into the crown of your head. Remaining there as an anchor. In whatever way he needed you. 

“I am here, Peter. You have me…for the rest of our lives you have me.” 

“And even beyond that,” he echoed, kissing your forehead. 

“Even then, my love.”

You stayed like that until the two of you were required to join your people for the mass funeral to be held for all those lost. Soldiers had begun to gather the dead in the wee hours of the morning, lining them across the fields of Ambrosen. A mass grave was dug out, and bodies were settled within to be laid to rest. 

Bronwynne, naturally, had been left on the field. Traitors were not buried with the fallen, you knew this. But she had saved you in her last moments. Changed her mind before time had run out. A fact that Lord Bartrand repeated to two soldiers as they grabbed her fallen form and laid her within. 

You walked beside Peter onto the fields. Both of you donning black mourning clothes to honor those killed to see your throne secured. Sacrifices not in vain. 

“You said you had something to tell me,” Peter said as you approached the grave, looping your arm through his own. “What is it, my love?”

“Now is not the time. I will tell you later.” You promised, coming to stop before the freshly filled grave. 

Lord Bartrand stepped forward to raise his voice above the crowd. Speaking of the lost. Of lives so bravely lost. Of lost loved ones. Fathers who would never see their children. Sons. Daughters. Children to parents. Wives. Friends. Simply put—people. Innocent people. 

Memories of those who would never be forgotten. Even as winter turned into spring. And spring into summer, their memories would linger in the hearts of those who loved them. 

You brushed at the tears in your eyes as soldiers began to filter away from the burial site. As men and women alike clasped arms around shoulders with the promise to grab ale together and toast to life. To celebrate the dead. You lingered behind with Peter, dropping to your knees in the grass. 

Glanced over to him as he settled down beside you and watched you grip a handful of fresh soil in your palm and tossed it onto the pile. For the women. The men. The children. 

For Healer Agatha. 

For Bronwynne. 

He did the same. Fingers curling around dirt and tossing it over the grave. Pieces being swept across in the wind as it whipped your hair about both your faces. 

And in the fading sunset, the two of you walked back to the castle. Looking ahead. 

To the future and to restoration. 

To a new beginning. 

Ayelandia celebrated that night. Instead of sitting shrouded away in the shadow of death, the people toasted to life. The women and children carried off into the safety of sea retuning as the moon grew to the highest point in the sky. 

The joy of seeing loved ones reunited bringing a smile to your lips as you sat beside your husband, a goblet of wine pressed into your palm as he stroked a slow circle along the back of your palm. 

You watched as the little boy who had grabbed your hand in the tavern ran over to his father, jumping into his arms and giggling as he spun him in a great circle. As parents were reunited with their sons and daughters. Joyous crying as they wrapped each other in warm embraces. 

The weeping of new widows and widowers as they found comfort within the arms of friends and other family members. 

You looked over to him then, placing your goblet of wine on the table as you extended a hand to him. Grinned as he led you onto the dance floor. Spinning you round and round in a circle as the people flitted about the room. Your step brothers raising a glass in salutation. Father beaming as he clasped hands with King Eugene. Lord Bartrand dipping his head to the two of you. 

To success in the Battle of Ambrosen as many had now titled it. To your marriage. To your lives. To your reign. 

And later, as your feet had begun to hurt from dancing and your heart felt lighter in your chest, you settled back down beside Peter as your guests continued in their feasting and celebration. 

At one point, reached over and gripped his palm, pressing it over the lower portion of your bodice. His eyes rested there, realization dawning across his features. Eyes widening as they glistened with tears—of joy unbridled. You reached up with your free hand and brushed at the tear that rolled down his cheek. 

Nodded in answer to his unspoken question. 

“I was not certain at first, but it seems flowers will not be the only thing blooming come summer.”

—x—

EPILOGUE:

TO SEE THE SUNRISE

“I am upset with you, husband!” You grumbled, walking into your bed-chamber to find Benjamin and Peter nuzzled up together beneath the downy furs on your bed. 

“Can you be upset with me a little bit more quietly? Benjamin just went down for a nap,” he asked from the bed, eyes closed as his son curled up against chest. 

Your smile grew at the sight. Their dark hair spilled over both their foreheads. Peter with his arm curled around the one year old prince, as the little one pressed his hand into his father’s chest, thumb in his mouth. 

Sighing, you lifted your skirts a bit as you climbed onto the bed beside your two favorite boys, running your hand down your husband’s arm before curling up beside your husband and son, running your fingers down his little cheek. The curve of those chubby arms. 

“I have been informed you picked out a dog for our son. A son who is not even old enough to appreciate or understand the responsibility of having something living to take care of.”

“My love, how could I not? One of the stable dogs had puppies and Lord Bartrand thought it would be a great gift—”

“You are not blaming Lord Bartrand for getting yourself a puppy.” You teased, batting your husband’s hand away as he reached over to run his fingers through your hair. “Where is this puppy, then? If I will be a mother again, I would like to see the little one.”

He pointed toward your bathing chamber door. Your feet immediately moving to take you over to it, opening the door wide and watching as a blonde haired pup with massive paws came barreling out. Jumping up onto the bed and plopping down beside your husband and sleeping son. 

