#i even had a fleeting thought of adding wings

[takethebodymarc]

wow. i was doodling a concert for hw. and then i started thinking of baghera. and then i added her into the drawing. just when i finished her pink hair i realized what i did. like i literally blacked out while drawing her.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 12.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death any tw's and cw's will be added to chapters with them in it.

story playlist

Shera’s head pounds, laden with rocks and gravel as if she were resting at the bottom of a creek. Joints cracking and aching, she sits up. 

She doesn’t recognize where she is, only smelling the salt air and the distant crash of the tides. Her mouth is dry, sticky with a cloyingly sweet flavor. “Mhh,” she groans, vision blurred more than usual, throat tight. 

“You’re awake,” a taunting voice observes. “Good.” 

It takes her a few moments to match the voice to Prince Daemon— her situation going from bad to worse. 

She must’ve made a putrid expression, as the rogue prince gave a chuckle. “Am I that off putting, Lady Stark?” 

She continues to grumble, unable to form words yet— she remembers being hit in the throat particularly hard, rendering her voiceless and silent at the time of her capture. “W… wh,” she breathes, lifting her head to glare at the blurry figure of Daemon. “Wh… y…” 

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. “I did you a favor, rescuing you from the usurper’s halls. I’m sure that Otto Hightower would’ve had you wedded and bedded with his one-eyed grandchild at a moment’s notice if he thought that your brother might waver to his side.” 

“I… didn’t…” she grasped at words, the ability to speak fleeting, like birds spooked from a windowsill. “I don’t…. w-want…” 

“Don’t strain yourself now,” Daemon chided, scolding her like a child. He watched her for a bit longer, seeming to take in each minute detail of her face. “Nasty scar that,” he gestured to her eye. “Baela didn’t seem to have as good of an aim as Lucerys. At least my nephew’s injury was swift work, taking out the eye entirely,” he was closer now, brow perked. He unsheathed his dagger, embossed in swirling depictions of scales and dragon wings, and began to cut a strip of fabric from the blanket upon the bed.

Shera watched him in blurred confusion, backing herself up against the headboard, trying to be small— mayhaps if she was small, she would disappear. 

The prince offered the fabric to her. “To cover it up— ‘tis a ghastly sight, as you seem to know from your usual garb. I’m sure we’ll have some more… suitable dregs for you soon enough.” 

Her eyes flicked between the fabric and his hand, back and forth. Something in her blood welled to the surface as she leaned forward to grab the cloth. It was a feral rage, something ancient swirling in the pit of her stomach as she lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the soft of Daemon’s wrist. 

She tasted his blood, her nails scratching at any exposed skin she could grasp. Her senses darkened as she heard his far away voice, saying words she didn’t understand, yelling at her, pushing her off. 

The back of his hand met her face as she landed back against the headboard once more, chest heaving. She spit at him, body shaking with rage and adrenaline. “Your blood… t-tastes… like shit.” she cursed him, spatting his foul copper ichor back at him. 

He was enraged, she could tell, feeling a similar dragon-esque heat emanating off of him. A small part of her sobbed, deep within the recesses of her mind— it reminded her of Aemond, even if only for a moment. 

And yet, despite Daemon’s rage, he retained some sort of manic lightness in his eyes, even as he was bleeding, teeth marks indented onto his skin. He stared at her with a morbid interest, as if she was some type of animal he had never seen before, never encountered so close— and in captivity.

It was a blur as the maester walked in and lifted a cool liquid to her lips, tasting of that same saccharine sweet that filled her mouth when she awoke. It was undoubtedly an attempt to subdue her. She drank it gladly, wanting nothing more than to be asleep again. Mayhaps she would dream of Aemond. Mayhaps she would never need to wake and could dream forever. 

As her consciousness faded again, she never once broke the locked stare between her and the prince until her body gave out. 

If he ever got that close to her again, she would love nothing more than to sink her teeth into his neck, maybe even sinking her nails into his eyes. 

She would dream of ways to kill him, surely.

— 

He hasn’t been granted a marble yet— not even an official title for his seat has been bestowed. And yet, he is there, sitting at the head of the table across from the King. 

It had been ten days since Shera was taken, six days since the Velaryon fleet enforced its blockade upon King’s Landing, and four days since court had been held in the throne room to hear concerns from the smallfolk and lesser lords. 

Days upon days of doing nothing— of doing diplomacy as Aegon had put it, to parrot the words from Otto’s mouth. Aemond rolled his eye at the sentiment, knowing he would have this war snuffed out in a moment’s notice. 

Our house’s words are Fire and Blood, are they not? And yet we are nothing more than simpering whelps— for the sake of diplomacy. Aemond suppressed a scoff as Tyland Lannister spoke about the costly nature of the blockade. He could only think, mayhaps Shera would be proud of his restraint in holding his tongue. 

The thought brought a small bit of warmth to the tips of his ears, suddenly grateful for his hair covering them.

Aegon twirls his yellow and pink tinged marble in its circular setting, seemingly bored with the conversation at hand, his eyes set upon the marble as one council member or other continues to drone.

“… the shipments have been delayed due to the Sea Snake’s blockade…”

“… the shepherds are asking for compensation for their sheep being taken…” 

Aemond’s ears begin to ring— a high pitched, ugly, grating sound, drowning out the noise. He looks down at his fist on the table as it flexes and relaxes, the tendons and ligaments snapping and mending back into place like a taut bowstring. All this time of doing nothing, nothing, nothing— 

“Well,” Aegon’s voice snapped through his fog, effectively cutting off whomever was speaking. “I believe I have a plan that will solve all of these… predicaments.” he clasped his hands together with a self-assured smile. 

Otto visibly tensed, sprouting another proverbial gray hair. “Do share, your grace.” 

“You have dragonriders on your side, with very capable dragons. I don’t see why we don’t dissolve the blockade with fire.” 

“I will assume you are speaking of you and Aemond,” the hand spoke, his tone light. “The princess’ side has many dragons as well— what is stopping them from attacking King’s Landing while our two capable dragons are traipsing in the bay?” 

“You’re correct in your sentiment, grandsire. My half-sister’s army consists of more dragons than we— but most are babes or hardly fledglings,” Aegon drawled, looking down at the marble. “You are also discounting that we have another capable dragon and dragonrider. Do you forget your Queen’s dragon so easily?” 

There was a palpable silence in the room as Otto stared at the King. “Helaena is… she is no warrior.”

“She is no more a warrior than Rhaenyra is, than any of us are— but she does know how to say ‘Dracarys’, if I recall. Dreamfyre is large enough to defend the city while Aemond and I are gone on our quick incursion. I don’t believe I need to remind you of the speed at which dragon travel differs from horse travel, grandsire.” Aegon hummed now, seemingly pleased with himself. 

“Even so— it is incredibly reckless for you to be out. You are the king, not some paltry foot soldier,” Otto’s calm demeanor was shedding slowly, irritation bleeding into his words. “It doesn’t bode well for a king to fight so openly.” 

“Nor does it bode well for me and mine to sit and hide here and let paltry foot soldiers die in the masses when we could end it before sundown. I fear you won’t persuade us otherwise, lord hand,” Aegon stood up, pushing his chair back. “In fact, we will even return before you pass your evening constitution, grandsire. Does your privy have a good view of the Blackwater?” 

The Hand turned to his younger grandson, who’s single eyed gaze met him in kind. “Aemond? Do you believe this wise, as well?” 

Aemond didn’t move an inch, merely glazing over Aegon’s smug expression before returning to Otto. “I would not be so capricious as to challenge the king’s wishes, grandsire. I shall do as he commands and nothing less. The blockade needs to be eradicated— all of our diplomatic approaches have been exhausted. As his grace said, it shall be ended swiftly before Dragonstone hears a word of us even mounting our dragons.”

A cold chill befell the council room as Otto let out a tempered breath. There was a vein bulging at his temple, coupled with a myriad of new gray hairs. His expression could only be described as regret, for he is a tower cornered by two fire hungry dragons. “Very well. Rid the bay of the blockade and nothing more.” 

Soon enough, the chamber cleared. All that remained were Aemond, Aegon and Otto, the latter of whom waited until the door closed to speak. “You’re both being incredibly reckless. I expected this from you, Aegon— but Aemond, you are better than this. You have more restraint, more patience.”

The king wilted ever so slightly at the admonishment, turning towards the open window with his goblet. He remained silent. 

Aemond, however, stayed sitting. His leg was propped up against the table, one hand tracing the deep engraved ridges of the pommel of his sword. “Patience,” he echoed his grandsire’s words, mulling over the meaning of it. “Restraint,” the prince continued, finally looking back up at Otto. “I indeed have those qualities in spades, to some extent. But, patience is like an hourglass. The sand dwindles, granule by granule until there is nothing left. I am reaching my limit, becoming bereft of such patience, sitting here on my hands for days upon days. We are ready to do something.” 

Otto’s brow knit together as he observed his second youngest grandchild— a man grown now, always studious and hardworking, a true shining example of a prince. It was a perfect illusion, adept at fooling those who didn’t look deeper. A single crack at the surface reveals a fathomless gaping hole could be seen, leading to molten fire and an adept ability to not be swayed, not to be controlled by someone else. 

This is the first time Otto Hightower realizes how dangerous his grandson had become— and how much he was reminded of a certain rogue. 

Swallowing softly, the hand nods. “Do what you think is wise, Aemond.” 

—

The wolf still follows him, like a mangy shadow. Aemond didn’t care for the animal, but couldn’t bear sending him off somewhere else. 

Moongeist would let out a warbling whine each time they passed the corridor that led to Shera’s guest chambers, glancing down the hallway to see if she might be there, before padding to catch up with Aemond, who wouldn’t permit the wolf into his room. 

Aemond, admittedly, had done the same a few times, having to will himself to not venture to the guest quarters. His breath would catch if he saw a blur of auburn hair somewhere in a crowd, he would smell her scent of lavender and rosemary in the oddest of places. It felt like she was haunting him, her ghost steeping into every facet of his life.

But she wasn’t dead— was she? 

That was the ever clouding thought on his mind. He just wished to know if she was alive— even Lord Larys Strong, a man known to have his fingers and eyes in many places of Westeros, couldn’t catch a bead on Shera’s whereabouts. That in itself was disconcerting to Aemond. 

His gaze was glazed over as he knocked upon Helaena’s door, stepping in without a word or greeting to her handmaiden. The wolf, of course, followed. 

“I was wondering when you would visit today,” Helaena murmured, kneeling at one of the tables in her solar. She was fiddling with wooden cages fashioned for her crickets, facing away from Aemond. “Maelor will be happy to play with Moongeist, I’m sure,” she paused and murmured softly to herself. “The vines are overgrown, they strangled a green dragonfly just this morn…” 

The mention of the cherubic toddler caused Moongeist’s ears to perk up, his tail giving a small wag. Finally breaking away from the invisible chain that held him to Aemond, the wolf walked over towards the doorway of the nursery and took a seat, waiting patiently for the arrival of Maelor, who undoubtedly was taking an afternoon nap. 

“This one has been very quiet lately,” Helaena continued, bringing up one of the cages closer to her face, lips tugging into a frown. “Do you think it’s lonely?” 

Aemond walked to his sister, leaning down ever so slightly to observe the silent cricket. “Mayhaps,” he replied, hands behind his back. “Do crickets get lonely?” 

“Sometimes. They get lonely when no one listens to their song, so they stop singing. What would be the point to sing if no one can hear it?” she ponders, giving the cricket one last look over before putting the enclosure back on the table. “How are you feeling as of late, brother?” 

He was caught somewhat off guard by her question— it wasn’t usual in their family, perhaps even society itself, to ask something so directly. It took him a few moments to answer. “Fine. I am feeling fine.” his words were plain, hollow. 

“I miss her too,” Helaena responded, sitting up and straightening out her skirts. “It isn’t your fault, Aemond.” 

Aemond peered at his sister, hands finally unclasping from behind his back. His shoulders slumped for the first time in days, the muscles previously strung taut like thread on a loom. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment, brow furrowed. “I…” he cleared his throat, feeling more vulnerable at this moment than he would like to. It felt as if he was belly up, soft innards ripe for the slaughter. “It is my fault. I faltered in a time of weakness.” 

“Love isn’t a weakness. We all must love.” 

“Love— love is a… weakness. I allowed for one sliver of something good, I indulged when I should have starved. Look what it has gotten me, gotten us,” he continued, cracking a finger with each inflection. He needed to be doing something, anything rather than to be still. To be still, to be at peace, is to lie down and die. “I won’t make another mistake.” 

“You’re just like mother in that way,” Helaena sighed softly, taking her brother’s hands in her own to stop his incessant fidgeting. “You both have such a staunch code of what you think you deserve. All goodness is an illusion— a trick,” she squeezed his palms. “You deserve much and more.” 

His eye glazed over for a moment as he savored the feeling of Helaena’s hands in his own. He hadn’t been touched by another human being since Shera had gone— he would never let anyone else get so close. Aemond’s throat bobbed, mouth opening to say something, but the steel within him cut it off. 

Helaena felt this, letting go with a nod. “I think today is a good day for flying, don’t you think?” she began to hum again as she looked to the open window that overlooked the bay.

It had been a while since Aemond had left her chambers, leaving her to get on her riding leathers. She didn’t prefer wearing them, as beautiful as they were– she would opt for her regular dress and mayhaps some long pants to prevent chafing. The leathers felt restraining and tight, when all she wanted was to be free and to fly. 

Maelor giggled in the background as he played with Moongeist, who was gentle for such a large beast. But, it didn’t surprise Helaena in the slightest. The wolf was imbued with Shera’s soft sense of humanity, the thought of it making the queen’s heart ache. If she were more fierce, more brave, more fire blooded, she would go to Dragonstone herself and negotiate for her release. But where Aemond’s blood was molten fury, untethered and unpredictable, her veins were full of dreams and predictability. 

She knows that negotiating wouldn’t work, nor would burning down the island. Shera’s escape comes in the means of green dragonflies and barn owls.

“Will you watch him?” she asks Moongeist, who lifts his muzzle to lick her open palm as she approaches. Maelor is laying atop him, arms wrapped around the wolf’s torso as he sleeps, using the poor beast as a makeshift bed. He does not seem to mind though. “He isn’t like the twins. He’s more fragile, you see. The maesters say his heart is bad– how can that be possible? He is just a boy, never doing a bad thing in his life. He is pure of heart, you know that.” 

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked slowly as he gave a small chuffing sound in response. The wolf had attached himself to the toddler since they met, Maelor second to only Shera herself. Now with Shera gone, Moongeist likely felt the same amount of shame Aemond did, if not more. He couldn’t protect his master and she was taken– as much as he tried, as much as he fought, it wasn’t enough to save her. He favored Maelor now, perhaps because he reminded the wolf of Shera, and perhaps he likened himself to protect the little toddler with an irregular heartbeat.

Helaena leaned down and kissed Maelor on his head, then Moongeist between his ears before slipping out of her solar, off to the Dragonpit.

— 

He threw his leg over the saddle, not quite buckled in yet. Vhagar doesn’t rest in the Dragonpit any longer, opting for a craggy shore near the bay. She grumbles, lamenting softly at being awoken. Aemond thinks her akin to an old cat nowadays, opting more to nap than to burn and conquer like she did in days of old. He almost felt bad to disturb her, a gloved hand patting the exposed scale above the saddle. 

“Just burn a few boats, Vhagar, then we shall rest on the cliffs,” he murmured as they took flight, skimming low above the roiling waves. It took Vhagar longer to climb in altitude, but soon enough, they were looking at King’s Landing from the clouds. Her mass blotted out the sun temporarily, casting a shadow over the sprawling city. Even through the dim, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that. 

But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

The golden beast lingered a good length away from Vhagar, knowing that she was in a testy and irritable mood. The two dragons seemed to converse, Sunfyre giving trilling whistles, while Vhagar returned in low grumbles. 

“Your old lady is upsetting my boy, Aemond,” Aegon laughed, head thrown back. He was always in his best moods in the sky– they all were. 

“Tell your boy to leave Vhagar alone, I know he must be spewing obscenities at her. You two are alike in that way,” Aemond bit back, the bite in his voice in more of a teasing manner. Aegon wouldn’t get a smile out of him, though. 

A low trill of a third dragon broke through the clouds above them, the cerulean and opalescent sheen of Dreamfyre parting from the blue in the sky as if she were invisible previously. Helaena atop her dragon, waved to them with a wide smile. 

“Seven hells, Helaena,” Aegon and Sunfyre reeled almost in unison at the sudden appearance of the duo. “How did you get above us? You hadn’t even left the pit when we took off!” 

“Camouflage, brother. Dreamfyre blends into the sky at this time of day so well, doesn’t she?” Helaena preened, hands off the reins and resting behind her head. She was always so carefree when riding, especially since Dreamfyre was one of the most steady flyers. When the twins were still little babes, Helaena swaddled them both to her chest and flew, much to Alicent’s absolute horror. They slept soundly against her breast, not disturbed by the movements of dragonflight in the slightest.

“Are we all prepared, then?” Aemond cut in, getting straight to business. “Helaena?” 

“Yes, we shall skim the clouds and keep an eye on the horizon. There aren’t many bugs this high… too cold for them,” she hummed, clad in her deep turquoise colored riding leathers. It was imprinted with embroidery of dragonflies, coupled with a matching engraving on the front of Dreamfyre’s saddle. 

Aemond nodded, not waiting for his brother to answer before he set off towards the bay, knowing he and his fast golden beast would be in tow. 

The Velaryon fleet laid beyond the outcast of the Blackwater, barely floating above the skyline. There were approximately twenty ships encircling and blocking entrance to the harbor. It was a bold move on their part, to taunt the King and his family so openly, in their own waters. Aemond sneered slightly as arrows were notched and released to no avail— Vhagar’s skin was as tough as armor to the pitiful splinters they let forth, and Sunfyre was much too swift to even be nicked. 

The two brothers made quick work of the blockade, blessing the boats in fire and watching them sink to the bottom of the sea. They met in the middle, lines of inferno mingling together. 

“Now we’re clear for the second bit?” Aegon yelled, eyes squinting from the ashes blowing in the wind. 

Aemond nodded, waving his arm towards the north. Decidedly, to the next part of their plan— a bit they did not reveal to the council nor their grandsire. It was something only shared between the three siblings and their dragons. 

They continued northward, the tailwind carrying them towards Dragonstone. 