At your crossed arms and unamused expression, Peter chuckled uneasily. “What can I say? He loves me already.”

You groaned and settled back down on the bed. Watching as the pup wiggled over to you, paws toying at your dress clad thigh. Nose bumping your hip. You reached out tentatively and giggled as the thing leaped in response and swiped his tongue across your cheek. 

“Okay…okay. He is cute. We can keep him.”

The months after the war proved to be challenging. Those first months of winter some of the most grueling you had experienced since becoming Queen of Ayelandia. The alliances forged through your marriage had become a blessing. Goods being sent from Glendhaven as your country rebuilt. 

Many had come together to start the process of fixing the destroyed homes and burned healing houses. Roofs being rebuilt as the lives of those affected within learned to continue on. The streets those first weeks were empty. Somber in nature. Nobody seemed to truly mill about until the spring arrived and the weather started to warm. 

Lady Cecilia and her children had revisited as new buds began to form on the trees in the gardens. Her little girls now talking and excited over the prospect of their new ‘cousin’ coming in a few months time. 

Lady Cecilia overjoyed at how much had changed in the months since you had last seen her. Over the way your husband seemed only that much more in love with you. Worshipping the ground you walked on.  

Hollowhall had grown silent, King Norman’s throne now unsecured with the loss of his son. Though there were whispers of those who still hated King Peter and wanted to see him uprooted. Those whispers squashed, however, before they could come to any fruition. 

You continued your work at the healing houses for some time, despite Peter’s many worried of you working yourself too hard. Those first few weeks of walking in without seeing the familiar faces of Healer Agatha and Bronwynne breaking your heart all over again. You still mourned them both, and were certain you would for many years to come. 

But time healed the lands, just as it did anything. And before long you found the people settled into a new routine. Found new things to be grateful for—to be happy about. 

Peter had found that in the gift you kept nestled away beneath your heart. In the first cries of your son as the spring turned into summer. Would never forget the way he had settled down on a chair that day, looking down into Benjamin’s eyes with a love so deep it had split your heart in two. 

You were finally at peace. 

Sighed against the downy pillow as you reached over to grip Peter’s palm in yours and twined your fingers with his. The puppy coming to rest his snout across his new father’s forearm. 

But you did have to admit he was adorable. What with those floppy golden ears and sagging lips as his mouth puffed in his sleep. 

“We should be getting ready. The court is practically buzzing at the prospect of celebrating Benji’s first cake day.” You mused, watching as Peter lifted himself and the sleeping prince into a sitting position. 

“They just wish to use it as an opportunity to drink and be merry,” he said, pressing a kiss to the little boy’s forehead as he stirred. 

“Precisely,” you said, circling around the bed to kiss your husband soundly. “So let us drink and be merry, my love.”

The prince in question did not care for the party. Only enjoyed spending time within Lady Cecilia and Queen Freya’s arms with his fist in his mouth. 

Had thanked Lord Bartrand and Lady Cecilia when they offered to take the boy for a while when you and Peter eventually decided to slip out into the gardens, giggling as he laid you down on a his fur cloak beneath a tree on a patch of grass. Watched as the leaves danced above your head. Dappled light casting shadows over your husband’s face. 

“I had dreamed of this once—or something like it,” you muttered dreamily, reaching up and untying the leather keeping his now shoulder length hair tied behind his head. Toyed with the strands as they fell forward. 

He snorted, blowing a strand away from his face. “Did you now?” He curled you up against his side, arms circling your waist. “And what exactly happened in this dream.”

You tugged at the strings of his britches. Freed the shirt from within and ran fingers along bared flesh. Gasped as he leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses into your skin there. 

You reached forward and guided him where you wanted him. Skirts tossed up around your hips as he moved against you. Peppering kiss after kiss against your lips. 

“It started just like this…” You whispered, back arching as his finger brushed against that sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“And then?”

“And then…” 

You shoved him over onto his back, palm pressed against his chest to keep his back rooted to the ground as you moved above him. 

Like in your dream, each roll of your hips another promise. 

You loved him. You cherished him. You worshipped him. You adored him. Would spend every day for the rest of his life reminding him. 

When you parted in a panting tangle of arms and legs, you curled your arms around his waist. Nuzzling your face against his chest as you settled down with him. Basking in the fading summer sun dancing along your skin. 

“To think, when we met we were mere strangers,” you said, thinking back to those early days. 

To your wedding day. Standing before him as a quiet princess, uncertain of who she was. 

“I was a beast to you.” He brushed a hand along your cheek lovingly. 

You remembered those early dinners. The clanging of silverware as you danced around one another. Figured out how to navigate the murky waters of your relationship. 

“We became friends, though.” 

“We did become friends.” 

He kissed your nose as you pictured him. So long ago now in that tent, looking at you overtop your makeshift pillow barricade to separate the two of you. 

“And then there was a flirtation,” you said, running your hand along his chest, moving toward the waistband of his pants. Then lower still until he shuddered against you. 

Your mind conjured up the sight of him in your bathing chamber. Looking over at you with heat swirling in his gaze. And even after still, to those first exploring kisses over a game of hangman’s noose.

“I was a beast again,” he groaned, chuckling. 

You felt your skin as it flushed at the memory of sparring with Peter at the garrison. Mere moments before he confessed he had done the unthinkable and fell in love with you. 

“And now you are my heart,” he said, kissing you soundly as he rolled back over you. 

Making love to you anew in the grass as images of the last months continued to flit across your mind behind your closed eyes. 

Those first moments of new intimacy. The moment you were reunited on the battlefield after the war when you had feared you might never see him again. The first time he had learned he was to become a father. The tentative way his palm had settled over yours that day when you had felt Benjamin quickening for the first time. When he looked at you for the first time with his son in his arms, as if he had fallen in love all over again. 

And even still, as he looked at you now, reverently. Like he had been searching his whole life for a treasure and found it within you. 

The two of you ventured back to court some time later, earning the curious gazes of the other royals who would dare not say anything of what you had gotten up to. Instead, you pushed past them and lifted Benjamin from Lady Cecilia’s arms, as Peter bid the rest of court good night. 

You settled the little Prince down in his bed and smiled at the pair of arms that had come to slide around your waist. Leaning into the warmth of the man leaning his chin against your shoulder. His fingers brushed along the mop of brown hair on Benjamin’s head, your sighs echoing in the chamber. 

“I love you, you know?” You whispered. 

He turned your head to the side, your eyes locking with his. “And I you. I am yours. Until my dying day.”

“And even then.”

“Even then.”

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[mellowswriting]

devotion

pairing || Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

word count || 3,442

summary || Bucky never thought he would achieve that life he dreamed of all those decades ago - the idyllic house full of kids and a wife he adores to kiss him when he comes home from work. But of course, you just had to go and prove him wrong.

content || housewife kink, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, dry humping, oral, possessiveness, praise, riding, baby daddy!Bucky being adorable, and also the best husband

a/n || i mean this with my whole chest - sir, put a baby in me 

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

Bucky Barnes has always wanted a family. Ever since he was old enough to truly imagine his future, he pictured a pretty wife and a few of his rugrats running around causing chaos. But of course, he didn’t imagine his life going off the fucking rails the way it did. By the time he’s actually in control of his life, gets to decide the direction he goes, the world is an entirely different place. Even so, he found that the picture didn’t change much. It just felt more impossible than ever.

And then he met you.

The first time he caught a glimpse of you is an image so emblazoned in his mind that sometimes he still sees it when he closes his eyes at night. You were laughing at something Sarah had said, your head tossed back with the biggest, most genuine smile on your face. Bucky was enamored in an instant. Before he could think up some excuse to talk to you, Sam swooped in, dragged him over by his arm, and introduced the two of you. He said something about being childhood friends but Bucky didn’t catch anything after that; he was too distracted by the feeling of your soft, small hand in his when you offered a friendly handshake.

The homemade brownies you brought to the bustling cookout completely upstaged his store bought cake. The taste of warm chocolate melting on his tongue had him downright moaning, claiming you must have some sort of magic in you to make something so delicious. His heart races at the way you smile up at him at the compliment and offer to show him how to bake.

It made for a wonderful first date. Your little kitchen was full of laughter as the two of you joked around and baked, and Bucky learned that he wasn’t actually all that bad at baking after all. Turns out, all he needed was a good teacher. The pan of brownies turned out just as perfect as the batch from the cookout and Bucky can’t hide the big, proud smile on his face when he turns to show you. That smile dropped in surprise, his brain completely blanking out at the warmth of your fingers brushing a streak of powdered sugar off of his cheek. He didn’t miss the way your fingertips lingered, like you didn’t want to let go of him and fuck, he didn’t want you to either.

Bucky covered your hand with his own, his metal fingers curling around yours and flattening your palm against his cheek. The smile you gave him was so genuine that he couldn’t help but lean in and kiss you, the first kiss he’s had in decades. He expected to feel a thrill of nerves or excitement, but he just felt… calm.

Right then and there, you became his peace.

It doesn’t take him long to put a ring on your finger. Bucky spent so much time stuck in limbo, wanting but never being able to reach for it, so he isn’t wasting time. Not anymore, not with you. A year and a half later, you’ve taken his last name and bought a new house together. It’s a beautiful place; three bedrooms, high ceilings, a ton of natural light. The area is nice, too. There are parks in walking distance and Sam’s place is only a few blocks away, plus the school district is great.

Which is a good thing, considering he knocked you up within a few months of moving in.

The moment he saw that positive pregnancy test, Bucky’s entire world shifted. Fatherhood becomes him in the deepest of ways, long before your belly even begins to grow. Books begin to take up the empty space on his nightstand and the bedroom closest to the one you share slowly fills with boxes of toys and other things to be put together for the little life that you’re creating. Every piece of knowledge is eagerly consumed by him, especially from those willing to answer his millions of questions.

The one thing that really doesn’t change is that need he feels to pamper you; if anything, it just grows.

The mother of his child, so beautiful and vibrant as you carry his baby in your belly. He couldn’t get enough of you before, but now… now it’s a miracle either of you manage to make it out of bed in the mornings with his wandering hands holding you close and lavishing you with attention. Bucky wants to hold you close, curl himself around you and never let go. But there are responsibilities to be taken care of and no matter how much he pouts as he tries to cage you in his strong arms, he knows there’s still work to do.