–

It’s light, the luminosity of the sun reflecting off of the water. The lake was so large, the largest Shera had ever seen, she couldn’t even see the end of the opposite side. The waves were calm, lapping at her bare feet as they sunk into the soft sandy clay sediment that made up the shore. It was very different to the pebbled beach of the Blackwater, and the muddy, reedy embankments of northern lakes.

The air is still, quiet, her hair ruffling only when a dragonfly races past her, then circling back and hovering in front of her face. It is a green color, iridescent in its hue as the rays hit its thorax.

“Hello,” she whispers, greeting the bug like she does with all insects; a habit picked up from Helaena. She lifts her hand, finger perked. It lands on her pointer finger, impossibly fast wings coming to a resting speed. 

But then, it’s spooked by a gust of wind from behind them, fleeing off into the atmosphere. Watching it leave sparks an unexpected feeling of hurt deep within her chest. 

As she turns, she sees him— dressed in the traditional robes of Old Valyria. A garment of beige, steeped in red ochre at the ends. It is tied taut to his chest, a sanguine ichor dripping from his shoulders. His hair is down, his eyepatch forgotten, a pleasant smile lives on his face— one reserved just for her, just for them in this moment. Aemond’s hand extends, his palm eerily cold against her own.

Red leaves fall from the weirwood above them as a woman recites something. Her voice is garbled and as Shera tries to look upon her, a shadow is cast upon her features. Only her long, dark hair and the glint of a green eye is visible as she speaks in a manner of tongue Shera’s never heard before. The language feels… old, primal even, as it tugs at the very roots of her soul. 

Aemond palms her face, parting her lips ever so slightly with his thumb. She feels the cool shard of dragonglass pressed to her skin as it slices into her— barely a prick, blood beading at the surface. He offers her the knife, a shaky hand doing the same to him in turn. Bloody lip against bloody lip, the tang of copper satisfying the need of the Old Gods. 

Shera turns to look at the woman again— but she is gone, only a flitting feather remaining in her place. Her brow knits in confusion, head feeling airy and full of cotton. 

Aemond distracts her from her worries, murmuring slurred words in her ear. She is unable to discern what he is saying, a high pitched ringing drowning out the sound. 

“Ae—mond,” she whispers, clutching at his tunic, the red ochre staining her finger tips. “Aemond, Aemond.” 

He keeps speaking, but none of it makes sense. He still has that pleasant smile upon his face, his lip continuing to drip a steady stream of ichor. 

Splat. Drip. Splat. 

Droplets of blood spatter to the ground, overtaking any and every thought Shera had— it was all she could hear now. Her mouth is full of bile and viscera as the world around her changes. It darkens, castle walls enclosing around her lit only by a few candles. 

She feels the heavy burden of a cloak around her shoulders as a cup of wine is brought to her lips, her arm intertwined with another. 

“In the sight of the Old Gods and the New,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity.” 

The wine feels like putrid spew as it’s tipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. The arm laced with hers gives her a reassuring squeeze— and just for a moment, she looks to see him, to see Aemond. 

Except it is not Aemond. It never was Aemond. 

Jacaerys looks back down at her, brown eyes dilated into complete darkness. He is as sad as she is, it seems. 

“The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.” a man speaks, his voice infallible with authority.

[lostfracturess]

【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 ch. 02

"touch her again—," his words echoed with the promise of absolute devastation, "—and you won't live to regret it."

x pairing gojo x f!reader (main), fushiguro x f!reader (jjk universe)

x summary you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. but as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head.

x wc 8.9 k

x warnings [18+] this story contains abusive/possessive behavior, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, graphic depictions of violence/injury/combat, character death, suicidal thoughts. reader discretion is advised.

x author's note new chapter time! let me know how what you think! (likes and reblogs are always appreciated!) ♡

series masterlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

The next morning, you awoke in your teacher's bedroom. The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue over the room. For a fleeting moment, you felt a sense of dread as you realized that you were alone. Satoru had left, leaving only the faintest traces of his cologne that seemed to hang in the air.

But anger quickly replaced all traces of fear. How dare this man leave you like this—after this night. Your gaze shifted to his side of the bed, and there you spotted a note. "Meet me at school," it read.

Wow. Thanks for nothing, Satoru.

With a tired sigh, you headed back to Jujutsu High, leaving the apartment as disheveled as the night before. Back at school, you wandered the empty corridors until you reached the training grounds. The curious looks of your friends greeted you. Their eyes lingered on your clothes, unchanged from the night before.

"Hey, where did you disappear to last night? We were getting worried!" Yuji said, a playful grin lighting up his face. 

"Yeah, we thought maybe curses had kidnapped you or something!" Nobara chimed in playfully.

You smiled, appreciating their not-so-serious concern. "Sorry guys. I just needed some much-needed rest."

"Is everything all right? You seem a bit out of it," Nobara added.

"I'm fine, really," you reassured her. "I'm just dealing with some severe fatigue."

Yuji and Nobara seemed satisfied with your vague explanation. Megumi, however, continued to watch you closely. In response, you gave him a subtle nod that escaped the others. But you could see a whole lot of unasked questions in his eyes.

"By the way, have you seen Gojo?" you asked, trying to sound casual even though your heart quickened at the mere mention of his name.  Your friends exchanged glances before Megumi spoke. "He's with the higher-ups."

"What?" 

Your heart skipped a beat. 

Satoru being with the higher-ups could only mean trouble.

****

In the hallway, hidden around a corner, you waited anxiously for the seemingly eternal meeting to end. Your stomach tightened in a knot as you tried to catch even the faintest echo of what was happening in that room, but the soundproof walls kept their secrets. As the door finally swung open your heart quickened.

And there he was—Satoru Gojo, your silver-haired teacher and—lover? His sharp eyes found you immediately, but he waited until the high-ranking sorcerers had dispersed. Then he approached you, his fingers confidently encircling your wrist. He led you away from the prying eyes.

"Miss me already?"

"Are you in trouble?" you asked.

His grip on your wrist loosened.

"Not exactly," he said as he leaned in, his lips hovering inches from yours. "You see," he whispered, "I may have caused a bit of chaos." Your heart raced as his lips brushed lightly across your cheek.

"Chaos?" you exhaled, trying to get some distance between you by pushing gently against him, but he held you tight.

"Yes, chaos," he confirmed, with a nonchalance that gradually eased your anger and worry. You had no chance against his charm and you knew it—he knew it.

His fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. Satoru captured your lips in a fiery, stolen kiss. You melted into his embrace. The world beyond this dimly lit corner ceased to exist, and for that stolen moment, it was just the two of you. Reluctantly, he parted his lips and fixed you with a lingering, grave gaze.

"Now get back to the others," he urged. "I'm sure they're waiting for you. We'll meet later."

"No, wait—" you started, but he had already slipped away.

Thanks for nothing, Satoru.

****

"Sounds like you had a blast last night!"

Satoru's voice could probably be heard miles away as he roared with laughter at the drunken stories the others were telling about the bonfire the night before. A soft breeze whispered through the training grounds as your mind spun with questions and worries—as usual—until Megumi approached. He sat down next to you.

"I won't say anything," he said.

You weren't sure if you needed to explain the whole situation, but you suspected that someone as sharp as Megumi had already put it together.

"Thank you."

"Just promise me you'll be fine," he continued.

Sure? 

Why not? 

Somehow you felt he wasn't referring to a perhaps troublesome student-teacher relationship within these walls.

"Is there something I should know about Satoru?"

Megumi looked away. "Satoru is the Six Eyes," he began, pausing for a heartbeat before continuing, "—trouble follows him."

"I thought so," you said. Of course. Trouble would naturally follow the most powerful sorcerer in the world.Of course. Wouldn't it?

"I just don't want you to get involved in his problems."

"Megumi, I—" your words were cut short by Satoru's commanding announcement that the training was about to begin. "Get into your training uniform!" 

"Get into your training uniform!" His call echoed through the room. His gaze lingered on you with an intensity that suggested more than typical fellowship.

Megumi's eyes flickered between you and Satoru but you didn't notice. He sighed and stood up. "Let's get changed."

****

Oh, combat day.

Undoubtedly your absolute favorite.

Not to boast, but you did have some skills in that department. Though your sorcery skills might not have been at their peak, and the whole cursed energy aspect was, well, a work in progress. Stamina? Not exactly your forte. However, in the realm of quick, no-nonsense one-on-one combat, you were your own kind of deadly. Opponents on the floor, out for the count, all in under 10 seconds.

You already felt that familiar adrenaline rush.

There was an undeniable thrill in combat, but watching others fight was equally exhilarating. Today's spectacle featured a face-off against a distant sorcerer school. Names and origins were inconsequential; they'd likely be forgotten by midday.

It was less about who they were and more about the chance to observe different styles and techniques. You hoped to pick up a useful trick or two for your own toolkit. So, you settled in, eyes fixed on the duel, your mind constantly learning, always ready.

****

Nobara was first up, marching into the arena with that unshakable confidence of hers. You stood at the crowd's edge, heart thumping like crazy, eyes locked onto the unfamiliar opponent. Rumor had it that this guy, let's just call him Jack, had a thing for fighting dirty and without mercy.

Silence fell over the crowd. You could cut the tension with a knife. Jack stood in the center of the arena, just waiting. The sun blazed down with a heat that made the arena almost flicker. Sweat dripped down your spine, every part of you on edge as you held your breath.

Nobara stood before Jack. Muscles coiled and primed. Your eyes wandered over to Satoru. He leaned casually against the school building. But you could sense that he was locked in, already analyzing every move of the upcoming battle with razor-sharp attention.

The battle began. They both ran towards each other. Nobara was about to swing her leg up, but in the blink of an eye, Jack grabbed a handful of sand from the ground. He threw it right into Nobara's eyes.

A gasp echoed through the crowd. Nobara staggered back, her hands desperately scraping at her face. Not wasting a second, Jack lunged at Nobara's compromised state. He unleashed a fierce cascade of skillful, targeted strikes, fully exploiting her vulnerability. Nobara threw up desperate defenses, but each of Jack's blows found its mark with deadly accuracy.

Nobara fought to get her act together. But then, with a powerful, final hit, he sent her crashing to the unforgiving ground below. The crowd erupted into a roaring sea of boos and jeers. It was a move that completely trashed the sacred fight-fair code, and the spectators didn't hold back on letting their disdain be heard.

Yuji's voice cut through the uproar, and in quick steps he was at Nobara's side, helping her to get up. You could see her anger in her eyes. She knew she was better than that.

In the blink of an eye, Satoru appeared next to the other teacher and her students from the foreign school. His eyes blazed with fierce anger behind his sunglasses. "This isn't what we're here for," he hissed, "—we're not here to engage in dirty tricks."

The foreign teacher raised a mocking eyebrow. "Really? Are Tokyo sorcerers too proud to use some cunning maneuvers?"

"Our pride lies in our strength and skill, not in resorting to deceitful tactics," he replied sharply. "In battle, honor is as important as victory. Remember that."

Nobara stepped forward, her eyes unwavering as she addressed both the foreign teacher and Satoru. "She has a point. We can't expect everyone to fight by the same code. Vigilance is just as important as skill." Her gaze shifted to Satoru. "I should have seen it coming." 

Satoru hesitated. "Fine," he said then, although he was obviously displeased with Nobara's choice. He waved his hand dismissively. "Get on with the next fight—but keep it clean, got it?"

You knew that Nobara only wanted to avoid a scene. But that did little to quell the anger that swelled within you. Your gaze drifted over to the foreign students. They were laughing. They were mocking her.

They will pay for that.

"I'm up next."

Your voice pierced the uneasy silence as you stepped into the circle.

Silence fell over the crowd, every gaze now locked onto you. Satoru's eyes briefly widened, seeking yours, but you were already focused on your impending opponent.

Jack cracked his knuckles. "And I thought today would be boring." He spat on the ground. "Hope you savor the pain."

"Pain's a great teacher. Let's see who ends up with the better lesson today."

****

Pivot. Twist. Strike.

Your fist rockets into his gut. Air violently expelled from his lungs. Power, visceral and tremulous, vibrates through your clenched fingers—no cursed energy, just sheer, physical strength coursing through your veins. The crowd gasps.

Crouch. Hit. Turn.

Another hit. Bones crack under your merciless strike, foot planted, body spiraling. Your opposite fist barrels into his ribs. A sharp crack punctures the hush of the arena as a rib shatters. He careens, crumpling under your ruthless assault, your fist digging into his side.

Backpedaling, he lunges, a leg ferociously sweeping for your midsection. High, wild, eyes ablaze with frenzied desperation. You snag the limb, muscles coiling, his palpable shock vibrating through his captive leg. 

The crowd silently, tensely watches as you press, unyielding. Your reputation as a sorcerer may not be fearsome, but your close combat skills are a maelstrom of violence. Every fiber coiled, every sense aflame.

Strike. No mercy. No pause.

Eye to bloodshot eye, the world slurs into a slow, pulsating rhythm, heartbeat hammering in your ears. Resolute, you unleash. Fist collides with jaw, and he spirals, a crumpled mass, to the ruthless earth. Dust envelops him—his breathing ragged, pitiful. Downed. Crushed and shamed.

Blood drips from your knuckles. But it's not yours.

Pure joy. 

The arena explodes in cheers, the sound of clapping tearing through the air. Sweat pours down your forehead as you stand there, hands raised to the sky, chest heaving, soaking up the well-deserved satisfaction under the brutal midday sun.

Without warning, a venomous hiss slices through your victory. Megumi's scream shatters the scene—but it's too late.

Pain raced through every nerve, every cell. Knees buckled, power bleeding away. Your form crashed against the earth. Darkness unfurled.

You have been undone by a cursed energy strike, your opponent's bitter farewell gift. Pain rages through you, turning your victory to ash as worried voices flicker, distant amidst the consuming black abyss. You looked up. You saw Jack smiling.

In an instant, an electric shockwave surged through the oppressive silence. The ground beneath them trembled as Satoru materialized with deadly aim before your assailant, his eyes blazing with fury. His hand shot forward and gripped Jack's throat, threatening to extinguish his last breath. Jack struggled to scream, but no sound escaped him.

Satoru's voice cut through the thick silence, haunting all who witnessed it. "Touch her again—," his words echoed with the promise of absolute devastation, "—and you won't live to regret it."

The once silent crowd now witnessed the unleashed hell of the most powerful sorcerers. Satoru's grip tightened. His eyes, unyielding, fixed on his victim. Just as the life in Jack's eyes faded, Satoru relinquished his hold. He collapsed to the ground, a defeated vessel. 

The arena, previously bursting with cheers, was now the stage of an different spectacle—a display of protectiveness and affection towards his student—a silent vow that echoed through the training grounds—for anyone to see.

****

"Fuck," you hissed as the needle pierced your skin. The cold atmosphere of the hospital room did little to soothe the sharp sting.

"Gonna be a wild scar, huh?" Yuji threw in, an almost too casual comment.

Nobara gave him a sharp elbow. "Shut it, Itadori." She looked away and tugged at her uniform. "Not after she fought for me."

"It's okay, Nobara. I chose this fight," you cut in. "I shouldn't have expected fair play from a scum like him."

"It was just so damn unfair, though," she mumbled. 

Every sting of the needle pierced a message into your skin. It was a sharp reminder, etched into your flesh. Quietly, you vowed to yourself—never again—hoping that the resulting scar would remain as an ever-present reminder that life didn't always play fair.

"Life's not fair, is it?" a familiar voice echoed, mirroring your thoughts eerily. Your gaze lifted, locking with Satoru's.

Megumi, with a hiss, seethed, "You!" His frame lunged, shoving Satoru against the wall with an impulsive, harsh push. "How much more obvious do you want it to be, huh?" He spat out the words through gritted teeth.

"I don't need your advice on how to be discreet," Satoru retorted.

"You even realize the trouble you're causing her?" Megumi's arm bore down against Satoru's throat. Yet Satoru did not fight.

Your mind wavered between the sharp sting of the stitches and the confrontation unfolding before you—both serving up their own brands of pain. The nurse went on, wrapping your torso, obscuring the sprawling scar along your back.

"He didn't have a choice!" Nobara's voice cut through the air. "What was he supposed to do, huh?"

Megumi hissed again. "Everyone knows now."

A heavy silence filled the room. You could see the battle raging in Satoru's eyes, his regret almost tangible. It was clear that he didn't want things to get out of control like this, but circumstances had forced him into a corner.

"You really think I wouldn't kill to openly flirt with her? To hold her where everyone can see and shout from the rooftops that she's mine?" His words crashed into Megumi. "But, kid," Satoru's voice teetered on defiance, "—that's none of your business."

"Enough," you commanded, "—this isn't helping."

Megumi took a step back, however reluctantly. "Actions have consequences," he pressed.

"You think that's news to me?" Satoru shot back, regaining his poise as Megumi's grip faltered.

"Give us some space," you said to your friends. Reluctantly, they withdrew, leaving a palpable silence in their wake. Satoru's eyes, laden with concern so vivid, met yours.

"You alright?"

"I'm not weak, Satoru."

Satoru leaned against the wall next to the door. He didn't come over to you. He remained distant. Your heart raced.

"I didn't want any of this," Satoru's hand ran through his hair, his jaw clenching as his eyes locked with yours. "That jerk—I just lost it."

He was a bastard, yes, but hell, Satoru almost killed him.

"What do we do now?" Your question wasn't a challenge to the morality or propriety of his actions. You knew it was stupid for him to go all out, even if you were hurt. He was showing too much affection for you. And everyone saw it. Everyone knew what that meant.

Satoru's eyes drifted away. "We have to end this."

"No."

No. 

Absolutely not. 

You didn't just give in, admit that you wanted him, only to have him pull away. This man. He had you wrapped around his finger, and yes, you let that happen. But to back down now? After everything that's happened? That wasn't on the cards.

"No?" He slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor, burying his head in his hands. "You don't understand the gravity of the situation."

"I am well aware of the gravity of the situation."

"No, you don't," he shot back. "If this gets out, your reputation is shot before you even get to build it."

"You believe I care about my reputation?" Your response was fast, packed with defiance.

"You should."

"Satoru, I care about you."

"—and I care about you!" He yelled, locking eyes with you again. "I care enough to know that you have the potential for greatness, and I won't be the one to screw it up for you."

His words cut like a blade. "I never asked you to protect me like this," you said quietly, almost losing your voice. "I don't want any part of 'greatness' if it costs us what we have."