Luckily, Bucky’s best friend and the godfather of his child has a lot of pull. Being so close with Captain America has a lot of perks, but his favorite is getting out of unnecessary work to go home to his wife. Everyone knows it keeps him from getting grumpy anyways, so it’s a win all around.

It’s a rarity for him to not bring you something on his way home. Sometimes you text him and complain about not having whatever snack you’ve been craving all day, and who is he to deny you? Bagful of goodies hanging off of his arm, Bucky comes home to the sound of happy music playing lightly and the smell of dinner cooking away in the kitchen. The sight you make takes his breath away.

The fabric of your favorite little sundress flutters around your thighs, the baby bump that swells between your hips stretching the fabric, and he gets the most spectacular view of your ass where you bend over to peek into the oven. The moment you turn around and catch a glimpse of him, a smile breaks across your face and your shoulders relax, your entire body softening as you toss the oven mitt onto the counter and make your way to him.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate to drop the bag on the couch and wrap you up in his arms, his metal hand cradling the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest. This… this right here is all he needs in life. His wife in his arms, his home warm and happy. It’s everything he’s ever wanted - you are everything he’s ever wanted.

“How was your day, honey?” You ask sweetly, your chin propped up on his sternum to look up at him with those big eyes, so full of love.

“Good.” He replies and rubs up and down your back. “Better now that I’m finally home.”

You hum a happy little sound that makes his heart flutter. “Dinner is in the oven - it’s that roast you loved last time. It’ll be done in a few hours.”

A low groan rumbles through his chest. God, Bucky can’t believe how lucky he is to have this life as his own. You’re just so beautiful, so nurturing, already the perfect wife and mother. He could never wish for anything more. “C’mon, let's get you off your feet. I brought you something.”

“Again?” You ask with a laugh. You follow him anyway, let him pull you towards the couch and right into his lap. The curve of your belly presses against his and Bucky can’t help but splay a possessive hand across it. It amazes him to no end that you’re capable of such a thing; creating an entire new life out of next to nothing, nurturing them with your body even long after they’re born.

“You’re really gonna complain about getting everything you want?” Bucky teases, snickering when you smack at his chest lightly. “Let me finish dinner, okay? You should rest.”

Early on in your pregnancy, you would’ve scoffed at him, told him you were pregnant and not injured and could handle yourself - all of which are still true. But the further your pregnancy progressed, the quicker you grew exhausted. Even a simple trip to the grocery store would leave you in need of a nap by the time you got home. Now your shoulders just slump slightly as you regard him with those soft, appreciative eyes. “Are you sure? I can handle it, you’ve been at work all day -”

“I know you can handle it, sweetheart.” Bucky interrupts gently. “But you've been hard at work all day, too. Growing our baby, keeping the home fires burning… you work harder than I do, trust me.”

That gets you to laugh bashfully, the guilt washing away under his kind words and the warm back and forth rub of his hand over your belly. You try to look down, away from his intense gaze, but his fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your gaze right back up to meet his eyes.

“You take such good care of me, of our home… of our little family.” He insists, voice falling to a whisper as his thumb grazes your lower lip gently. “You’re an amazing wife, you know that?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows and nods at you in that emphatic, goofy way of his until he gets you to nod along with him in agreement, and only then does he pull you in by your chin to give you a kiss, a warm brush of his lips against yours that has your eyes fluttering closed with a happy sigh. It takes a moment for you to break away from the distraction of his affection and finally reach for the bag, the plastic rustling between you as you dig through it to find the very thing you’ve been craving for the last few hours: your favorite chocolate bar. It’s such a simple thing, the gift of a candy bar from a man who’s already given you the world. The smile you give him is so tearful and loving, and you say the very words that make his heart explode in his chest.

“You’re gonna be such a good daddy, James.”

It's the use of his first name that does him in even more. Bucky groans and drags you in for a deep kiss, eagerly slipping his tongue into your mouth. He loves the way you hum against his lips and settle further into his lap, the telltale sign that you're about to become the most beautiful, needy little thing. You're already starting to grind yourself down into his lap and Bucky breaks the kiss just to lean back and look at you. This is far from the first time he’s seen you like this - hell, it isn’t even the first time today.

It seemed like the moment your morning sickness relinquished its hold on you, your libido skyrocketed. Suddenly you weren’t constantly having to step outside because the smell of dinner made you nauseous or crying at laundry detergent commercials, and all of that was replaced with a relentless craving for your husband. It’s so easy to make you a writhing, begging mess for him and he loves it.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Bucky coos as he rubs up and down your sides. “You need me again?”

“I always need you.” You whine, finally setting a slow pace against his denim clad thigh. Your fingers fist at his shirt and Bucky watches, completely enraptured as your eyes fall closed and that adorable look of concentration crosses your face. “You make me feel so good, can’t help it.”

Bucky lets you keep going for just a moment, urged on by the gentle hold he has on your hips and the pride he feels at making you feel so good. The fabric of your dress bunches up under the push and pull of his hands as he squeezes and rubs your soft curves. A soft whimper falls from your lips and you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, little kisses and licks gracing his throat seconds later. He can’t get enough of how sensitive you are like this - it's so easy to get you off over and over.