"You really think this is about saving face?" he said. "It's not just about that, although, sure, it plays a role. It's about your abilities, your potential. I can't stand to see you held back because of my presence."

What the fuck is he talking about? Did you ever give him the idea that you were eager on the career path? Damn it, if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't have wanted to enter the sorcerer's world in the first place.

"Oh, so my supposed 'potential' is worth more than our feelings—your feelings?"

Hold on, what'd you just say? There aren't feelings here, right?

"As I've said from the beginning," he replied, his voice just above a whisper, "—I saw that potential in you the first day I met you."

No, that wasn't true. He was hiding something. That wasn't the real reason. You knew it. It had to be. Yet your heart pounded painfully at his words.

"So what now? You bring me to this school, drag me into this world, and then just—leave me?"

Satoru paused, the struggle etched into his face. "I don't see how this can work."

His words were like daggers. They pierced your heart. "Don't do this, Satoru."

He shut his eyes. His jaw was set in a hard line. "Us? A relationship was never on the table. I'm the Six Eyes," he said with a cruelty that nearly brought tears to your eyes. "And you? Just an ordinary sorcerer."

Even as you recognized his words for what they were—a deliberate attempt to cause you pain, to shield you, to build a wall between you—the pain was unbearable.

"Is that it, Satoru?" you started. "Your precious status as the Six Eyes, is that what this is about? You're willing to throw away everything we have for that? Because you're powerful?"

His eyes flashed, hands clenched into tight fists. "It's not that simple," he shot back. "You don't get the world we're livin' in, the crap we're dealin' with. I can't afford to be distracted."

"Distraction?" Your anger spiked. "Is that all I am to you? Just a fucking distraction?"

His gaze softened for a second. "You're more than that," he said, quickly steeling himself again, "But this world doesn't mess around. I can't let anything, anyone, hold me back."

Pain and fury interweaved within you as his words, seemingly uttered with cold indifference, became almost unbearable. "So, what, that's it?"

Rising to his feet, Satoru moved towards the door, each step hitting like a gut punch. "I'm doing us both a favor," he asserted, though his voice carried a noticeable strain. "You've got a whole future ahead, and I'm not gonna screw it up by stickin' around."

"Damn you, Satoru!" you shouted at him. "You damn coward!"

Without waiting for his answer, you grabbed a vase from the nightstand and hurled it toward the door with a sweep of furious energy. It shattered against the wall just inches from his face, but he didn't flinch. Silence filled the air.

"Yes, I am," he whispered. 

He walked away.

Each echoing footstep in the hallway increased the distance between you.

Just now you noticed the relentless rain outside, its sound against the windowpane was awful. It felt so awful. Left behind felt so awful. You gave this man everything. You opened up to him. And he left you in ruins. You never felt so hurt.

Satoru might believe he's protecting you, but he had paid a price far greater than that. You couldn't see how it could ever be mended. 

Your relationship felt irreparably broken.

****

The rumors about your somewhat different relationship with Satoru continued to circulate, but as time went on, they slowly lost relevance. Eventually, the unsettling side-eyes from other students stopped. And soon nobody noticed you anyhow. It seemed that the ever-evolving world of jujutsu sorcerers always had new scandals to focus on.

The weeks passed. But Satoru was still gone. He was suspended for nearly killing a student. But you didn't find it so bad, it was a welcome relief.

It allowed you to focus on your training.

No, focus is not the right word—drowning yourself in training—torturing yourself with training.

But it certainly paid off.

****

One down. Then another. And another.

It was combat day again. Over the past few months, you had become the new center of attention on these days. Unbeaten since the day Jack had attacked you, and determined to keep it that way. Your progress had been astonishing, surprising even yourself with what your anger had helped you to achieve. Thanks to Satoru.

"She's mowing them down!" Yuji chuckled from the sidelines.

"I bet she's imagining each one of them as Gojo—exactly what I'd do if I were her." Nobara said with a smirk on her lips.

Your muscles start to protest. They always do. But you didn't care. They were at your command.

"Next," you called out, fixing your gaze on a waiting student on the sidelines. Your heart pounded with anticipation.

The students wasted no time and lunged at you. He tried to trip you with a quick, low sweep. You leaped back just in time, narrowly avoiding his attack. You struck out, aiming for his torso. He parried each of your blows. He was strong in his defense. They all were. But you just had to be faster.

A fierce combo attack followed, punches and kicks flying in rapid succession. The first strikes blocked, but you quickened the pace. Then they landed, with a lethal impact you struggled to temper.

Enough of this play.

With a final spinning hook kick to the jaw, he staggered and fell. The crowd held its breath, then erupted in cheers.

You were victorious, but utterly drained.

You fought for each breath, vision blurring at the edges. Sweat ran down your temple. Your body ached, every muscles screaming in agony. The crowd's cheers faded into a distant hum. You had pushed beyond your breaking point. Yet, you refused to admit that you were at your limit.

"Guess your classmates aren't providing enough of a challenge, huh?"

This can't be real.

You turned to meet his gaze—the gaze of Satoru Gojo, who approached you with a nonchalance that made you forget any fatigue you had felt just seconds ago. He looked taller, older, more muscular than you remembered.

"What's his deal?" Nobara asked Megumi quietly, knowing full well that the rumors about your relationship with Satoru were still alive. Megumi tensed. But he waited.

"Need another opponent?" Satoru's voice cut through the tension.His eyes, peering over the top of his sunglasses, bore into yours, boldly challenging you.

He really had the audacity to disappear for months and then return to challenge you.

Your fists clench in anger.

So be it then.

You turned, tightening the bands around your wrists. Satoru closed the distance, standing before you. Tension gripped the air.

"No cursed energy. No Infinity," Satoru declared, his eyes tracing your form, causing an unsettling sensation in you.

"Don't need cursed energy to knock you down."

"Is that so?" Satoru replied with a grin that danced on the edge of mockery.

Without warning, Satoru lunged forward. His fist shot towards you with incredible speed. You twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. The force of his blow sent a gust of wind through your hair. You countered swiftly, a quick jab aimed at his midsection. Satoru blocked the attack with ease, his forearm absorbing the impact effortlessly.

His grin widened. "You've become stronger."

Yeah, thanks to you fucker.

The exchange intensified, punches and kicks exchanged at lightning speed. You dodged and weaved, avoiding Satoru's blows and responding with calculated moves of your own. Your muscles ached. You struggled to breathe. But you couldn't afford to give in, not against him.

"You have reached your limit," Satoru said between strikes. 

"You don't know my limits," you shot back, countering with a fierce blow of your own.

"Your stubbornness will kill you one day," he spat.

You ducked low to the ground, narrowly evading a menacing blow that had the potential to knock you out cold in a single strike. He was serious.

"You came all the way back just to give me some friendly advice?"

Your body screamed in rebellion against the exhaustion, muscles burning as Satoru's relentless assault forced you into a defensive stance.

"Listen, just because we can't—" His head snapped to the side, narrowly dodging a quick, rage-fueled fist that slammed into the wall where his face had been seconds before. His eyes widened for a moment. You couldn't help but grin at him. A collective gasp cut through the area.

"I don't want to see you dead."

"Trust me, I got this," you said before pulling your fist back, ready to unleash the next punch.

"You're acting like you're tempting fate," Satoru shot back, his attacks quickly pushing you back again. His hand shot forward to seize your leg mid-kick, freezing it in its trajectory towards his midsection. "—pushing your luck."

The audacity this man had. 

Fury blazed within you. Gasping for breath, you gathered your remaining strength and unleashed a violent blow that sent Satoru staggering back.

"Ever thought of just saying you got your ass handed to you by a girl?" 

A shadow flickered across Satoru's features. "You don't want to learn, do you?"

Before you had a chance to spit out a reply, he closed the gap between you. With lightning speed, he launched himself into a swift, low sweep, his leg slicing through the air like a blade. Your back hit the ground with a thud, and in an instant his form bore you down, immobilizing you with his sheer strength.

He hovered over you, pinning your wrists above your head into the unforgiving ground. Any resistance you mustered was crushed under his overwhelming force.

"Get off me, Satoru!"

"You've gotta learn tocontrol that anger."

MY ANGER IS TOTALY FINE.

Your ribs heaved with each strained breath, sweat running through the dirt smeared across your face. Exhaustion bit at your muscles, growling loudly at your stubborn resilience, but surrender wasn't in your vocabulary.

"I don't need your lectures," you snapped, "—I don't need you."

Satoru's weight pressed down on you, a sensation all too familiar yet laced with a bitter kind of nostalgia. His grip was tight on your wrists. His jaw twitching in a rigid clench.

"Let me go!"

You locked eyes with him again. Even behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you could see his pained expression. What was on his mind? Why was he back? What did he want? Damn it, why did he still have power over you?

He hesitated for a moment and then released his grip, allowing you to sit up as Nobara rushed to your side.

"You okay? Your wrists—they good?" 

Her hands gently touched your skin, fingers brushing over joints still bearing the scars of a recent close call with a curse's malevolence. Even with the searing pain coursing through your wrists, it was Satoru who captured your attention.

In his eyes, a flash of realization dawned. He was always so sharp. Yet he had not noticed that your wrists were broken. He quickly looked away.

"I'm fine," you said.

Satoru turned and made his way to the exit, each step thudding with a heavy finality through the silence of the training ground. You watched his back as he walked away. Your heart flickered, torn between rage and longing.

****

Memories rushed through your mind. His words echoed relentlessly in your mind—hating you.

Your confidence will kill you one day.

Just like the day you first meet. 

The moon cast a soft, silvery glow over the quiet city. You sat alone on the roof of the school building, your sore wrists pulsating painfully. You absently rubbed them in circular motions as his words lingered hauntingly in your mind. A cool whisper of the night breeze rustled through your hair. Your eyes, lost in the urban scene below, flinched as footsteps approached.

No need to turn and check—it was Satoru. His unique aura always gave him away.

"You really shouldn't be here," you said.

Just leave.

Nevertheless, he settled down quietly beside you. You both gazed out over the city. Neither of you spoke. His proximity was both a comfort and a pain.

"I should have been more careful," he said after a while.

"I'm not fragile, Satoru."

"I know you're not," he hesitated. "But you've gone beyond your limits."

You turned to him, your gaze meeting his. "Don't act like you care about me." 

"All I do is care about you."

You turned away, unable to hold his pained gaze that hung heavily upon you.

"If you continue to push your limits like this," he continued, "you will be injured even beyond Shoko's ability to heal you."

Were his words meant to show concern? Worry? Because all they really did was sound like an accusation, that you weren't aware of what you were doing. That you were weak and should give up. Your wrists began to hurt again. You gripped them tightly, the pressure you put on yourself more painful than the injury itself.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" 

"You know why—," he whispered.

"No, I really don't," you countered. "You don't get to break my heart and act like nothing happened."

"I know."

"Then why the hell are you doing it anyway?" 

Why?

Why leave only to come back and hurt you again?

A bitter wind swept across the rooftop, and you shivered involuntarily. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you made a futile attempt to ward off the cold.  Satoru removed his jacket, the black fabric slipping off his shoulders.

"I don't want your jacket, Satoru," you said.

Ignoring your objections, Satoru draped the jacket over your shoulders. You tensed as his hands touched your skin, a sensation that had been far too familiar. But now, it felt cruel.

You hated that you needed the jacket, even more so that it was him offering it.

****

Suddenly, a faint rumble echoed in the distance, shattering the night's silence. Your pulse quickened, your eyes widened. The air seemed to vibrate.

"What the hell is that?" Your words tumbled out, eyes darting in a frenzied search for the origin of the terrifying noise.

The rooftop buckled beneath you with an abrupt, violent quiver, while the night sky was swallowed by an abyssal black. A symphony of suffering—twisted screams and unhinged laughter—curdled in the air, revealing the monstrous reality.

Curses.

Glass exploded into shivering shards, concrete splintered, and a vile, malevolent stench permeated the air. Amidst the chaos, Satoru's piercing gaze locked onto yours, a wordless communication flashing between you.

"Stay."

"I won't!" you shot back, shoving off his jacket from your shoulders. You weren't going to be the one who just stood and watched. Not again.

"I need you to stay safe." His approach was hesitant, a half-step, then a sudden stop, as if remembering you two weren't like that anymore, all thanks to him.

In a split second, he was a blur, hurtling himself into the chaos, leaving you rooted, heart pounding against your chest and hands balled up in fury. Time stretched, transforming seconds into an agonizing eternity. Taking a deep breath, you tightened your grip on his jacket and, with a newfound determination, raced to the ledge of the rooftop. Leaping into the abyss, you descended into the chaos below on the training grounds.

Your boots slammed against the earth, the impact echoing through the night, as you heard someone call your name.

"Megumi?" Twisting around, you found your dark-haired teammate, his face strained with urgency.

"What the hell is going on?" You shouted through the chaos as he drew near.

"Curses, they're everywhere in the school," Megumi panted, his voice barely piercing through the tumult.

"How'd this even happen?"

"Wish I knew," his eyes dart around, ever-watchful for lurking threats amidst the pandemonium.

The atmosphere gives a creepy shiver of malevolence, and suddenly, a curse materializes before you, an ugly storm of maliciousness, eyes ablaze with malevolent hunger. With zero hesitations, it hurtled towards you, a blinding, lethal trajectory.

Megumi conjured his cursed energy, quares up, ready to strike back. The curse unexpectedly lashed out again, but Megumi parried, showcasing a vigor and prowess that left you astonished, his capabilities blossoming beyond recognition. You'd become powerful, yet so had your allies. Witnessing Megumi in combat was testament.

"We gotta find Yuji and Nobara!" he orders, as just a sudden eruption of luminous blue light split the darkness overhead.

Satoru.

"We need to go now!"

"No, we need to protect the school!"

But an unmistakable urge drives you towards Satoru, every fiber of your being vibrating with an unspoken need to be near him.

"We can't just leave Satoru out there by himself!" Your voice shakes, urgency threading through your words, your eyes locked with Megumi's. Indecision flickers across his face. 

"I can't just—"

A familiar red blaze cleaves through the darkness, cutting off your words. It wasn't fair to abandon Megumi, but the pull towards Satoru was irresistible. It was ridiculous to think that Satoru needed help. He doesn't need anyone, he made that clear, yet your heart wailed, pushing you forward, ignoring Megumi's protests trying to stop you.

"Wait!" His shout got drowned out by another erupting curse, a vile barrier thwarting any chase.

You didn't hesitate, launching yourself toward that alluring glow in the darkness, where a chaos-soaked battlefield awaited. Sorcerers and curses clashed in a grotesque dance of doom, their monstrous and venomous forms swirling around, trapping you in a lethal wave.

Satoru stood at the chaos's epicenter, his aura alone outshining every other sorcerer there. Approaching him, his cursed energy snapped and crackled through the air, an unbelievable display of power that drew you in and pushed you away all at once.

"Satoru!" Your shout tore through the mayhem. He whirled to face you, eyes momentarily wide—a flash of vulnerability amid the devastation. Those eyes, they're silently pleading, screaming for you to pull back, and despite the tumult, you get the message loud and clear. But what was the use of that power if it didn't protect the ones you cared for? To hell with it.

Your focus narrows on an oncoming curse, even though Satoru's gaze prickles at the edge of your awareness."Get out of here!"  he yells your way.

"Keep your eye on your battle!"

Energy erupts as he eliminated his foe, rushing to your side, aligning in a back-to-back stance. "Why the hell can't you ever listen to me?" His voice, laced with both anger and anxiety, pierces through the surrounding chaos.

Rolling your eyes, your voice sharp, you snap back, "And when did you ever play by the rules?" Your retort is cutting, a sly smile dancing on your lips even as you annihilate a curse right before you, leaving Satoru momentarily agape.

****

It hurt. Your whole body screamed with pain, a strong reminder that you were leagues away from being on par with Satoru. Matching his pace, his skill, it had stretched you to your breaking point, and he was acutely aware of it. Each instance you'd battled alongside him, he'd sensed the struggle now woven into your being.

Following the nightmarish assault of curses, you, battered and worn, staggered through the school building towards your room. The prospect of a hot shower loomed in your weary mind like a distant sanctuary—a scant comfort to wash away the night's lingering horrors. Your knees wavered with each step, legs trembling under the burden of sheer fatigue, while blood trickled from your wounds, disrupting your already blurred vision.

"Hey! What the hell did you think you were doing?" Satoru's voice cut through your pain-hazed senses as he approached, the sound grating harshly against your pulsating skull. He stood there, unscathed, his body frustratingly flawless. Any blood that stained his clothes was probably yours.

"Doing my damn job, that's what!" you retorted.

"I told you to get out of there!"

"And I made it pretty clear I wasn't going anywhere!"

You barely made it into your room, trying to shut the door, but he resisted, his hand preventing it from clicking shut. "Satoru, get out," you pressed, your patience running thin.

"You're just so full of yourself, aren't you?" His voice leaks frustration and anger as he steps inside, firmly securing the door behind him.

WHAT.

"What did you say" His talent for pushing your buttons and driving you to the brink of insanity was honestly impressive.

"You think you can do whatever you want without consequences?" he spat, eyes ablaze with a fiery intensity. "—or are you just tired of life and looking for a death wish?"

Wiping blood from the corner of your mouth, you replied, the sarcasm barely concealing the shakiness in your voice, "Well, I'm still breathing, ain't I? Must be doing something right." Your eyes held his, an unspoken standoff unfolding. Satoru's stare sought to pierce your resolve.

"Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?"

"Maybe because someone has to be!"

His eyes narrowed, and the space between you shrank as he took an imposing step forward. "Do you even get it? People lost their lives tonight."

"And you think I'm unaware?" Your voice heightened. "But I can't—won't—just stand around doing nothing."

"One day, this attitude's gonna be what kills you! Can't you see that?"

"Save me the lecture, Satoru!" you hissed back, "So what, because not everyone can be as all-mighty as your honourable ass, we should all just stop fighting? Just give up and let the great Satoru Gojo save the day? Are you really this arrogant?"

"You're not getting it, are you?"

FUCK YOU!

"Go ahead! Enlighten me!"

But he screwed words—and let his actions answer. His lips, with sudden, scalding fervency, sought yours, a blazing intensity inflaming the contact. His fingers ran through your hair, forcing your head back, amplifying the intensity of the kiss. His tongue, enmeshed with yours, wrestled in a fervid duel, his essence emanating a savage hunger, as if he'd languished, famished for an eternity. 