“Go on, cum for me.” Bucky encourages, taking over the slow rock of your hips and guiding you to grind against him harder. His cock twitches in his pants just from the way you cry out his name and shudder as a lazy orgasm pulses through your entire body, leaving you trembling in his lap. “That’s my good girl…”

Bucky’s hands rub up and down your back as you float through that pleasant, full-bodied tingling, content to help you ease back down to earth, but the feeling of your hands slowly drifting down to unbutton his pants tells him you want something else far more. He can’t help but chuckle at your insistence, making you lean back to give him an annoyed look that is so adorable, he can't help but laugh again.

“Don’t laugh at me.” You pout as you slowly lower the zipper of his jeans. “It’s the stupid hormones.”

“Well, I happen to like to stupid hormones.” He teases. Bucky sets you onto the cushion next to him with a gentle pat on your ass and eagerly finishes the job of shoving his pants and boxers off. You’re quick to mirror him, pulling your dress up over your head and barely getting your panties off before he’s pulling you right back into his lap where you belong. You’re both becoming breathless with the neediness of it all, aided along by the sloppy kiss you draw him into. His cock twitches against your bare thigh, aching for your attention after that little show you put on for him. “C’mon, sweetheart… let me fuck you.”

A smirk curls your lips as you slowly stroke his cock, making his head tip back against the cushions, lips parted with a heady sigh. He’s like putty in your hands, so willing and ready to bend to your will. Heat licks up his spine, forces him to finally discard his shirt along with the rest of his clothes.

“I missed you all day, you know.” You pout.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Bucky rocks his hips in time with your slow strokes, struggling to hold back the animalistic urge to slam you back into the couch and fuck you. He wants you to touch your fill, knows you've spent all day thinking about this and he doesn't want to disappoint. “Missed you, too… so fuckin’ much, couldn't even focus on the debrief ‘cause all I could think of was gettin’ my hands on my pretty wife again.”

His words spur you on, make a spark of undeniable need curl even tighter inside of you. You rise up on your knees as you shuffle forward with the help of Bucky’s strong hands at your waist, and a breathless moan rushes out of you as you sink onto his cock. He can barely keep his eyes open at the onslaught of pleasure, his mind shifting into overdrive the moment he feels your warmth enveloping him. Fuck, you’re so wet that he’s buried deep inside of you with no resistance, your body pliant and absolutely begging for him.

The pace you set is slow and deep, something Bucky fucking loves. He feels so close to you like this, with your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders and his around your waist, holding you close while being careful not to put pressure on your belly. The rhythm is easy for him to match and he rolls his hips up as you rock down to meet him, drawing out those sweet whimpers that set his heart ablaze.

“You're doing so good for me, sweetheart.” He whispers, reveling in the way your fluid rise and fall stutters at his praise.

“I love you.” You whisper right back. It’s so sincere, the way the words fall from your lips before capturing his in an almost chaste kiss, as if you need to say it and show it for him to truly understand the magnitude of your words. You need him to hear it and feel it and see it all at once, to be washed out in your love - and fuck, if you don’t succeed.

It’s too much, the overwhelming wave of intimacy and trust and flat out, undeniable devotion threatening to send him over the edge. He can’t have that, not when he hasn’t given you the attention you deserve, so one hand leaves your soft curves to slip between your sweat slicked bodies and tease your clit with those featherlight touches that drive you crazy. He watches with hooded eyes as you use him, your hips grinding in those short, desperate jerks between his cock and the gentle rub of his fingertips, the metal warmed under your touch.

“I love you.” A wild quality has overtaken his voice, something intense tearing through him demanding he voice it over and over - and he does. Bucky whispers the declaration over and over, even as your forehead presses to his and his name starts spilling from your lips, in between the short, desperate kisses you give him.

He doesn’t stop pouring out his love for you, not until his voice is choked off by the feeling of you breaking against him, your face falling to hide in his neck as you cry out his name. You feel like fucking heaven around him as you cum, pulsing around his cock and drawing him even deeper, your body begging him to finish deep inside of you. It doesn’t take much more, just the feeling of your lips latching onto his pulse point and sucking, your teeth and tongue working in tandem to leave a pretty bruise. It won’t last long, but that’s okay. You’ll just leave more.

You don’t bother trying to slip off of his lap. Your husband wouldn’t let you up anyway, those strong arms wrapped tight around your back as his hands drift up and down your back soothingly. Exhaustion floods your body, lets you sink into Bucky’s firm body and breathe in that heady scent of his. You’re at risk of falling asleep on him, something he realizes as soon as your lips stop the little kisses you’ve been gifting his neck.

“How about I get you cleaned up, sweetheart? Then you can take a nap.” Bucky murmurs against your ear, smiling softly when you grumble about not wanting to move. It takes you a moment to gather the motivation to leave his warmth, but eventually you ease back against the arm of the couch - and Bucky finds himself dumbstruck.