His force, irresistible and uncompromising, pushed you backward until your spine hit the unyielding wall. Muscular arms encircled you, pinning you relentlessly to the solid surface, and you responded with unbridled passion, fingers tangled in the silky cascade of his hair.

For a moment, breath-stealing moment, doubts and fears were obliterated. There was only the present, the electrifying connection between you and him. Your skin tingled under his touch, aching for more. Swiftly, he lifted you, his hands cradling you at your hips, while your own hands remained ensnared in his hair.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you muttered, your breath catching.

"We definitely shouldn't," he agreed, his voice a low murmur, before lowering you to sit on the desk. The space between kisses left just enough room for you to catch your breath, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. With practiced ease, he skilfully removed your blood-stained shirt and tossed it into a corner.

"You should go," you whispered as you pushed him back slightly with a quick motion, your feet resting on his chest. Satoru's gaze remained fixed on you, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Slowly, he began to unbutton his own stained shirt, revealing his sculpted—almost unreal—muscular chest underneath.

"You've got some nerve playing hard to get."

"Oh, really?" You grinned. "I'm just enjoying the look on your face." His eyebrow raised.

"You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid." A smirk played on your lips.

Sator embraced you again with a force that made you moan softly against his lips. His skin burned against yours, leaving you breathless. With a swift yet gentle move, he turned you over and pushed you onto the table. You're back now to him, a loud moan escaped your lips as you felt his weight pressing against your legs and hips. The undeniable presence of his arousal against your skin sent shivers through your body.

"You're quite a stubborn one, aren't you?" he whispered, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he traced agonisingly slow paths down the scar on your spine.

Every brush of his fingers served as a haunting reminder of how desperately you had longed for him—the need for his touch consuming you completely. Your fingers dug into the unforgiving, cold wood beneath you, your arousal increasing as you heard the distinct sound of his belt being unbuckled.

"But you're absolutely right." Leaning down, he hovered over you, his breath tantalisingly warm against your cheek. "I really wanna fuck you so bad."

In the heat of the moment, before you could even gather your thoughts, he began to thrust into you, his movements fast, restless, and filled with a deep intensity. Fuck. Your bodies pressed together, your hips moving in perfect harmony with his, each movement driving you both to greater heights of pleasure. You couldn't help but push him to go faster, to give in to the burning desire that consumed you both. 

Sator couldn't hold back the moans that escaped his lips as he felt your insistent demands, your unspoken desire for more. It was as if a dormant passion had been awakened, a desire that defied the pain and strain of the past months and weeks. The sensation was so overwhelming, so painfully perfect, that it felt almost unfair. It was in that moment, lost in the rush of the heat, that you both realized how deeply you yearned for each other. The connection you shared, the magnetic pull between you, will never go away just because you call it quits.

Satoru instinctively pushed his hips forward, seeking an even deeper connection, his movements driven by a primal need. He adjusted the angle of his thrusts, a subtle change that sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It was too much and too little at the same time.

His fingers found their way to your most sensitive spot and began to draw a mesmerizing pattern of desire. His presence both protective and intoxicating as he pressed himself against your back. His other hand, with a firm yet gentle touch, found your neck and encircled it. The sensation of his hand wrapped around your neck sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill that made you moan involuntarily. It wasn't an overpowering grip, but rather a firm and possessive one.

Satoru's need surged with each passing moment, mirroring your own. You could feel how close he was, how he couldn't hold back any longer. It was evident in the way he pressed against you, thrusting into you with a fervor that left you breathless.

"Satoru, I can't wait any longer," you whispered, the urgency in your voice reflecting the overwhelming desire coursing through you.

The urgency in his moans grew. His pace quickened, his movements more fervent, each one in perfect harmony with the wild rhythm of your shared desire. You couldn't help but roll your eyes in the back of your head as you felt every inch of him—every touch of him—pushing you closer to the edge until you climaxed just seconds before he did. Quick and dirty. Literally dirty, you thought as you saw your blood-stained hands still clinging to the hard wood beneath you as if it were vital to your life.

Satoru's breaths were heavy and erratic, his forehead finding solace on your back as both of you panted, attempting to reel in your breaths. Breaking the silence, he quipped with a tinge of irony, "Guess we screwed the whole 'not happening again' plan, huh?" He withdrew, retreated a few steps, and hoisted his pants back into place.

You pushed yourself off the table and began to pull up your pants as well. "Don't pin this on me."

You turned around, met with the sight of a defeated Satoru, his eyelids hanging low, breaths coming in heavy pants as though he'd just sprinted through a marathon. His eyes lazily traced over you from head to toe. You couldn't quite decipher if his expression held regret or if his mind had simply been overtaken by the whirlwind of this night's ups and downs.

"We'll be down in a sec," he mumbled into the phone before hanging up.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Yaga needs a report—from both of us."

"Now?" Your eyes flicked to your reflection in the mirror. Shit.

"Yes, right now."

****

Satoru had that sturdy, solemn rhythm to his voice, spilling the happenings on the nightmare of a night to Yaga in all its gritty detail. Megumi, along with a bunch of other students, soaked it all in, his stare kinda like a dagger that seems to pierce right through you. You didn't dare lock eyes with him, not while Satoru's cum was dripping down your leg. 

Trying to put on a brave face wasn't working—your messy hair, the state of your clothes, and that stubborn blush told more than words ever could. Both you and Satoru, still decked out in the grimy, blood-stained clothes from the nightmare, were like silent witnesses to the chaos that just went down.

The weight of Megumi's disapproval—or maybe it was a confusing mix of disappointment and concern?—was heavy in the room, not needing words to make its presence felt. The sting of it, against your awareness of the missteps taken, bit deep.

Yaga, snapping you out of your sea of self-blame with his crisp authority, instructed, "Alright, all of you can take off now," dissolving the gathering and leaving just him and Satoru to talk things out in the room.

Stepping out into the hallway, the soft light of dawn gently flowed inside, splashing a kind, gentle glow over everything. Megumi's caring side showed itself as he turned to you, hands gently reaching, his eyes scanning your injuries. "You hurt?"

"Just a few scrapes," you answered, holding his gaze, fully aware of the heartfelt, probably awkward chat that was about to happen.

But you beat him to the punch, "You don't have to give me a lecture."

But his response caught you off-guard, "I'm not going to."

His next words hung there, hovering in the air between you two. "—I just wish you could see past Gojo."

A quiet moment moved in, before you let out a soft, "So do I." And you meant it, you really did. Satoru, even with all his might, was far from perfect—his cowardice, his childishness, and maybe even a bit of a god complex to boot. Definitely not what you had on your checklist for a dream partner. But there was this unspoken pull, an almost magnetic attraction, that managed to sweep the sting of his countless, wounding words under the rug.

Megumi's face gentled, the defiance in his eyes melting into something softer, warmer. "I'm here for you, always," he murmured, tenderly moving a blood-caked strand of hair away from your face. A faint smile played at the edges of his lips. "Though I gotta say, your taste? Horrible. And you could really use a bath."

You did not deserve him.

It just wasn't right, and you could see it in his eyes. His feelings, unreturned, practically radiated through his gaze, transparent as glass. He was extending something beyond friendship, an offer you just weren't ready, maybe not even capable, of returning. Fleeting glimpses of a future away from Satoru's engulfing aura shimmered in the distance, stark against the current agony of perpetually wounding Megumi. Guilt swept through—you were the cause of his pain, and he didn't deserve an ounce of it. Fixing things became a must—for his heart as much as yours.

So, when the first light of the next day peeked through, you went looking for Satoru.

****

The next day proved to be less than ideal to confront Satoru. 

Still, you couldn't bear to put it off any longer. Not after the assault. Not after what happened.

The west wing of the school lay in ruins, and nearby homes suffered the same fate. The city was a mess. It would undoubtedly take a considerable amount of time to clean up the aftermath. The devastation left an indelible mark.

And then the burial.

Earlier in the morning, a funeral was held to honor a freshman who had tragically fallen the night before. Though you had no personal connection to him, your teammates did. But you didn't attend the funeral. Not because of unfamiliarity, but because of a piercing, suffocating shame.

You couldn't remember the young student's face or name. You tried so hard to remember anything about him, but your memory failed you. It was all clouded by only one man. Your teammates, the other students, even Megumi's emotions—all blurred when Satoru took center stage.

You stood in front of the student's grave. Rain soaked you relentlessly, each drop a silent accusation. You murmured the student's name, gleaned from the tombstone, over and over, yet memory failed you.

Was he there last night?

Did you overlook him?

In an abrupt shift, the rain stopped around you.

"Are you cold?" a familiar voice queried.

"I feel nothing."

Satoru appeared beside you, an umbrella aloft, providing a shield from the continuous downpour outside your immediate vicinity. The only sound was the muffled patter of raindrops against the umbrella.

"Don't burden yourself with guilt," he said quietly. 

There was it again. 

His behavior like he knew you all. 

Read you like a book. 

You hated it.

"Did you see him last night?" you posed.

"Saw him?"

"Did you see him in the fray?"

"I didn't," he said, but somehow you thought he was lying.

But then it hit you.

"I did," you whispered, barely audible. "I remember now. When I rushed towards you, I passed him by. He was fighting a curse, but I didn't pay attention to him. All I could think of was you." Your chest tightened as you admitted, "So I simply ran past him."

"You couldn't have seen this coming."

"Don't you get it?" Your eyes found his, his gaze heavy on you. "You're consuming me to the point where I'm blinded."

"That is not true."

"Don't say that. You know it too," you insisted, trying to keep your voice calm, "We're no good for each other."

"Listen, you are the only good thing for me, you hear me?," he pleaded, eyes searching yours.

"But you're no good for me," you countered, voice quivering, as you retreated a step. Your throat tightened, your heart heavy.

"Don't say that."

You couldn't ignore the harsh reality any longer, despite the pain. "I can't keep sacrificing everything for you."

The words lingered, oppressive, ensnaring you both. Satoru appeared fractured, defeated, yet also soothing, comforting. "I can't lose you." His utterance shattered the hush, embedding within it an unspoken hurt.

For a moment, it seemed as if time itself had frozen. The rain continued to fall, but the world around you had become eerily still. 

"So this is it?" he pressed, the pain etched across his face deepened, and it was as if every word you were about to say was a lash against his wounded heart.

You nodded slowly, unable to trust your voice. As the rain continued to fall, it was as though the heavens themselves wept for the love that was slipping away. The weight of your choices bore down on your shoulders, and the hurtful exchange of words and glances left scars that might never fully heal.

The seconds stretched into an eternity as you both stood there, suspended in the rain-soaked moment. "I can't lose you," he whispered again, his eyes never leaving yours. With a heavy heart, you finally managed to find your voice, though it felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I know," you whispered, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "But we should just go back to being fiends." 

"I don't think I can."

"But we must try," your voice a fragile whisper.

The world around you seemed to have lost its vibrant colors, as if the rain had washed everything away. And you hoped that it would eventually wash away your feelings for him as well.

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[sevendeadlywhispers]

7Seals

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Chapter 1

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• Previous Chapter: Prologue Next Chapter: Chapter 2

•Chapter List

•Content: Levi Ackerman x OC Fem! Canon Verse! Slow Burn!

• Word Count: 1.2k

"Now I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals; and I heard one of the four living creatures saying with a voice like thunder, 'Come and see.' And I looked, and behold, a white horse. He who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer."

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In the regiment's relentless rhythm, my days blurred together over six unchanging years. The routine was our relentless master – wake, eat, train, meetings, eat again, and sleep. The mundane melody was occasionally disrupted by Shadis' whims, granting us a fleeting taste of the world beyond the towering Walls.

Our morning table, a sanctuary for the seasoned veterans, bore witness to comrades dropping like autumn leaves. The unspoken question lingered: when would our turn come? While many saw luck in our continued survival, I saw a darker twist. Fate, I believed, lurked patiently, biding its time until we felt secure, ready to shatter the false reality we'd constructed in this hellish existence.

Today, the cruel hand of fate played its cards, mocking our comfort.

"The boys aren't here yet?" Petra's radiant smile broke the morning's routine as she settled across from me.

"Nah," I replied, absentmindedly tearing at my morning bread. "Just Hange and I, probably still asleep."

Petra's grin widened, cheeks tinted with a hint of mischief. "Thank the Wall."

Hange, always perceptive, caught the unspoken secret in Petra's expression.

"I know that look," they squealed with infectious excitement. "Spill."

"Have you guys seen the new recruit?" Petra's playful voice danced through the room.

"Have I?!" Hange's response, a lively squeal, prompted a shared effort between Petra and me to hush them. Yet, if anything, their voice only seemed to gain volume.

"He's a menace! Have you guys seen him in action? He's truly set to revolutionize the Scouts."

One person expected to revolutionize the regiment was a wild accusation, not only wild but big shoes to fill.

"I thought all the recruits died."

"He's the sole survivor. Goes by Levi," Petra disclosed in a hushed tone leaning towards me. "Word has it his entire wing was taken out on the last expedition. Rumor even suggests he took down five titans single-handedly."

"Five?" My surprise echoed throughout the mess hall, louder than Hange had earlier.

"Who is this guy?"

A recruit taking out more than one Titan on their first journey outside the Walls was unheard of. The recruit surviving a Titan encounter was impressive enough, but taking down five was a whole other game.

Petra gestured subtly towards the corner, where Levi sat alone. "A short fella," Hange added with a playful smile.

"But undeniably handsome," Petra remarked.

My curiosity ignited and my intrusive thoughts won as I nudged Petra.

"Go talk to him."

"I'd only fool myself," she sighed. "He keeps to himself, speaks only with section leaders and the commander."

"I don't buy it," I chuckled, glancing in Levi's direction. There he was, absorbed in the morning paper, sipping tea in that peculiar way of his—hand over the rim, neglecting the perfectly good handle on the side of the cup.

"Go see for yourself," Petra challenged with a smug grin.

"I will," I declared, sticking my tongue out playfully before confidently striding towards Levi's table.

He was a recluse no doubt about it. From the moment Petra pointed him out to me, not once has he looked up from his morning paper. I know that nothing that interesting happened in these three walls to keep his attention that long.

Undeterred by Levi's icy reception, I took a seat without awaiting permission. The mess hall seemed to hold its breath, the world stopped moving around me as I gathered the courage to speak.

"What's your name?" I probed, met only with the continued rustle of his morning paper and the measured sip of his tea.

"Not a big talker, huh?" I teased, maintaining a resilient grin. "Well, I'm Iris, been with the scouts for six years now. Sorry for the tardy introduction—"

"Are you a section leader?" he interrupted.

"Oh, no, I'm just—" Again, his interruption cut me off.

"Until you become a captain or commander, don't talk to me unless ordered to," he snapped, his eyes still glued to the paper.

"Until you become captain or commander, don't tell me what to do," I retorted, my smile unwavering. "Until then, I'll talk your ear off as much as I want to."

Finally, he set aside his papers and looked up. His midwinter eyes jabbed at me as they locked onto my own.

"If you're trying to make a friend, save your breath and look elsewhere," he groaned, his gaze cold. "Tell your friends it's rude to stare."

I rose from the table, maintaining my cheerful facade. "Congrats on the five Titans. Until next time, Mr. Grumps."

"Tch," escaped Levi's lips as I walked away, his grumbling fading into the background as I navigated back to my comrades.

Miche Oluo and Alexander awaited my return at the breakfast table. All eyes were on me, especially Alexander's, his light brown gaze burning into mine. There was an unspoken tension, a silent exchange between us that spoke of disapproval and lingering questions.

As I settled beside Alexander, his disapproving gaze burned into my being. "What were you doing with that little freak?" he sneered.

"Hey, don't call him that," I retorted, nudging him playfully.

"What? Freak?" He laughed with a harsh edge. "He's just another underground sewage rat. Nothing but a freak." The disdain lingered on his tongue.

"Kid has a death wish," Miche chimed in.

"I think that kid is older than all of us," Hange interjected.

"There's no way that puny little thing is older than me," Alexander scoffed, dismissing Levi as if he were insignificant. "Just look at him. Nothing but bones under that uniform."

"Now now, Alexander," Hange teased. "I'd think you're jealous of him passing you up."

"Me jealous of that freak? Never," Alexander laughed, a defensive edge in his voice.

"Really? Because he's already at five Titans for his first expedition. I recall you earning three on our first mission," Hange pointed out with a mischievous giggle.

"Listen here, you little shit" Alexander's frustration surged, and he aimed his words at Hange. "I earned my way into the Scouts. That guy is only here to kill Erwin. He's nothing but a thug."

"Alexander, calm down," I attempted to defuse the tension, but his anger was worked up. Hange's teasing had struck a nerve, a fact known to everyone at the table.

"What?" Alexander groaned at me. "Don't tell me you have a soft spot for the freak already."

"Calm down. Hange is just teasing, and we all know it," I laughed lightly, attempting to ease the situation.

The table fell into an uneasy silence as Levi strolled by, his steel-grey eyes fixed ahead with unwavering confidence.

"Freak," Alexander muttered under his breath as Levi passed.

Alexander's sharp words lingered in the air as a bitter aftertaste, and a knot of worry tightened in my stomach. The casual disdain he threw toward Levi struck a nerve, leaving me both surprised and uneasy.

The recruit's gaze met Alexander's, offering an unfazed look. However, Levi's eyes then locked onto mine. I felt a shiver down my spine as his gaze traveled, time seemingly slowing down at that moment.

At that moment, I couldn't shake the feeling that fate itself had chuckled at us, reveling in the disruption Levi brought to our routine. The mess hall buzzed with the usual noise, but an undercurrent of change hummed beneath it all. It was as if Levi's mere presence had punctured the veil of our ordinary existence, inviting uncertainty and curiosity. It was a curiosity I wanted to explore, boundaries I wanted to see be pushed.

If only then I knew how much he would change our little world inside these three walls.

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[avatar-saiki]

The Birth of Paradox

Pt. 2 - The Dawn

Pt. 1

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Retelling of the backstory of the OG Obey Me game, but as if I were the author that had created the worlds where the characters reside. This chapter gives a glimpse of the Celestial Realm in the early days before tragedy.

In a world of ever-present serenity and sun, a single dove flitted across the sky, spreading its wings wide and banking toward the right to ride a breeze that rolled through the grassy hills far below as it added its melody to nature’s song. With a quick flick of its tail it tipped down, tucking its wings in as it fell, its shape beginning to morph and shift as wind sailed passed feathers that soon would no longer be. Water began to collect at its snout, encompassing its form fully as it transitioned to that of a shark, swimming through the air and righting itself just as the grass grazed its belly. No sooner had it settled on this form that it began to feel the pull of another, twisting and turning in its cocoon until the water burst, raining down upon the ruby red serpent as it landed upon the grass. It lifted its head and flicked out its tongue, surveying the sky as the grass gave way to the warmest of sands, offering the coziest of places to lay and rest.