Arm tossed up over your head, your legs curled slightly as your other arm comes down to cradle your belly - you’re radiant. Even though you’re exhausted and your skin has a slight sheen of sweat, you look beautiful, vibrant in a way he knows he’ll never tire of. Bucky has to drag himself away from your side, reminding himself that you still need him. He’s sure to bring you a bottle of water along with the warm washcloth he uses to gently swipe between your legs. The sleepy way you blink and smile at him as he takes care of you makes him feel so needed, like he’s doing right by you as your husband.

“Come here,” You whisper, your arms wide to welcome him to squish himself between your body and the back of the couch. It’s a little cramped but he likes it that way; the warm line of your body pressed fully against his is such a simple comfort.

Bucky’s hand settles over yours where it rests against your belly. “I can’t believe there’s a whole person in there.”

“It’s easy to be amazed when it’s not your bladder they’re elbowing.” You say with a light laugh. The little one flutters about at the sound of their daddy’s voice so close, a volley of little movements following as they shuffle around. Bucky’s lips part in awe at the feeling and he follows the feeling of them pressing against his hand. No matter how many times he experiences it, feeling his baby move never fails to amaze him.

“Be nice to your mama,” He whispers before kissing your belly, right where they just kicked. “She’s workin’ so hard for you, the least you could do is be nice.”

“And let me finally eat bacon again.” You grumble.

“And let her eat bacon, apparently.” He adds quickly. Another flurry of movements is the response he gets, and he can’t help but look up at you with a grin. You shake your head fondly at his antics as he continues talking to the baby, your fingers raking through his hair as you doze and bask in the attention of your husband.

{Taglist} 

@h-hxgirl @amneris21 @badassbaker @meshlababy @greeneyedblondie44 @acourtofsnakes @chaotic-fangirl-blog​ @stuckybarton​ @rosie-posie08​ @just-blogging-around​ @jxlystan​ @the-chaotic-cow​ @janebby​ @bloodsuckingbastards​ @mtjoi​ @triggerhappyflygirl​ @asta-lily​ @peterpstuff​ @mummifymecaptain​ @livstilinski​ @jessyballet​ @learning-howto-be-myselfx3​ @ji5hine​ @mswarriorbabe80​ @alleycat2496​ @mrsbentallmadge​ @magicengr​ @petersunderoos96​ @hypnoash​ @buckybby​ @onlyjamesbuchananbarnes​ @girl-lost-not-found​ @creatingjana​ @iamburdened​ @tenaciousperfectionunknown​ @fan-of-encouragement​ @alina02​ @itssmashedavo​ @kirsteng42​ @todorokis-whore​ @beminetokeep​ @goblinsimp​ @everything-burns-down​ @one-hell-of-a-disappointment​ @spicymangoz​

[tenshinokorin]

All right, folks, I'm going to tell you a story about why we need to teach people--especially cis males of a certain age group--to keep their goddamn mouths shut on the street when they feel they have some pearl of wisdom to drop about a stranger's appearance. This is, of course, mostly about me being fat and female-presenting, so it will bring up stuff about fatphobia, street harassment, and various other things. It's also about Stevie Nicks. Mostly, it's because this happened last month and is still bothering me, and that means I've missed my window to magically forget about it, so it has to go on file now with all the other fun street harassment encounters over the years that are likewise taking up valuable space in my brain and that come up to haunt me every time I think about going for a walk on a nice day. So maybe if I can unload this here I can go back to wearing my favorite sweatshirt in peace. 

For starters, I have a Stevie Nicks sweatshirt. I got it on clearance last year and like to joke that it is, in fact, the LEAST SteevishNickery kind of garment to have her face on it, which I think is really funny, like having a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel roof painted on the underside of your tool shed. It's also very soft and oversized and comfy, and it makes my on-the-spectrum brain feel safe and hugged without being smothered. That's a really big deal. It is in no way a flattering garment, and I do not care. I can deal with shit better if I have Stevie emblazoned on my tits, because how could you not feel better with that kind of protection? I've loved her since I was a kid, and of course loved her style as well, although as a fat girl in the 80's my options for imitating her look were limited. The sweatshirt is like a shortcut, though. I have worn this sweatshirt to the emergency room at midnight, I have worn it for days on end during depressive episodes, I have worn it to scary doctor appointments. I might not be able to face stuff myself sometimes, but hey, if Stevie's with me, I feel a little bit better. 

On the day in question I was wearing this sweatshirt because my parents were visiting. That should tell you all you need to know about my relationship with my parents. Especially since I tend to overdress on these occasions to try and preemptively fend off my mother's criticism about my appearance. This time, I said fuck it, I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm wearing Stevie. I'd been out to lunch with my wife and my folks, and since we'd parked downtown a ways from the restaurant and my mom is a little wobbly, I'd gone to go get the car and pick up everybody. 

So I'm walking up a busy downtown street to my car, my brain full of cold meds and the things that it's full of when you're managing aging parents and a relationship minefield, just trying to get the car so my wife won't be left on her own with them too long. And in the corner of my eye I see this guy. And I know. I know by the look of him that he's winding up what he thinks is a real zinger, and I also know by the look of him that he doesn't have the sense to keep his trap shut. I'm in my 40s, I've been fat my whole life, and you develop a sixth sense about these things. I know I don't have time or energy to deal with this kid, so I just keep trucking on to my car, but sure enough as I go by I hear him say: "Wow, it's like a Stevie Nicks made out of a thousand Stevie Nickses." 

I do not have time to deal with this asshole. My mom is right now standing on a street corner with my wife, probably asking her awkward questions about her mental health. I do not have time to whirl on this kid and tell him to shut his fucking face before I put it through the comic-shop window. I do not have the energy to tell him I'm old enough to be his mom and if I was I'd be ashamed to own up to it. I do not have the space to tell him--also fat, only barely groomed and dressed like a drunk toddler--he's no fucking prize himself. I just have to get to the car. 

Only now, my precious Stevie shirt is covered in his invisible shit. I try to reason out of it: maybe it's some Stevie meme I don't know, and he's doing that dumb thing where someone tries to strike up a conversation by referencing something they assume everybody knows, but even if that was the case, I know what's really going on. I had the gall to be walking down the street alone while being fat and female and unsmiling, and some manchild had to let me know what he thought about my body. 

I get in the car. I pick up my family. I go out and spend the day with them. And the whole time this event is still running on a background process in my brain, trying to extract the toxin, or at least dismiss it, so I can forget about it. There's plenty going on, so I think if I can focus on other stuff maybe the encounter will be overwritten and I won't remember it. My favorite safe shirt won't be ruined. 

It doesn't work, of course, or I wouldn't be writing this. I have no idea what we did after I picked them up, or anything in the hours between then and dinner. Memories with my family (problematic as they can be, but still very loved and not seen very often), are blotted out by this fleeting episode. And even though the sweatshirt's been washed multiple times since then and I have never seen that guy again, even though the whole thing took less than ten seconds, there it is, forever, in vivid color every time I wear or even think about my favorite shirt. And coming with it are all the other sidewalk occasions I don't want to remember either, when boys or men would scream at me about my ass from their car windows or from the safety of their groups, when for days after I would analyze everything I had been wearing, how I had been standing or walking, whether or not I was wearing too much makeup or not enough makeup, trying to figure out what I had done to deserve to be the target of ridicule. 

But I hadn't ever done anything except be fat, and nobody deserves mockery and abuse for that. Not you, not me, and not my poor Stevie sweatshirt hiding in my closet. I feel like Mabel Pines being sad about her sweater with the dog dunking a basketball because Pacifica said it was dumb. It's grade-school stuff and shouldn't even be there, either. Nobody should have to put up with this. 

Don't be that guy. Don't let your friends or your kids or anyone be that guy. You want to say something about my shirt? Say "Nice shirt" or "Stevie Nicks is a goddamn Queen." Or maybe just don't say anything at all. 

[hyungieyoongi]

Found: “Run Away to You” Part 1

Let me go.

He was, without a doubt, your hardest goodbye.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Former Actress!Reader 

Word Count: 1.6K

Genre: Fluff + Angst 

Series Masterlist: Run Away to You 

Premise: You ran away from your acting career one year ago, disappearing from the spotlight without a trace. No one from your past life knew where to find you. On the anniversary of your disappearance, your carefully constructed reality is shattered.

// Part 2

---

Looking at the calendar on your wall, the date glared back at you, red marker encircling the number as if you could forget it.

One year. It had been one whole year since you ran away from your old life.

Happy anniversary to me, you thought bitterly.

It hadn’t been easy–no, it had been tactful, strategic. Your best friend-turned-publicist, Marianne, had programmed your social media accounts to simultaneously deactivate. The phone you used for “celebrity” contacts and business-related matters was permanently turned off, stashed away in the back of a drawer. You had already moved all your belongings to a new apartment on the other side of the city, address undisclosed to everyone except Marianne and your parents on the other side of the world. Everything had been in place for you to completely disappear.

You were instructed to lay low for at least one entire month, groceries delivered to your door under a fake name with Marianne’s credit card. You had cut your hair, once long and flowing, to your collarbone. It was often hidden under a baseball hat when you went to your favorite café for a coffee or took your elderly neighbor’s dog for walks around the park. You were completely off the radar, just as intended.

That didn’t stop the world from trying to track you down for a while. Fan blogs speculated where you could have gone, and tabloids splashed old pictures of you on their covers with speculative headlines. Your parents even had to install a state-of-the-art security system in your hometown in the States after a magazine found out where you grew up and tried to break into their backyard. But you weren’t naïve enough to go back home; that was the first place people would expect you to go. Instead, you were hidden in plain sight in Seoul, just sans the flashes of the cameras following you. Without the designer clothes or big sunglasses hiding your features, you looked just like anyone else. Undetectable.  

You had grown up in America, studying acting and Korean during your time at university with Marianne. Upon graduation, you landed a major role in a K-drama, uprooting your entire life to move to Seoul. For five years, you lived in the spotlight under the industry’s microscope. People said you were living the dream, but it started to feel more like a nightmare. It became overwhelming, suffocating.

When the show wrapped after three seasons, you knew it was time. You decided to run. You just wish you didn’t have to hurt anyone else in the process. Especially him.

You had instructed Marianne to give him a letter explaining why you had to go away, but she never heard back from him.

Let me go, Yoongi. Don’t look for me. This is for the best. I will always care about you. – Y/N

The words were emblazoned in your memory, your eyes tearing up at the thought of him reading the words you wrote to him.