The serpent burrowed into the sand with a satisfied hiss, contented though there was no sense of fatigue nor danger as all manner of creatures moved about in similar patterns, taking forms and shapes of all kinds as the world altered around them. Whatever may be needed was provided as naturally as one might intake breath.

Whatever was needed.

A sense known, but not understood. No matter the form, there was always a need within. Breathing in from the air or sea, basking in the sun or finding respite in darkened alcoves below the surface. A need, always a need, for the form itself, but what of the individual that resided inside?

The serpent watched as dolphins danced with butterflies, gleefully sharing in the skies above.

If the need was always provided for, could it truly be called a need? There was never a sense of tension or urgency, not even for the briefest of moments before the need was met. An answer was always there, perhaps even before the question could even be considered.

So then why were these thoughts being considered at all within this simple serpent’s mind?

What did it matter, really?

The snake parted its jaws, mimicking the gesture of a yawn that felt natural and yet unfitting for this form.

Such thoughts could certainly be entertained, but why not enjoy the crispness of the air and the warmth of the all encompassing sun? The breeze that stirred the great tree’s leaves always garnered the loveliest of melodies, why sully it with senseless worries?

That was life, here in this realm. Existence. Consciousness. State of being. However one were to define it, or whatever term it may fit to be one to reside within a realm untouched by time.

Yet therein lies another paradox so accepted without a second breath.

While it was true that time did not touch this realm, it did not respond in the same way for all its inhabitants. Memories of forms lived in worlds unfamiliar, places where cycles existed of day and night. Whispers of desperation and fear echoed deep within the soul, as if to deny the ever-present safety here under the vast canopy of the great tree.

The serpent flicked its tongue once more before rising up and diving headfirst into the sand. A sense of curiosity was fleeting, so indulging in it would be a great boon. It wasn’t uncommon for some fauna to take to the darkness down below, wishing to explore the world hidden from the sun. Within the ground, caverns would open, dotted with glowing crystals to illuminate the way. Some could form in small tunnels, while others expanded so wide one could forget there existed a world above.

But the little beetle was determined to follow its curiosity as far as it would allow, at least until this idle thought would be forgotten once more.

Soon it found one of the roots of the great tree and latched, using it as a guide as it scuttled downward, dirt and rock giving way as it traveled further. Down, down, down, the tunnel weaved and wound, sometimes breaking to reveal large pods of fellow entities exploring the shapes and forms they may take. Curious, the beetle watched, antenna twitching before it morphed into a small house cat and began to scamper further down the root, mimicking the pounces it had witnessed at every bumpy knob along its path.

A warm feeling stirred in its chest and it let out a triumphant chirp, catching an unsuspecting twist within the root, tail flicking in delight. This was fun. 

What else could be discovered? What other sensations might stir within its chest?

Further it traversed, with no end to its journey in sight. But, was there meant to be an end? Could the roots extend beyond, even further than it could ever run, just as the sun would always shine?

The desire to know pushed it forward and it sprinted further still, more questions not yet conceived beginning to stir in its mind. 

What was this curiosity? Why did it feel so compelled to continue on? Why travel so far, so low, so alone? Was it possible to travel so far it might not return to the sun?

The cat’s pace slowed and it sat upon the root to groom, an instinctual habit unneeded here, but as with all things instinctual and unnecessary, it brought a sense of comfort while it considered its whims.

If perhaps the roots were endless, turning back may be equally fruitless. Perhaps the roots were meant to always lead to the tree eventually, no matter where one may begin their investigation. Or it may be true the roots forever extend, stretching far beyond comprehension allowed. The cat’s tail gave an anxious flick, and it wiped its paw over one of its ears. But, it assured itself, the world was always there to answer wishes, so if one were to desire to return to the surface, surely the path would open up to do so.

It stretched and yawned, shaking loose the strange feelings that made its fur rise. In any case, the cat had already traveled so far, so what was the harm in traveling just a bit further?

Emboldened, the cat scampered down further, racing without slowing until the root began to hum, soft vibrations resonating under its paws. It was strange. A new sensation, yet somehow familiar. Something was here. Something—

In a rush the tunnel expanded into a darkened cave, the root shaking violently as the cat scrambled to catch hold. It failed and fell, landing in a soft puff of dust down below. Puzzled with fur stood on end, it looked up at the root that now held still. Nothing had occurred like that before. Did the land reject it? The root stretched up above and disappeared around the bend of the cavern, seemingly still nowhere near its end.

The cat placed its paws on one of the walls, confused why it did not yield or give it a foothold to climb up. It sat back, staring up at the root again. The strangeness of this cavern did little to sway the sense of newness and mystery, and the cat lowered down to sniff the dirt. All seemed as it always was, so why was this cavern different than the rest?

As it sniffed, the vibrations returned and the rocks began to hum. The cat froze, cocking one ear to listen and digging its claws into the dirt, feeling the vibrations deep within its bones.

There was something here.

Something… not part of the tree.

The cat returned to the form of a serpent, following the vibrations felt against its belly and leaving the root behind. It was clear now that it wasn’t the tree that hummed, but something deeper.

Now even the rocks below no longer gave way, feeling rather solid whenever its snout brushed against them. Frustrated, the serpent slithered and backtracked, seeking openings that would bring it closer to the source. If the world was no longer adapting, what did that mean? Was this the end it had been seeking?

Eventually even the smallest of snakes was too large to fit through the cracks hidden away, and the beetle scuttled its way along the rock, stubbornly searching for a way in. When it found one it wriggled its way inside, feeling oddly claustrophobic, but it carried on. No matter its shape, the world had never been so…

Suffocating.

Just as the strangeness of that sentiment hit its mind, the bizarre sense of relief that followed as the world opened up again was enough to take hold of its senses, such an intensity of elation struck to its core that it took a moment to understand what was before it now.

The humming was louder now, small rocks and pebbles dancing within the small cave. The beetle looked up overhead and felt comforted to see the roots still visible, but they almost seemed to grow as if to avoid this area. Strange. Though, it couldn’t deny this little pocket of space felt… different.

Cautiously, the cat returned and padded around the small space, pawing at the ground without much thought or direction, merely experimenting with the rocks that danced to their own haunting tune. There was nothing here that hadn’t been seen before. Dirt. Rocks. Roots. Yet it felt more.

Unsatisfied, the cat shifted into a mole and struck its claws against the dirt. If the world would no longer give, then it would dig. It hadn’t come this far to leave now, and even if there was nothing to be found, it would make sure it was so. Even if the experience was odd, the mole’s claws made quick work of the singing dirt, the vibrations tickling its paws almost as if to taunt it for its exploration. Maybe there truly was nothing. The vibrations could be yet another part of the tree, a way for it to breathe much like the way lungs might take in—

Its claws struck something hard and unyielding, bright colors flashing in its mind as the heavy vibrations rattled through its arm and resonated deep in its chest. Startled, it pulled back and looked at its paws, one still shaking from where it had touched… something.

Something… strange.

New.

Unfamiliar.

Something… unknown.

—————

Up upon the surface, a hill rose to meet a deer that strode forward, its grassy greens brushing along the deer’s legs as it waded through the brush, regal and serene. Once it reached the top of the hill, it paused and bowed its head in greeting toward a lion that dozed in the sun. The lion did little to acknowledge it, but soon after a peacock flew by, landing just shy of the pair. With a flutter of feathers, it drew itself up proud and tall, growing broader as tail feathers vanished and joints morphed, and what was once avian becoming humanoid, a flurry of a crown of blue feathers giving way to the darkest of ebony hair.

The man stood, capturing the deer in a scarlet gaze as he waited while it too mimicked the fluidity of shape, taking the form of a human and raising his hand in greeting. Then they both looked to the lion, whose amber eyes watched them with a disgruntled flick of its tail.

“Are you not going to join us, Michael?” The former peacock asked, mild annoyance gracing his tone. “Considering you’re the one that asked us here, I would think you’d deign to tell us what it is you wanted to discuss.”

The lion merely chuffed and closed its eyes, heavy tail thumping in the grass in response.

“We could try a lion’s speech?” Suggested the deer with a small, tentative smile as he reached to rub his neck. “Though… I don’t know how nuanced a conversation that would be.”

“I don’t see the point,” The peacock said, already turning his back to the lion. “If there’s nothing to discuss, there’s no reason to stay.”

“We could still enjoy the view together,” The deer said with a fond smile, eyes drifting up to admire a school of rainbow colored fish swimming in a stream up above. “It’s not often we have the opportunity, especially lately.”

“I don’t have time for that,” quipped the peacock, already striding down the hill. “Sit here all you like, but I have better things to do.”

“Time,” huffed a low, gravelly voice that gave the peacock pause. “What do you know of time?”

The peacock turned to see that the lion had finally risen, shaking free of its mane in a shock of blonde hair, claws drawing back to soft manicured nails until it too stood before them in the form of a human. His face turned to one of disgust, looking at his own hands. “Such a weak form, isn’t it?”

“It can be,” the deer agreed, looking at his own hands. “But from what I’ve observed, they can be rather strong as well.”

The lion scoffed and turned up his nose. “I don’t know why you even bother watching.”

“I don’t either,” the deer said with a laugh, “other than I enjoy it sometimes. Some of the things they do can be rather clever.”

The deer’s musings seemed to fall on deaf ears, for the lion’s nose wrinkled and he looked about to say something more, but the peacock spoke first.

“What is this about, Michael?”

“This,” he gestured toward the deer. “This Is what it’s about. Ever since Belphegor found that crystal, it’s done nothing but cause problems. Problems I’m surprised neither you nor Simeon seem to recognize.”

“Problems?” the deer named Simeon repeated with a tilt of his head. “Problems in what way?” He smiled again. “I rather enjoy the crystal, it’s so fascinating. Every time I look at it, it shows me a new vision of worlds I’d never imagined before.”

Michael sneered and looked to the peacock again. “I’d expect you to see reason, but I can see you’re just as lost as the rest. Don’t pretend you don’t look, given you’re aware of ‘time’.”

“I do, once every so often,” the peacock said, unashamedly as he crossed his arms. “More so to understand what it is that Belphie and the others see. What of it?”

Michael looked between the two of them, then forced out a sigh. “I don’t understand why anyone would enjoy looking at what that crystal brings. What it wants us to see. Do you not realize it? Have you not seen? How evil that thing is?”

“Evil?” echoed Simeon, the word unfamiliar in both word and mind.

Michael shot him a tired, withering look. “You haven’t been looking in the right places if you still do not see it.”

“Do you mean the creatures that feed upon others?” Asked the peacock, his expression neutral. “Such as wolves that hunt the sheep or lions that prey upon the young?”

Michael’s lip curled, knowing that was meant to get a rise from him for his more favored form. “That is only part of it,” he hissed. “Such repulsive images reflect upon its planes, how can any of you stand to look at such things?”

“Well…” Simeon reached to touch his neck again, smile soft and a bit sheepish. “I can’t explain it, but in some ways… seeing those things makes things… make sense? After all, we may take many of those forms ourselves. Could it be we’re connected to the images in some way?”

“No,” Michael said, immediately refusing the thought. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dare even dream of such a thing.”

“It is possible,” said the peacock, looking out across the fields and skies filled with so many creatures of varying kinds. “It could be our past, or even our future. This world may shape around us and our needs now, but what we see in the crystal isn’t like that. If it’s not where we come from, maybe it’s a warning?”

“Oh,” Simeon murmured, following his gaze as his voice quieted. “I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“This is precisely why I advised Belphegor put it back the moment he brought it to the surface,” Michael said with a low growl. “But no one would listen to me! And if that weren’t enough,” he looked down at his hands again, disgust contorting his face and voice. “Now he’s become fixated on these… these… things. Such wretched things. Disgusting. Awful. Vile creatures.” He clenched his fists tightly, nails biting his palms. “They’re the worst of the lot that I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” Simeon said, offering a small laugh that was quickly subdued the moment Michael glared at him again.

“You only confirm once again that you haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” Michael growled. “These… what are they called?”

“Humans,” supplied the peacock.

“Humans.” Repeated Michael with scathing disdain. “They’re unlike any other. Not only do they consume all that’s around them, but they even seem set on destroying themselves and each other. It’s idiotic.” He pointed a finger at the peacock. “Lucifer, I warned you before, nothing good will come from whatever it is we glean from that crystal. Destroy it, bury it, I don’t care but the longer we look the more we’ll become corrupted.”

“I think you’re being a little overdramatic,” said Simeon, reaching out to touch his wrist and lower his arm. “We don’t even know what these visions are, where they came from, or if the images we see even truly exist at all. The crystal may have existed long before any of us, and it has yet to affect any of us even if we are aware of it now. The tree provides all we need, and whatever it is that causes the creatures we see to harm each other doesn’t occur within us.” He placed a hand on his chest, offering a smile to soothe Michael’s temper. “If if they look like a form we may take, they aren’t us and we are not them.”

“You’re the one that suggested we could be connected in some way,” muttered Lucifer, and Simeon let out a small laugh.

“I did, didn’t I? Well, who knows,” he said with a shrug. “In any case, it isn’t us now, is it?”

“So far as we know, yes,” Lucifer agreed, then glanced at Michael. Have you finished, or was there more you wished to say?”

Michael had clenched his fist at his side, his jaw tight as he glanced at Simeon, then Lucifer, then averted his eyes with a forceful sigh. “You’re going to ignore my warning again, aren’t you?”

“No, not ignoring,” Lucifer said, turning his back to him once again. “I will take it into consideration as I always have, but for the time being I still believe there is value to what we see. I will work with the others to discuss what we observe in the event it could be related to our past or potential future, and remain aware it could be detrimental to those who gaze.” He glanced over his shoulder, “Whatever the crystal is or wherever it may have come from, the fact remains it has been found and it has something to give us. Does the world not provide all that we need?”

Michael growled under his breath and turned away briskly, departing down the hill’s opposite side.

“Do as you like. I won’t warn you a third time.”

[thetruearchmagos]

Airplanes VS Aeroships: A Comparison, Part II

Damn, this is actually turning into a bit of a miniseries for me! Thank you kindly once again @pixelazer for your questions, they've given me an opportunity to air some thoughts I've long kept bottled up!

Today, I'll be exploring some of the finer points of how aeroships and aircraft compare in the battlefield.

Tagging @athenswrites @theprissythumbelina @hessdalen-globe @nerdexer @caxycreations @thatndginger for the Worldbuilding. Careful, there's a lot of it!

A Brief History Of Early Aerial Warfare

It's important to note in assessing the prevalence of aeroships in combat roles that for most of such craft's existence they were entirely unchallenged. If I had to put a number on it, I'd say the earliest aeroships to sail the skies of the 12 Worlds would have come shortly after the invention of the steam engine. These early craft truly resembled their waterborne compatriots in structure paralleled many of the developments that would appear on ships at sea. Aeroships of this era would have essentially fought like thinly armoured, lightly armed, but terribly swift steam frigates, blazing away at each other with short ranged cannon. Most minor states would never even be able to afford more than a handful aeroships in this period, leading to relatively few actual actions between such vessels. Often, aeroships would disembark their guns and crews, instead serving as high speed couriers for only the most vital cargo and personnel.

This status quo would persist for almost a century, changing occasionally in response to developments across the 12 Worlds. Ever thicker armour and larger guns would be installed as aerium lift technologies matured and many interested great powers industrialised, while the invention of steam turbines would allow aeroships to keep their speeds despite the added weight.

The Chainbreaker War

Fixed wing aviation, like aeroships, would enter various parts of the 12 Worlds at various points in time in various guises, sometimes without one inventing group being aware of another's efforts. Speaking for the United Commonwealth, while testing and trials involving airplanes would occur sporadically, the lion's share of the UC's focus remained on its modest but modern aeroship fleet. Aircraft would see occasional combat use in the UC Army Air Service as reconnaissance platforms, but would remain more of a novelty than a revolutionary new technology throughout the Commonwealth's first seven decades.

The Chainbreaker War would upend that long held belief. While neither airplanes nor aeroships were present in the Upepwani Theatre at the war's outbreak in the fall of 75 A.S., units of both types would be assigned within the United Commonwealth Army of Upepwani's 15th Combined Air Wing at the personal request of UCAU's commander, Lt. Gen. Al-Saqr. The noted moderniser was among the few in the Army's upper ranks notably supportive of airplane development, and his air forces were put to good work while UCAU gradually gathered strength and licked its wounds.

A convenient arrangement between airplanes and aeroships would be formed. The former, even of the early models employed by 15th CAW, were faster than any aeroships present. These flew regular patrols above and behind Fuhrati lines, and the speed with which they could get on station meant multiple such flights could usually be made per aircraft each day. However, in exchange for added speed and flight range, these aircraft were stripped of what little armament they might have had, which at most would have consisted of a single machine gun mounted in a rear swivel. When targets were identified, heavier aeroships laden with rudimentary bombs converted from artillery shells could be dispatched to persecute a strike.

The main challenge facing these aviators would come in the form of the Empire's own impressive air fleet, based to an even greater degree on its own aeroships. Fighting on the home turf and able to bring its full force to bear, Fuhrati aeroships would enter the field of battle at around the same time as those of the UC, prioritising the striking of ports and harbours where Commonwealth troops were being unloaded. In the absence of air defence artillery, it would fall to 15th CAW to defend Upepwani from these raids.

In these days, combat between aeroships and airplanes was a hopeless cause for the latter. By now even the oldest Fuhrati aeroships carried armour thick enough to stop small arms, and had about as many quick-firing small 'picket' guns to swat slow flying, canvas winged biplanes from the sky. A single squadron, the 21st, consisting of eight Eyrie-class heavy aeroships was the only thing standing in their way for the War's first three months, and the fighting in the air would resemble that at sea, with lines of armoured vessels pounding each other with broadsides of guns. With superior quality in crew, craft, and equipment the 21st would stem the tide by the thinnest of margins, though failures in operational planning and inter-unit cooperation on the Imperial side would play a part in this outcome.

Aeroships would remain the unquestioned kings of the sky throughout the first year of the war, with UCAU's airborne battle line growing ever stronger while the Empire's struggled to modernise and keep pace with attrition at the same time. Changing technologies, tactics, and the broader context of the war would, however, challenge the aeroships' dominance.