Let me go.

He was, without a doubt, your hardest goodbye.  

Your cell phone rang, distracting you from the memories that plagued your thoughts today.

“Good afternoon, dearie!” Marianne chirped on the other end of the phone. “It’s a big day for you. The first half of your manuscript came back from the publisher, so get excited to do some editing!” Hiding away from the world for a year gave you a lot of time to think. For you, that meant time to write. Marianne seamlessly transitioned from being your publicist for your acting career to managing your budding career as an author, even helping you pick out a pseudonym.  

“That’s great news,” you mumbled in reply, taking a long sip of your coffee, the bitterness blooming on your tongue.

“Are you alright? You sound, I don’t know, a little off,” Marianne questioned, concern lacing her normally peppy tone.

“It’s been one year, Marianne,” you replied, knowing she’d understand.

“Oh my,” Marianne said after a beat of silence. “It completely slipped my mind. How are you holding up?”

“I’m alright just a little…weird, I guess? I’m so relieved to have my own life again. But I’m also just kind of mourning my old life today.”

“Oh babe, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Do you want me to come over after work–we can order takeout and watch a movie? Take your mind off things?” Marianne offered.

“No, that’s okay. I think I’m just going to spend the day doing some self-care. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss the manuscript timeline, right?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll be at the café at 11:00 a.m. Are you sure you’ll be okay today?” Marianne asked, clearly not convinced that you were telling the truth about being alright.

“I’ll call you if I need you, I promise,” you reassured her.

“Night or day, Y/N, you know I’m here.”

After you both said your goodbyes and ended the call, you started to feel restless, needing something to take your mind off the date and the competing emotions swirling in your brain. You decided fresh air and comfort food were the solution.  

Grabbing your keys off the table by the front door, you slipped on your shoes, heading for the local corner store in your neighborhood, mindlessly forgetting your hat on the hook on the wall.

---

Mask pulled over the lower half of his face to conceal his appearance, Yoongi slipped into a nearby corner store, saving himself from the prying eyes that seemed to be examining him a little too closely from across the street.

He had snuck out of the studio without security, wanting to just take a moment to breathe all to himself. He had driven around Seoul with no destination in mind, eventually stopping in a neighborhood he found with a quiet park for a walk. His thoughts betrayed him as they kept going back to you and the letter he received one year ago, now crumpled in the top righthand drawer of his desk. He didn’t need to pull it out today to remember exactly what it said.

Let me go.

Once he read those words, he had stopped reading, smashing the paper together between his fists in frustration, shoving it in the drawer. It had stayed unopened since last year.

Yoongi aimlessly wandered through the aisles of the store, his mind continuously returning to that drawer. He had worked so hard to stop thinking about it–about you–over the past year. Today was a harsh reminder that you were still on his mind. He had stopped calling a long time ago, knowing that you wouldn’t pick up or return his calls. Sometimes though, if he had a little too much to drink with the boys, he’d call your number just to hear your voice on the voicemail recording. He didn’t tell anyone about those late-night calls.

Rounding the aisle corner, he collided with someone, knocking the snacks they had bundled in their arms to the ground. They immediately knelt down, trying to collect them.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you,” Yoongi offered, starting to lean over.

“Oh, no that’s okay I’ve got it.” Yoongi froze, his body going rigid. That voice. Your voice. He hadn’t heard it in-person in over a year. The sweetness of it rang through his ears, reminiscent of the voicemail he knew by heart.

It was you. After all this time.

---

Standing up with your snacks back safely in your grasp, you looked at the man in front of you who seemed to be barely breathing.

You were about to ask if he was alright, but then you recognized it. The black hat–the one with two rings on the edge that he would often wear when he went out. His mask had slipped below his nose, his pale cheeks slightly squished under the pressure of the fabric. Black hair poked out from underneath the hat, falling onto his forehead and into his dark brown eyes. They were wide with shock.  

You felt the color rush from your face, hands beginning to shake because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were safe. Safe in your self-made bubble away from the world.

Until he found you. And it burst.

You contemplated turning around, pretending you hadn’t recognized him. Leave him again. But you knew that wasn’t an option now. You had to face the thing you were most scared of–him.

“Yoongi, I-” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“Your hair,” Yoongi remarked, cutting you off, tone flat and quiet. “You cut your hair.” His eyes narrowed at you.

You swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “Just...wanted a change, I guess.”

Hide. You wanted to hide.

“You seem to have gone through a lot of changes,” Yoongi said, bitterness seeping into his voice.

You winced at the implication of his words. You took a deep breath to try and collect yourself before replying.

“Can we...can we not do this here?”

“Fine.”

“I live around the corner. Maybe we could just...talk?” you asked, averting your eyes to the ground. When you didn’t hear a reply, you looked back up to Yoongi, who nodded at you once in agreement.

Abandoning your would-be purchases, you walked out the front door of the store, Yoongi silently following behind you. You felt his eyes burning into your back.

Just put one foot in front of the other, you thought to yourself.

As you and Yoongi silently walked to your apartment, neither of you noticed the camera pointed at the two of you, snapping the photo that would change everything.

// Part 2

---

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