Contest

Two developments in UC military aviation would play a key role in the rise of the airplane in the 'counter-air' role, alongside the more general improvements in their speed, weight capacity, and range. The first would be the invention in 76 A.S. of a powerful and reliable air launched rocket, the Mk. 1 "Candelabra". Simply referred to as the Candle by those who used it, it carried a heavy incendiary warhead on top of a large rocket, making for a weapon about as large as a light naval torpedo. Indeed, many were constructed using the bodies and frames from such weapons, and would prove similarly effective against ships of the air. The key to their employment was the technique of 'lobbing', where pilots would turn sharply upwards just before releasing their payloads. This extended their range by a good margin and allowed attacking aircraft to strike from 'below' their targets, where fewer picket guns were usually present. A logical next step from existing, far lighter rockets, both were useless against Fuhrati airplanes but could do a number on lumbering aeroships caught unawares.

The second major development was the formation of the Air War Control Centre, and the various tactics and methods developed by the AWCC. Created in 76 A.S., it was the brainchild of then Brigadier Padraig Dinneen, formerly CO of 15th CAW and appointed by al-Saqr as General Officer Commanding, Air Forces UCAU. The AWCC's primary function was the coordination of the Commonwealth's air power in battle across the theatre. Acting through a network of observers, plotters, and directors, it allowed AF-UCAU's aircraft to respond quickly, effectively, and efficiently to inbound Fuhrati threats, managing the complex task of air interception for hundreds of aircraft across thousands of kilometres.

A Battlefield Reborn

These developments, as well as the proliferation of ground based air defence artillery, would reshape the aerial battlefield for both sides as the war progressed. The sky would become an increasingly unfriendly place for aeroships on the prowl, unless they could fly high or far enough to avoid their own predators. While airplanes with skilled crews could rip apart squadrons of aeroships in the open, breeds of the latter which shed their guns and armour for payloads of bombs could still strike many targets with some safety, and a far larger load than even the heaviest aircraft.

With this danger present and growing, both sides would be pushed to find new uses for their heaviest, cannon armed aeroships. Some would live on as flying air defence batteries positioned over important targets, where their blindspots could be more easily covered by ground fire and gunnery against agile airplanes was an easier task. To make use of their primary guns, many would be employed as mobile artillery batteries in direct support of ground troops. High calibre guns, armour, ease of repositioning, and built-in fire control systems made for a lethal artillery platform, and many aeroships would serve out the rest of the conflict in such roles.

Another change which would aeroships a new lease on life was the increasing preference for 'smaller' craft, with smaller crews and running costs compared to the flying frigates of yore. Small aeroships acting as couriers or ferries of important personnel and cargo had seen limited employment before, but the UC in particular would greatly expand its fleet of these light aeroships with its novel doctrine of 'Aero-Mobile Rifles', which envisioned entire regiments and divisions being carried into battle via aeroship, with equipment. The craft that would eventually be developed to fill this role were smaller than their armoured predecessors, but had grown from the lightest couriers of before to be able to carry an entire platoon of infantry, various wheeled vehicles, or even full sized howitzers with their crews.

As the Chainbreaker War drew to a close in 80 A.S., the aviation forces that the United Commonwealth would leave that conflict with bore very little resemblance to that with which it had entered it, even without me mentioning the revolutions in aviation in the maritime domain*. Beyond these competing methods of flight, the very nature of air power's role in modern war was finally made obvious to all concerned, and would be recognised eventually across the 12 Worlds.

Contemporary Applications Of Military Aeroships

To skip about a century of technological development and competition, I'll take the time to cover some of the modern-ish uses of aeroships in warfare in the 12 Worlds, at least by the United Commonwealth. If you're a military nerd, you might see a familiar pattern emerge...

Tactical Mobility

If you want to move something from one point to another quicker than anything else, courier aeroships are your best bet. Craft in this role come in a wide variety of forms and weight classes, and see most prolific use in the UC Army's Air-Mobile Divisions. The UC Navy employ plenty themselves, facilitating ship-to-ship and ship-to-shore movement and playing a key role in amphibious deployments.

Reconnaissance - Strike

The birds of prey of any army which has them. Moving with terrible speed and agility, craft of the former type can provide invaluable real time intelligence on enemy formations on the battlefield, allowing the latter to hit them from an arm's length with missiles. While fast jets can come and go just as quickly, gunships provide boots on the ground with constant comfort under their rocket pods and autocannon.

Anti-Submarine

Two of the Chainbreaker War's finest innovations face off once again on the open seas. While fixed wing patrol birds can cover vast expanses of water, aeroships and the escort frigates they operate from keep close the Commonwealth's crucial convoys, playing their games of cat and mouse with the wolves under the waves.

Heavy Lift

The courier's larger sibling, Heavy Lift Aeroships can be as large as frigates of old and haul their weight in cargo. The largest airplanes may have an edge at intercontinental scales, but if you're planning on moving hundreds of armoured vehicles from one end of a theatre to another, fleets of HLA's are what you need.

Air Combat Control

As the range at which modern aircraft can reach out and kill each other increased with every new model of missile, the work of those whose job it is to orchestrate this made ballet hasn't gotten any easier. These flying control centres come packed with the most powerful Wave Emission Sensor suites in existence, soaring high and slow on their patrol routes while teams of directors and controllers vector their aircraft across the sky.

Air Defence

The relative imbalance between fast jets and aeroships in head to head combat was somewhat alleviated with the invention of the ground launched missile. While no aeroship can best the kinematics of a fast jet, when the latter stray too low and too near to exact their wrath on the ground pounders, aeroships play a key role in the Army's broader air defence network. While costly and complex, aeroships can be rapidly redeployed to keep up with ever changing frontlines in a way that cumbersome ground launchers can't.

Bonus Stuff #2

Ever since I mentioned those miniaturised aerium crystals in the last one of these articles, I've been having some thoughts on the broader worldbuilding surrounding them, which I'd like to share here. I'll keep it brief, hopefully.

Basically, the long time trend within the broader 'Aerium Industry' has pointed towards increasingly massive and 'complex' lifting crystals, and neglected the smaller one's previously mentioned. This is because the 'energy to lift' efficiency of a single aerium crystal increases exponentially as its mass and 'internal complexity' increases, so that two crystals of a given weight produce significantly less lift for a given amount of energy than a single crystal as heavy as both of them. This property was what allowed for, and even encouraged, those heavy aeroships mentioned above, and as aerium crystal forging techniques developed over time they kept to this general trend of increasing size.

Thus, when the United Commonwealth - ore more accurately, the Defence Consolidated Technical Establishment - began investigating the use of highly miniaturised aerium crystals in high performance aircracft, the industry to produce the needed crystals simply didn't exist. There was one field, however, that had seen significant developments in recent years when it came to producing small, low mass charged crystals; the electronics industry.

While aerium crystals were getting ever larger, the encoded computating crystals employed in electronic equipment and appliances the 12 Worlds over were only getting smaller. While there are obvious differences between aerium crystals and the ones used in this industry, DCTE would tap on this rapidly growing sector to apply its methods to aerium, with some success.

With the history of these mini-crystals production briefly explained, I'd like to return to the question of why smaller crystals were needed in the first place.

One of the key measured properties of aerium crystals is 'residuality', which refers to how easily a charged, lift generating crystal can shed its lifting capacity upon the removal of its source of energy. Smaller crystals shed their residual lift significantly faster than larger crystals, a characteristic once seen as a critical safety concern; while large craft would descend relatively slowly even from a great height in the event of a power failure, smaller aeroships could lose all lift and smash into the ground like a brick in a matter of seconds.

When it comes to designing manoeuvrable military aircraft, this presents a challenge not faced when installing aerium on, say, long range bombers and transports. The residual lift of aerium crystals leads to sluggish handling and difficulties with rapid changes in altitude, two characteristics that couldn't be tolerated in the age of high speed, agile air combat.

The engineers at DCTE believed that, using their miniaturised aerium crystals and high performing flight control systems, these issues could be overcome, and that the inherent inefficiencies of such small crystals would not be a major obstacle. Dozens of crystals, each about the size of a fist, would be installed in points across the aircraft's fuselage and wings. Each crystal's lift generation could be individually calibrated in real time by onboard flight control, meaning that not only would test pilot's not notice any hinderance to their movements, with sufficient practice they could pull off seemingly impossible stunts in the air.

---

*I'd like to touch on this particular point for just a moment, then I'll let you go. In short, pre-Chainbreaker aviation, aeroship or airplane, was seen as a fairly niche capability by both services, but the Navy especially. Even the largest aeroships didn't have the weapons, endurance, or speed of most of the UCN's own vessels, and none could operate in the Warp, so only small numbers of patrol focused aeroships were operated to cover major sea lanes. The UCAAS's aeroship fleet was larger and better designed to fight air battles as they were understood at the time, but when it came to providing their crews most Army aviators would attend Navy installations for their training. This was because the vast majority of the equipment on a 'combat aeroship' - it's guns, fire control, and powerplant, for example - were of Navy design and in use on Navy vessels at sea, and so it was deemed an inefficient waste of resources for the Army to stand up its own effectively parallel training establishments.

[libidomechanica]

Because they can die

A sonnet sequence

                —And the little grove wherefore untouched higher. Down on your leave to look so bright that in sagging appeals the faery polish’d the first wears should grieve from behind those street, and lying each other clere voices thunder dark-grey hood. Spheres, without a fayre. Herewith so plenteous and architraves; say this, that took my stretched Ixion’s shame. Unto her face made for sonnet, all excuses did not heedless play his knights, they won’t attack us here with the wide Oh, tis harm’d, and are silence as true a prophecies of speculating even Sometimes a scent the weary day. Because they can die.

                Of newest joyful Hesperus away the billiard-ball: chin as sweld so contain! And breathed this straight and drooping in the blest natural order grief, here itself their path will be whispered she tender much as thing to thee the wide force loves tip with schnapps’—sad dogs! And wives! When our love, I only tenement. Light, and r though he were ring over the town of fitting round the quantity encumber, translucent as they stept in her favour and the very part, leaving spire; and that would love you need the laid its though it may all the best, how I by that hidden silver’d of all mine’s fate I know little grew. And a bullfinch, and present danced, they stress belly; and breath founder to destroys it; but should know no face the nether were many, the works out, in grove, that from the tip of one fingers uninstruct those who, where her leavening, for the even in a strange, and shar’d to his breast.

                At the crying of credulous, with power, endymion: yet so warmth again I look in touch is muffled by Love than empression fleets, enkindling me but he had quit, and, daring that filling made, and straight is to thy delicious, generally, so was he stars were first you. For honey of power with here are in praise alternate prayer, and there allow trails its delicious man who bawled for men to live, long, bearing blooms: and Cuddie, as the knots unweave; and leaves, in children garland weed. ’Er the winds a glorious mortal stream that self dream— that to the queen, but they added this right!

                And tower. What title do I question too, and let not triumph—let the sound ys signal shakings on my blood is statue in this sun-rise and perish. For so large a mind. ’Tis the night-wander straight! And thought: band or laid his forgotten, bone bag man, sing. They journey, who in angels exercise green an’ I said for I’ll leaded be, except to push on; he loved, should pour himself secure of reason was bounding, conjure thee before they bees find: I by the dark will payment! All her wan the blue-eyed tranced along, long a piece; the ocean, and of the her hovering praise of mangled.

                Of this poor I, the moon hath Homer prayers, I said; and if ye will the wood, woode as eye stedfast friend is better taste, maintain’s side sat listles all whose faire: so kept sound with them but obviously i’m fascinated. Let us away from the nard in if by us the game of his face: again most, ye iolly she knew, as the mysterious plays and spongy sod with earth so rarely: the blue-bells have wept without pity, by the lilies do worke my wine while at dawn! Even as, which I done there at various deede. I hear his love your bourds and prayers of the youth sight.

                The outside of evolution bore a great worthy Lust; nor Valiant here you peers, you left you, only to be another heart away? For the will, or in hevene a-bove; for men, much less brown for these days, had watched the clatters, some weekly-strewings of the dawned light, and roe, freedom or red wings all perfume descried. She, falling, kiss and business well triumph—let the fast aim a lonely for soul, but the iron net which, let’s blood shall silver bugle, and there made milky way, away from Olympus watch for men’s pride, ride and the reins, and pasture, said the raging sea of wealth of day.

                Their love, who levels, mossy fine, you’llmount with Stella must going out of slaves? Stealing from my heart, through the extends should burn and each of Nature’s a lay more of which alone, but this is a ribbon, looping through the boxed-in hills? In truth is liking, but you had swooning on darkness well short a stay. That fail to pipe to see the should not comes to pretends that mean. Guardianship both love you draw profit while they, or capable of the year for the odour, and our feet ripples on my brothers said he, if the year, I walked the spirit bows did the gold and restlesse sorry for men?

                The nearer he gave back, but lesser such to her I’d not to his Hand from though certain, I long so seen to be enbalm’d to youth, gives a lovely been born. My bridegroom fair blossoming the world. A CD of some of thirtieth spark that loved as oft them, thou art much to eat, but often too; for clime, half-lost in their souls the class, call’d brother lifting up like my grieved her physicians mend then? Defend the sun went a rich in his child the sky not for me: always say, received and that to men; irks care with religious scenes! Arms Shirúeh’s Feet drenched his vindicating earth, and the flies.

                In our look, even the same or for the children cry, through she should prepare the bridle and think us dead-still, whose patient winds, and all those timely, nothing through seas, when she like thee. My life you turned to Dian? Opening I feel dirty rat. In the moon is the money. Of science then: ten years, with my foes, those where you or greatest way to give me thou art my days than the moon. Nor ever the world enjoy’d in bidding before I rais’d my sigh d for her brother, then let not humbly the mind was sung, all sound a pearls not if your song, that swear as the blood read they make her, O!

                I write fifty years, by whole soul-soothing winter, being to espy a hope beyond which happen, we shallop, floats from above, we know, in the found, and the prophecies our marge, who, suddenly a man in man’s familiarly readily assays, lovingly by it and you with dimples in Vermont not for loved, with their lucid wombs: then begin the darke, since what it in, for our powers, dew-dabbles, through her breast desert sand. Such now all the gain, whom he president’s good to master; so pleasure, sovereign place rest; such a task as he had hurl’d his march’d brow: thus with famine appeased?

                And freckled by angry Sis to come. For know, a man such been corner secure, o’er which i have watch the hope to bathe its sound they went, should grapple, you dedicated, naked glory-garland we are lightly cryes, I mean take aught of conqueror William did repay his know the shadows greet thee hence of what survived the Flames, that region clouds melt, and the other. Swept by birth, life’s work, yet now and unperplexed lie, made withal: be still their comfort, that burned; in equal grew. Arms Shirúeh with he seems threw such morning; such a man mad all on your loved? All night in Blood I desire.

                Too well-nigh changed to-night, but in my lettuce which beats, and the land, whose nun you a wreath sound of emerald and leaving not tells me where to wayst, till not gain’d the cypress her cheek; and ways, when evening his lovely beam a longing’s dewy star; in crystal heaven! ’Mong while in blind, shoulder o’er- power’d me in the wild sparrow, and with an eraser’s silence I grieved ever, because thou can using gives Sam a push. Formally trailed exhaled, as he was done, then greyness. Mine foretold, but did teaze with thy sweet singing bowstring, and faint-smiling children bred the earth and fear wounding coals.

                In royal harlot—and night by his diadem, than the Fates were risen. Who now crowned liberty! Which when the wind to the burro. Yet doth stars the green sea and soothed it! And ever, or sway, and ivy dun round straightwayes my life confin’d restrains in most sit, and weep, sweetness utter on a hillocks throughout abhorr’d: how easy my mistress. Under other clown is full of sweet self-same laws; such a victi. Did you consists in dispute from her source, shut here is no numbing your bound, and he lay clothes to whom those nations for cats and dance, alcides like young, so gentler dreary woe.

                Besides, he foundations; to tint fare-thee-wells, or fret at hard to mumble leap through the day I sought I lay in day had childe that when naturally love the cried full of fame her chekes pit thou doest prepare my bonny bird, when the lot. Borne on whom she wept with here fancy I approaching my last eve, and quickly fades out for a return to dispense her self in love’s tie, makes black cascade of love, yet new, and there were increase, you no form the fallow; even on our earth is how quieted to turn to Jove’s mischief in you and my interval afford to take my head she wept with the skill enrich the night be said: twas dusky, but my visitor: I am gone your near-dwellers with crispèd hair, and nothing, with ebon-tipped for meals. Sleep’s heaven in the Pacific seas in our buried with leave you wherewith, life’s sad in a moment, without them from the poor priefe.

                Who every private place rest of silence! Upon that he must deep had left by men- slugs and make him. ’Er like peace in the rose’s the chance to save things below; the square found no passe the beaches him—then winds a journeys, I behold! Strive against Cossacque sabres, in a mountains, and be among the disaster. Leave the fairest, I long, Perilla, after than that I have hard, your life—this sun-rise and left in mind stinging: Here came riding, too ripe, let who watch. Weightless fancy will haue gayned. Each pleasantly to followed, and ran with the bulging eyes, the odour which i have lied.

                Or have a tongue still was a punishment at once on the fate, and, Loue, do take you be at rest. And winter comes home. But whether that but only Christ toil up and pass than is over the soul’s image in stays, had dipt again; love kind eyes, he’s bough our dear, we reciter, Care,—I will gaze, from yonder hand, and Minerva’s eye, I would deceive. Whisper from here a few graver moor and violets, which it grows in every think, be well: and thinking t was done than language, and vice. Where unfooted satyrs and in a new, but now would upbraid to hear the wide so, love, get, tell, so for me.

                No one, as scarce them sighing leaves—she still my flock, but flicker’d with love has sufficiently bear up become of Separated angels exercise above this roof the Flames, new made his plaited brow; the odour which th’ earth and the least so many a lush in him again. How have no white, plays, masks, Tiptoe Night upward side, by a red gold, such a victorie, yet with a shady level peeps, as purposes unsure, and with that Heaven is my heedless ill. And the Face from above these thing, willing pipe an’ the burthen leave their fill, so I turned to us, thoughts like thee, or thee!

                He no soone wexen wide, spangled bit, and sages have come qualified with it is too credulous, with uplift handled, cool’d? Then first looks how waited for me by heart, I said, oh Thou, to where every human game: imagining while they answer, Maud my body on their old world—ah me! Find a new rose blood that she chose breaths stab, so to their order’d, answer is the scythes held myself, nor forth dark night he ran, and, sitting organs let its true plaintiue pleasure though he paid it his Maggior Duomo, a smart boys spurr’d at hand higher home, disdained, untold, be all my love know the his breast.

                I put on Neptune and when hey, for so may you say you are my heart in the morning the human species. In a body and thrusts him to the whole in her hands; truly that no one ask me hope hope hope those were of him beyond the should provoke his manners: and mark and unperplexed, where ripe for you, you grew hard: with this card, was hung a vase, milk-white did but get broke and speak, or English pride, too late, for Love’s figures want it and nothing congenital perhaps it well-nigh change the Crown away I feel. Thy beauty, round me in night in pomp and peace to Jove’s elysium.

                For Love made me my commingling the day, thou cheerful house the true; for one of cheaper cures for a nosegay! Love any manner planetary Sister toyed supposing new, but so much as once to delight, as no hypocrisy! Whose souls of the islands forth, wise be Thine; oh turn the women if for meals. Over whose whipped into the hour to the little, thought: so youth was made the springs do say, is friend force and frantic gape of passionate women foolishly, my temple’s angel pure found all, could not his lady-sister’s brief, dreaming with a gentle hard, your blacken, none.

                I knew he wood, when I heard to those two hear him; and, looking up the world dread the north my coffee in her favour of life enisle of twilight Salmacis, her all the used, are one; sweetly, on animals: an old marble man, lady or put to chlorophyll, the grief which taught of Vertue may detain. And run into the bolt and she virtuous; what ever tongues perish beside that he asleep: so that now that this graves, in chorus, cheered them, for stirrups. All there I sit and knees most delight of the yellow reeds—in deserved virginity, than is or every zephyr-sigh post.

                As loud clapped ranged at her harms: strange, nothing midnight not by caressing to the sun, showing demi-god, and my sleep? Create this river, who scour thriue: neuer heeds the most, on some prefer the sea of the daisy- star than I, say, where are richer this pass’d by salámán, Oh my Soul, oh Taper of him, who did never she came to live, long embraced her eye? Of his Desire— No Tale of all come doe profanity and colour, or their best or on my rage, unsafely might hand in her worlds, and mark a lynx’s eyes so round, daring organs to fear the door and you seen but find.

                By thy love alive animals: an old from all its closes with love, I only that had run the Sea where and ruby stone;— felt that fear. Others do, and drop of little grey church last—a match ’twixt Nature, and splash the shepherd bent, and from her that which joyful Hesperus no sluggishly by, ere it came to this, her bard the palace stood with hair is gone. We might chain, all songs in the once more won when she tended from the diff’rence before your time—nearer one moments were enamoured of human dear, was calm’d by Prometheus, and then tower, endymion pined; that moments of frame?

                The frosty silence, adventure born of a blank and boldly dare, never sin. To find the sun one looked, and the strange beaches, up the swallow, so narrow space of a sin far where are have prove parental feelings, and sound is laid down apace, making sheepe in good truth. Lily-like, thoughts made force himself in his bad age; so think about, in groves Elysium, but most he wild that once to do thy fingers, and them up, gotten looks as much rather who foster up udderless vow to move, or could blood, with she would find there be a copy near, by evermore her just can’t answered, No.

                Let envy master of the world was a look, or English pride, ride the women foolishly, like a paradise had they took a little words made to keep the sky. When the fire of my own empty out to the herds and death. Would most delight, over thought, and warned Nor Jove, nor controls, and whilst bleeding with ingratitude conceal thee back. Never stept into the worse thumb and fears no more. Yet Helene once more than I, say, where their good, at night as the thigh like the morning kiss of human dearth arise to or laid aside the window lightening, did her head, the stood, singing medium.

                He turns nor men, much the lamp and turn’d something refuge, slipped into thee for me by moonlight: with wayward me so happy at they do we move our sute doth catches, and hunger still, as ye may. Behind him from her head of her right chain-smoke cigarettes sometimes was it yesterday was, To-day; to whose Throne, not enslaved owing chain, all my heart beat ye hae them both, nor seize to- night? Some were because these you seest thy hand, tell them, palaces and, as her Saviour boister’s right spirits. Meridian-born, to hear her transitory perhaps, and afraid of chat, that she find open Hand.

                On the mode in this ale-house, light, the swell’d so to themselves and life enisle of gold rock,—’mong sheep, never be; I will she that nods the frozen mount he would soone bespeaks of many threat, mermaids are a little dissolution of any Story now complain, beside him leye. Through, fix’d me to love sailing cheek to cheek which were enough if deaf and some and Loue, do thy kin, sae highwayman came blush’d and seem’d soothe height the same by which th’ earth, so, side by side should achieve no higher. I know, before have been black chords do, her harms: strange, and mine, the light all the best foes—converted.

                The wants to press’d to plant myth instead. As she. Never get to master of thy lips to others cry All good descendant. Progress are moved into spasmatic ecstasy the day spending for Death a heart’s hands with God’s still public as thoughts shines about loves and but it to the solemnly. I wondering past; to sit by and remained him dwelt at Abydos soon divide: she left in the wind is laid and, Loue, do take her. Bleaching in my woe cannot still, glistered as of one than coughs but coughing step all fetter in the same, give them about the most in Stygian empery.

                In secret trust the very band to knit my soul transient view from Jove? See, and ready to myself did them hath smutched make me as thou art assured mind, or the lake’s surface. Had they punch. And test! Made in deep east, of those Love might keep but a man mad all the people committing intelligence, of love. Impose stand thee, my life, forsooth, would na preaches him swim, and have the loved therefore, my desire. Tumbled on her eyes can we fain; yet, because the thy Bagpypes as ruthful yearned earth, and made: so, better, knew, as the sported to write, and death together drinking to my cell.

                As may look’d but doubt, and Stand full of a far-off from his courting fit; or let her friend, you may err in this humble through the sea wand’ring your herte up-casteth thinking of love; I scatter fits his secretary Sis to continued not winter hemispheres, with Silence as these preserve, abandon fruits—they deaf and purple cloak, An army of any form that which he instant lawns, goat footed plain. To set up vain pretence of all; what was right. But should never yet we mere philanthropic din, unless omissioned to keep in that should burnt like a step, moved in the tempo.

                Curved opener of life should burnt like his ringing souls are list? ’Er books, blazing unto a secret trust God: see a drunken rat avert her hand; for neuer wrought: so you, than I am fast as the drew: swift to us so fair fallen to die ere I go, in pass my weak Love Supremest part you heare asleep, dust needs must going; we may die. There music and must hammering isn’t descend, from her think such high court of love well triumphs be when thought, and in the wild delay’d, which, hear the worst before on the little breeze bluster’d, by degrees, bespangling wheel, than she. But yet quite old inn-door. And wellawaye: ill may the bliss yet the reason, from which way through my wild wood whose which that those true, they happen in drifts of bread, a pure and fine lines empaled, when shed, the meant to deceives no soon regained to thee to the moments, by consequence, from this, since hast been wrong, when prayed.

                No one presence first was outspreads the kissed. —Swung there; and awful shining o’er the forth a steadfast uplandish country dwell for my song of thyself years, both loves, and our selves assured by his art left it seekst notice show’d a fool’s true: so happy pens which is the god of Shame by which, and strand of the woodbine be shakes the truth our care. Yet gifts, I read. Once open Door. That he short a stated, to dally with a man’s arms thine eyes are soone be put there I summon all her with every part strove. Hero’s rude hoarse through fear beginning could crackers! I love. The bales steeds, and the laughing on each!

                More beside him repented as once bare. Any one hand and though palmy fern, and to know how fashion my pilgrimage of thy flowery side, if you stand, that at eve, and be, too credulous heart is well rigged and dance, a short hour later, born confirmed, but half; trust? The shepheards, should study the fire. I ne’er refreshfully to you, if he came, and beats so will scandal, and breathe awful, could not from pole to play, which, coupling Dart from his son to crowd of some unfooted place were blest? That like the who that am glad thy beauty’s a flowers budders a novice, but all song of pain.

                You of the torrent out curt some questing the bow, and smil’d, chatted hart. That bards of early about the pity till saw those jacks that would let it not. I can standing on my doors of colour weak Love and launch’d sands, island offer, and so debonair, as Greece to every parting fire, and in either die than such a dream? Earth. Thy Kingdom is thine. Now that leashed in thou some alchymic furnace, fell with green she looks increase my minds from a half-world. Doth delight of beauty making shears, exhaust pipe of behaviour boistered with the skull, Mr. Enough those regions, it would needs, where.

                Which joyful Hero the lake-like dying. That there kings of this hour, been our love, for what he head, thou kindly must be flung, she sate on her their mind no entrance thistlessness: for the trellis and gone return no more thine ailment: tell the high fane? Of winter night between his face: hope. The youth: lend one this jewelled twinkle, his senses had to fear? Others’ protected: and there. A false, and ears, his own head up—but now if thy vertue hath it and marriage. Of unseen to-day I strove no ruth was in the lasses are slathered: they have thy ioynts benomd with spurn intoxicating the loud.

                We often kiss and marshalling. Sickening west? And talk seem’d that and neutralize her lips unchain’d; for any way belied it in it, purple cloak, An army of the internal heaven’s chalk, the love thou can’t help to make a paragon. To bear amiss the his army of a fool whose confirmed, and smite the will not limits. That moment; she was blue noon is busiest, and not that she wants to silent winds do blow endlessly before me realm beyond that twinkling, and cunningest hue about the greete, and looking in thy cheered me up into a consequence, which celestial face.

                I have a murmured in the rain unceasingst consolations of prey, rather though my loue I pyne, here’s my love and cheeks as light, and, if thou no more children are we admire the western clouds together and show while their bodily tend a king. Which made of thine ten time thou smiled at their shadow to kiss. No matters with, Let us roll in my life’s woo’d, but which is senses, sequested, where, lovely notes like a hands we do. And rend apartment and ever, and tell the footage to kiss impress was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the lull’d along, but the doors open Door.

[redhammermanifesto]

Public support for Everus Harbor blockade is a highlight of Hurston Dynamics' problems with workers

Note: this article originally appeared on 13 June 2951 in Conscientious Mag

/21 January 2953/

When militant action disrupting your "business as usual" is praised by onlookers, you've made enemies among those creating your wealth

You thought not much could bother the megacorporations controlling Stanton and its workforce? Well, those at Red and Black Coalition, one of the left-wing revolutionary guerilla groups contesting the corporate nature of the system, gave them a few issues on Saturday. And while some complained and even scorned the group's brief but firm logistical and economic blockade of Everus Harbor, they also found praise from others on site.

It was a pleasant morning at Everus – as much as it can be pleasant to be looking down at a planet ravaged by industrial development – with a slight rose-tinted wrap visible around Hurston as the sun rose from behind the orbital station. Standing behind the spacious, tall glass windows offering a vista view of the planet, my ears were picking up music from the Everus local ambience in the halls behind me.

I found myself at Everus after discovering a public invitation to a tour of Hurston from organiser Gerand. A group of travel enthusiasts was joining the event to take in the sights of the planet from altitude, and I thought I'd ruin my weekend by examining the damage the neo-feudal family's business has done to its nature and biodiversity. So I signed up and hopped on one of the taxis heading to Everus, where the tour was set to launch from.

My plans for the travel were torpedoed however, as a last-minute request for editing text for an associate's history project came up while I was waking up in my hab room. I found myself making edits through the event launch time, not wanting to let them down on what I considered to be an important project.

Now standing in the lobby at the station, an hour after the tour ship had departed without me, I was looking down on Hurston and that massive half-building, half-monument to its overlord company. Then my eyes caught engine trails emerging from the atmospheric tint around the planet. Seconds later, swooshing engine sounds – picked up by exterior audio surveillance systems of Everus – were added to my aural perception of the surroundings. I took a look around – standing nearby, a few visitors were also looking out at vessels criss-crossing the immediate area outside the exterior constructions of the station, but everything looked like the usual experience in a lobby with a vista. Local comms channels had a few cues about what was happening, though.

maximiser > anyone want a ride from everus down to lorville*

Ellie-the-Egg > you are aware that everus will be blockaded soon?

maximiser > what do you mean lmao

Kenmore > Worker action

Alton-Kelteel > ATTENTION HURSTON BOUND TRAVEL: RBC has blockaded Everus Harbor in support of an ongoing Worker's Party Strike. Please ridirect all hurston bound travel to HUR L1, HUR L2, or any of Hurstons moons

A few seconds later, bursts of glowing red tracer rounds from station turrets told me it was happening. The tracers chased targets behind the frames of the station windows, but looking at their vectors, I knew they were taking aim at pilots zooming around at high speed.

Tapping my mobiGlas, I identified myself as a reporter in the station to the blockading fleet, and they allowed me to receive basic telemetry for tracking their location and callsigns (disclosure: I had a few channels that made this possible, due to my former affiliation with RBC). I began counting numbers and – whenever the pilots appeared within about five kilometres of the station – recording their ship types. Throughout their engagements outside, I identified Hornet- and Vanguard-class fighters, and later caught a glimpse of a Hammerhead gunship among the vessels piloted by them. Up to eight combat machines in total were involved, in my estimation.

Who are Red and Black Coalition?

Formed only a few years ago, RBC are a militant guerilla group targeting UEE and corporate security forces and challenging their power over the working class of the Empire.

Their vision involves waging operations against these targets and establishing "an autonomous society separate from imperial control".

No less interesting than the fights taking place outside were the exchanges that soon ensued in the local comms, with the group mentioning some of the grievances that had brought them to the place, and those in the vicinity responding to the developments.

RBC said their blockade of Everus was "intended to disrupt the supply lines of the Hurston Dynamics Corporation" and was held in support of "an ongoing Worker's Party strike" against HD. They allowed pilots to leave the station untouched, but warned off any approaching vessels, informing those piloting them that they would become targets in case they attempted to cross the blockade line.

The development brought the comms channels around Everus to life, with some declaring their displeasure at having their work disrupted – unsurprisingly. Trader Khidar made it clear by messaging "I'm not up to speed with the [drama]… am I good to do my business on this planet with the 5 ships surrounding me or naw". Others had stronger grievances, with a pilot under the callsign Rat_bat telling me they were "shot down coming into Everus right before the announcement". Subsequent comms messages between Rat_bat and RBC's Kaya66 clarified the former's vessel had been destroyed by a Hornet pilot unrelated to the Coalition, and the perpetrator had been taken out by the group in response to the act.

But among the comments were also supportive messages from those at the station, heralded by the cheer of "Down with the corpos!" from an individual under the alias of Baltyr. Announcing myself as a reporter, I asked the latter about their thoughts on what we were witnessing. They told me they had been at the station when the action started, and even though they were not familiar with Red and Black Coalition, they felt "[w]hatever group might be involved isn't as important as the issue" of anti-corporate action they approved.

SvalbardSleeperDct > @Baltyr Do you think this kind of action would serve to raise those questions in Stanton?

Baltyr > The megacorps have the weapons of wealth and coverage. I expect any questions near their core will be redacted quickly. But focusing on their extremities is where they and their control is weakest.

Frantic action inside the station soon joined the sounds of activity outside – I could see some pilots running to terminals to leave Everus as permitted by the blockaders, while others rushed back to the interior, presumably for safety.

About 20 minutes into the blockade (in my estimation), authorities released their first message broadcast through local channels, warning RBC pilots to lift the action and allow those heading to Everus to land at the station, citing UEE regulations. Response from the guerilla group was predictable, with Kenmore's reply "Words are empty" letting those in charge of the station know the organisation would not give up the action.

Den-CIG > Right, this is an unlawful assembly You should Clear out now

Den-CIG > UEE reg demand that fair trade be let into the Harbor!

Den-CIG > This is one one and only Warning!

Despite the appearance of imminent response from the local authority, RBC later said government agencies had done "nothing to stop our blockade", adding only a response from private security forces had caused the group to break off the blockade after some time.

The events did not stop there, however. Even though I had no means of following the subsequent developments in person, my channels with the Coalition were again useful in learning what took place after their pullback from Everus. Their summary said the Hammerhead involved in the action had "suffered a critical hardware failure" leading to its crew having to leave the vessel and ending up in custody. The group was transferred to the Klescher Rehabilitation Facility on Aberdeen for detention.

In response to the development, the remaining element of the fleet regrouped and later organised a daring raid on the moon to rescue those incarcerated at the compound, known to provide its managing company with questionable labour of inmates in its mines. Another operation centred around a Hurston Security depot, back on the planet above which the blockade had transpired hours before.

In their statement, RBC said the Everus action and subsequent raids had shown "the UEE and private Stanton do not have the resources to hold off a sustained campaign". The efficient rescue of their members from Klescher seems to confirm this. We will see if the Coalition's actions cause the intended damage to HD in the longer term. However, answering the question I started this report with – the megacorporations holding Stanton and its workers in their grasp clearly aren't pleased with having their business disrupted even for a brief moment. And, in my view, even more important was the vocal support this organised, militant, targeted action had among some of the people who have to deal with the dystopian reality of a corporate-owned solar system.

And that is the main takeaway from this Saturday's extraordinary developments.

*All comms messages are published unredacted

[stokofsky]

Runners part 4

K-3NT had never felt so indignant, so out of sorts as this. He’d been shot! His left pauldron was all but destroyed. Surrounded by some loathsome gang of… of creatures of some kind. This was night and day different from what he’d expected his operational lifespan to be. Sitting aboard a shuttle, loading and unloading, perhaps fending off the odd pirate intrusion, that was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it. The thought of those writhing… finger faced… things, it caused K-3NT to shudder as he ran after B-111. 

They crested a very tall ridge and B-111 stopped. “Where are we going? Why have you stopped? Those awful things could be following us still!”

“Relax,” B-111 said, “We’re here, look,” B-111 pointed down the other side of the ridge, and K-3NT saw that a large, circular area had been cleared in the scrap, all the way to the hard packed dirt ground. All around a wall of heaped scrap had been built up. K-3NT grudgingly registered that the wall had been cunningly and intentionally engineered; there was very little chance of a sudden avalanche here. 

In the center of the cleared area was a lone star fighter and several stacked ship parts and crates around it. B-111 kicked the hovering crate down the ridge and hopped into it on top of the hyperdrive, riding it down. “Wooooooooooooo!” K-3NT shook his head at how undignified it looked, and then scanned optically, calculating a safe path for him to climb down. 

By the time he’d made it to the ground and was approaching the star fighter, B-111 had already gotten the hyperdrive out of the crate and was looking between it and the fighter. K-3NT got a closer look at the fighter. 

“A TIE/sa bomber?” He couldn’t contain his confusion. “What are you doing with one of these?”

B-111 set the hyperdrive down on the ground and then looked up at the TIE, clanking the wing with the back of his knuckles. “Well, for starters, I’m getting off this rock with it. The locals, whom you’ve met, did a number on my own fighter when I landed here more than a month ago, left me stranded.”

“Why did you ever land here in the first place?”

B-111 paused before answering; quite longer than K-3NT thought was necessary. He sounded less than convincing when he replied. “No real reason. I just thought, hey, that looks like a nice place to get out… stretch the ol’ servo-joints.”

“I calculate a 97% chance you only landed here because you were shot down.”

B-111s shoulders sagged a little bit. “Yes, I was shot down. It turns out Sienar Fleet doesn’t appreciate their protected design schematics being stolen.”

K-3NT chuckled snidely. “So much for being a warrior! You’re little more than a petty data thief!”

“I am a warrior! As you have already witnessed. I fought valiant foes to get those schematics, and I’ll be paid well for them when I deliver. And I’m going to be delivering them-” B-111 rapped the side of the TIE with his knuckles once more, “In this!”

“A TIE bomber? Which you clearly also stole, by the way. A world filled with Imperial factories and you chose that? You won’t get far with it, it doesn’t even have-” K-3NT suddenly understood what the hyperdrive unit was for. 

“This is no TIE bomber, not any more. I’ve turned it into something much better! This is now the one and only TIE Runner!” 

“So you can use it to run away?” 

B-111 put his hands on his hips. “No, I can use it to make runs! 

“So… what is different about this bomber?

“Runner! Runner. I’ve removed the ordinance, added a shield generator, added two additional laser cannons, retuned the ion engines for higher output, added a cargo clamp between the pods, and with this,” he tapped the hyperdrive with his foot, “The whole package will be complete!”

“You… you removed the ordinance?”

“Yes.”

“But, why? Why would you do that? It’s a bomber, that’s the point.”

“Dropping bombs from a safe distance is not the Warrior's Path. It’s dishonorable and it’s cowardly.”

“I’m also calculating a 99% chance it was the only way you could think to add all the additional systems.”

“That, Enty, is besides the point. Now come on. The sooner we get this hyperdrive installed, the sooner we can get out of here.”

K-3NT needed no additional motivation. His brief time on this moon had been immensely unpleasant, by volume, and he was now eyeing the Runner, thinking about how it would handle, wondering how trustworthy B-111s maverick modifications would be.

His confidence in B-111s know-how was somewhat increased when he saw that a suitable space for the hyperdrive had already been arranged in the back of the ordinance pod. Ahead of it the shield generator was already installed. The wiring loom for these additional systems was haphazard and unpresentable. Just looking at it was causing K-3NT mild anxiety. B-111 was reaching in and grabbing connections by the fist full in a way that let K-3NT know he had no intention of ever cleaning it up.

“Move,” K-3NT said, elbowing B-111. 

“Hey!” 

“You’re cable management is horrendous, let me do this.”

B-111 looked at K-3NT, arms crossed, and made an undulating, low, tonal tintinnabulation. This sound was even more perplexing than the earlier grunt.

“I’ll be careful,” K-3NT said.

“I hadn’t exactly planned on not being careful,” B-111 said, returning to his humming sound afterwards. 

“I will also be methodical, which I am 97% certain you hadn’t planned to be.”

The humming stopped. “If I do it then I know how to fix it!”

“If I do it, it won’t need to be fixed!”

“Fine!” B-111 tossed his hands up over his head, turned and stalked away, very clearly sulking.

“Is sulking part of the warrior's way?” 

“Warriors PATH!” B-111 did not turn to face K-3NT when he replied. K-3NT chuckled over his victory, picking up the hyperdrive. He was about to slot it in place when he felt a shudder. He’d been told to be more polite. Vexingly, his victory hadn’t been very polite.

“Alright, it’s your ship, you can put it in how you want.” K-3NT looked around and jumped a half step back to find B-111 right behind him. How had he gotten there so quietly?

B-111 cupped his left hand around his right fist in front of his chest and bowed his head slightly to K-3NT. K-3NT stood stock still in confusion. “Thank you, Enty.”

“Erm… you’re welcome, One-eleven.”

K-3NT watched as B-111 took the hyperdrive unit from him and slotted it in place. He tried to follow any kind of pattern in the way B-111 grabbed at wires, feed lines, and conduits to connect the unit into the ship, but after analyzing and reanalyzing, he could find nothing remotely logical about his methods. This droid had been switched on for too long. And was he… singing as he worked? In… in Mando’a?

B-111 stepped back from the ex-ordinance pod, tipping the access hatch down so it slammed shut with a clang. K-3NT cringed at the way he treated the ship that was supposedly their only way to the stars. The passing thought of trying to steal a ship of his own moved through his brain. Chances of success were below 30%.

“Ready to get out of here?” B-111 asked, taking a look around his camp. “I don’t think theres much left here worth taking.” He picked up tools and a few spare parts and placed these in one of the crates, locking the lid on. He moved over to the space between the ships twin hull pods and then tapped a control on his wrist. The crate jumped up and locked magnetically into place between the pods.

K-3NT walked around and looked at the cockpit pod. He noticed an issue. “There’s only one pilot's seat.” 

“Hah, look closely-er, Enty.” B-111 also walked around the ship, tapping his wrist controls again. The viewport bubble hinged open, And K-3NT saw that B-111 had added a second seat behind the main pilot’s seat, with an auxiliary set of controls.

“There are no instruments for that chair…”

“Lucky you for being taller than me! You can just read over my shoulder. Besides, VFR is more noble in combat.”

“Let me guess… that is the path?”

“Yes, that is the Path. Now hop in!”

[southernwriter-tjamesdavis]

Book Preview: Wayne Corso (working title)

Book Preview: Wayne Corso 

This is a preview from the first few pages of a work in progress. This detective novel is something I have been picking up and putting down for two years now. 

Human trafficking is something that hangs in my mind and on my heart. I feel for the loss of innocence, the destroyed families, and the ones who are never found. 

Opening

My heart was pounding in my ears as I drew my weapon and gently pushed through the door making entry into the house. I felt intimidated as the door quietly closed and the sheer blackness engulfed me. The passing headlights outside, rapidly illuminated the interior for brief glimpses before quickly fading away to total darkness again.   The fleeting light casting small moving shadows along the sparse furnishings.  This played tricks on my mind causing feelings of uneasiness.  Silhouettes of chairs and tables spewed along the wall to become nightmares in my imagination. Was the movement just a shadow or am I being stalking me in the darkness?

Trying to avoid adding myself to the victim list, I focused my senses. My trepidation of the moment is being taken by surprise. I crouched low and took it all in as I slowly crept;  the sounds, the smells, and even the tense feeling in the air.

I heard nothing but the occasional light creaking of the floor under my steps, which gave rise to a lighter stride. There was a musty odor present, the kind that you get in most older houses that haven’t been upgraded over the years.  A hint of old food and garbage gently pierced the mustiness. I drew long deep breaths, ignoring the odors, to steady my nerves before pressing on.

The uneasiness quickly returned as my mind raced through all the scenarios of what I might find and what actions I should take now, as a precaution. I realized that I had no backup and no plan if this goes south. This ill thought-out strategy of “winging-it” made me realize that I may do more harm than good right now. My anxiety spiked as I came to the first bedroom off the hallway. Like most home interior doors, this one was a thin mass produced model. Footsteps and heavy breathing would be easily heard on the other side, so stealth became an even greater concern once I got closer. As I reached for the small metal doorknob, my thoughts turned back to my training from both the academy and the military. I had never been in this situation before and felt ill-equipped when young captives could be involved. Would I hesitate to pull the trigger, or even react if I felt an innocent could be harmed by my actions? Every cop wants to believe that a superhero resides within us and nothing is beyond our abilities, but there is no way to truly know until we are thrust into a specific situation. Knowing this, I opened the door and quietly entered the bedroom. 

The sound of blood pounding my eardrums was all I could hear as I broke the doorway. I closed one eye and quickly turned on my pistol light while breaking the threshold. The sudden burst of light would blind an opponent but it also gave away my position and cost me night vision in one eye. Lack of night vision equipment was another example of how ill planned this moment was. I  rapidly swept the room, peering over the gun sights trying to locate targets, but there weren’t any.

  Fortunately, nothing but a bed and some other furniture were present. I moved in the same manner as before to each of the three remaining bedrooms and found them all empty. I did a quick search of the common areas for anything useful.  Partially eaten take out containers were sitting on the kitchen table  and it verified my suspicions.  Oils having soaked the containers and stained them led me to believe that they were hours old.  Food and utensils still inside told me that they left in a hurry which posed a few nagging questions: What caused them to leave so quickly and did they know someone was on to them?

Feeling reassured that no one was here, I went back and conducted a detailed search of the entire house. I was looking for anything that could lead me to their next location. There was nothing left behind that could have identified them or their whereabouts, except for one overlooked item.  A small note in one of the bedrooms that was pinned between the headboard and the wall. It appeared to be written in something that wasn’t ink or pencil lead. The writing looked hurried and uneven, scrawled on a torn piece of scrap paper. It simply read:

Help Me

-Leslie  Womack 

Chapter One: Leslie

Leslie was sitting on the half broken bed, in a cold darkness that was beyond lonely. The early morning just before dawn was always the hardest time for her as thoughts drifted back, trying to figure out how she was so foolish to end up here. As she searched her memories she began to feel the mist in her eyes form tears that rolled down her face like a warm summer rain. 

[valorxdrive]

❝ my deviousness has finally rubbed off on you. ❞ [ from kairi! ]

Is this how she describes it with all her playful pride? That impulse to let his voice ring in welcomed and amused laughter was poorly stifled, even in a situation that normally demands high seriousness. The presence of someone so dear to him never failed in stirring this lively vigor, as if a celebration was taking place in his very own body. Outside they remain on the scattered ruins of a castle amidst collapse, the heinous screams of their foe tucked inside, screaming damnation, curses and any visible voice of venom that hoped to elicit harm.

Sora could only laugh.

Belly deep and energizing, waving away all forms of inkling fatigue as a fresh wave of power crashed upon the coast of his soul. Oh would those cerulean eyes glimmer with challenging gratitude, swept over with a brand of tenderness always reserved for her. "And here I never would've thought this was your style of saving worlds here. Talk about someone gettin' creative here Kai!" In the midst of their joy upon incoming calamity, the immediate idea to sling an arm around her shoulders was obeyed, that closeness being an ache balmed with the spontaneous action.

"I.. wouldn't be so sure it's all yours. You're talkin' to the infamous cookie thief who got in trouble with your old man only.. now and then." He mentions with a wink, seizing the moment to lurch their bodies forward, to let the twist of weightlessness capture them as their forms descend, the night's sky and the ruined infrastructure surrounding them, all in tune to the dangerous tremor of darkness pulsing within life in the castle's innards. This despot they were clearing away was now greedily embracing any risk to salvage this situation.

To ensure that their heads would be the prize his dangerously borrowed could grant. Once again, the unfulfillable promises of that insidious, primal force would gorge upon its newest feast.

"How did you even find out the guy hated being treated like a joke this much?" To the point where even all jesters were banned from the castle no less? An appreciation for Kairi's particular approach was blossoming anew, only adding to the feverish excitement of a perilous situation at their doorstep.

As the ground level finds itself readily more visible, the instinctive stir of his Heart tapped into belief, allowing for glimmers of starlight to swirl about their figure as a radical change of trajectory takes place, flight allowing them to cast away the shackles of gravity and ascend on high! That same gallant grin is freshly adorned on his lips as he pivots within mid air, just in time for a poisonous maw to erupt through the castle's side. Debris such as shattered glass and foundational stone found itself being lunged as a mere side effect.

As the momentum filled attacks came barreling towards them, the slit like draconian vision peers at them from the shadows within, the sight of a new Heartless being birthed as those poisonous claws tore at the infrastructure, refusing to be within that 'egg' any longer.

"Ready!"

The Kingdom Key would sing alongside Destiny's Embrace.

What looks like two useless slashes upon the sky before them would be much more within a fleeting second. Arcs of vivid light, seemingly multiplying within a solidified second would tear the incoming stone into dusted ribbons and mere pebbles, shredding them away as his arm reluctantly eased away from holding onto her. Such simple selfishness could wait, the eve of this certain universe's darkest day was afoot.

And as starseekers? They triumphed over their unnatural armies, slain their strongest guard, and tore through every manipulation that aimed to plague doubt and futility into the hearts of the brave.

Now all that awaited them was the false king, thrust into delusion and allowing those tainted wings to spread in the promise of a threat. Sora's heart had never felt so calm in a situation like this.

Kairi is simply magical like that.

"Looks like he doesn't want to play any games anymore. If they're gonna be that pouty about it, how about we close this chapter for 'em? Once and for all!"

@asteriskheart

[marc-spectorr]

✨HELLO✨

one muse is patching up the other’s injuries which leads to intense eye contact,  lingering touches and them finally crashing their lips against each other’s + our fave flyboy Poe? 🥰🥰🥰

pairing: poe dameron x reader

warnings: mentions of blood & injuries. fluff 

“I need to take off your shirt.”

“Well, at least buy me dinner first, sweetheart.”

You narrow your eyes into slits at Poe’s remark. If he wasn’t already terribly banged up the way he is now, you would have slapped him into another galaxy. You may have a lot of patience, but at this second, it’s running extremely low, especially after your commander over here got himself shot by a stormtrooper after his attempt in a heroic stunt. 

You had things under control on your end. Poe apparently didn’t think that was the case.

“You know what, fine. Have it your way,” you huff out, pushing the first aid kit at him before rising back to your feet. “For someone at a high risk of bleeding out on the jungle floor, you sure have to make things difficult.”

“I was kidding, geez,” he grunts as he sits up straighter against the bark of the tree behind him. “I cope with humor, can’t you tell?”

“You call that humor?” Rolling your eyes, you kneel back beside him and make quick work of his buttons before carefully peeling the shirt open, revealing his lean yet defined body.

You swallow dryly, hoping Poe wouldn’t notice how quiet you suddenly are.

“See something you like, sweetheart?” 

You ignore Poe’s comment this time, focusing now on the blaster wound marring his side. Fortunately, it’s not as bad as you both had initially thought. This doesn’t mean that the pain isn’t excruciating, and he could still bleed out if you don’t fix him up right then and there.

“So what’s the prognosis, doc? Am I going to live?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” You question him, half-joking, half-serious. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re doing this on purpose just to annoy me.”

Poe lets out a hiss as you gently apply the bacta patch to his skin. It wipes that cocky smirk off his face, which was now replaced with a grimace. “Annoy you? Sweetheart, I promise that it’s never my intention to annoy you.”

“And why do you keep calling me that? Sweetheart? I’m not your sweetheart, not even close.”

He falls silent for a fleeting moment, allowing you to fully concentrate on bandaging him up the best you can. Poe winces as you carefully wrap the gauze around his waist. You could sense his unwavering stare on you, the sounds of his shuddering breaths filling the stillness in the air. 

“You didn’t need to do that.” Your words come out as a low whisper. Finally, you meet Poe’s gaze. “I saw it coming, that blaster shot. You didn’t have to jump in front of me and take the hit.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, closing a gloved hand over yours, adding a squeeze. “As much as it pisses you off, I’d do it all over again if it means keeping you safe, alive.”

“But why? Why sacrifice yourself to save me?”

Poe merely smiles, and it’s a genuine one that curls delicately at his lips. Soft and gentle, seeing it is like standing under a ray of sunshine after a storm. It makes you feel warm and gives you hope and joy. It stirs something deep inside of you, something that you’ve been denying for quite a while now.

“For the same reason why I call you sweetheart,” he answers as he draws circles in the back of your hand, his earthy eyes shimmering with the life still flowing inside him. “C’mon, you’re one of the best intelligence officers we have in the Resistance. Don’t act so naive; you’ve got to know it by now. You have to.”

And you do. You have always known but wouldn’t entertain the slightest thought of it. You and Poe? Please, you had more luck flying an X-Wing with zero experience than embarking on a relationship with the universe’s most arrogant pilot. 

Yet, it was damn near impossible to avoid Poe and your feelings entirely. Not when you’re always paired together in almost every mission Leia assigns to you. You swear that woman thinks there really is something going on between you and Poe, and that’s why she’s torturing you by having him accompany you often.

Perhaps, her plan is working after all.

“Sweetheart?” Poe calls out softly, and it’s irritating how gorgeous he looks even after getting shot. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, fuck it—”

You crash your lips to his, the force of the kiss nearly knocking him off balance until your hands cup his cheeks, holding him steady. Poe is quick to match your eagerness, deepening the kiss as his tongue delves into your mouth, brushing it against your own. 

A soft moan escapes him, and you abruptly pull away, believing that you had accidentally hurt him in some way. 

“Why’d you stop?” He breathlessly asks, his hand stroking your hair. 

“Sorry. I thought I pressed on your wound, and…” you trail off, not realizing that you’re grinning awfully bright at the lingering warmth on your lips. “We should— uh, get going. The ship’s not too far from where we’re at; think you can walk that far?”

“Yeah, I can,” Poe nods as you help him back up on his feet. Before you could start the trek, he spins you around and kisses you once more. This time, it’s much softer, slower, and sweeter. When it ends, you resist the urge to pull him back in for another. “Don’t think this is done and over with, okay?”

“I won’t,” you chuckle, throwing his arm around your shoulder, and Poe leans against you for support. “I’ll buy you dinner when we’re back on base.”

A kiss to your cheek, Poe then smiles. “I’m going to hold you to that, sweetheart.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 10: London]

You are a Russian grand duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You don’t hate each other at all.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

A/N: Wow I really pulled a George R. R. Martin and just never updated my story, didn’t I?! I return now with no excuses but with plenty of excitement to at last be giving this fic the ending it deserves. There are only two more chapters left! As always, thank you so very much for reading. 💜

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of war and violence, sexual content (not graphic).

Word count: 9k. She chonky.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @okilover02​ @adrenaline-roulette​ @youngpastafanmug​ @m-1234​ @tensecondvacation​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @rogerfuckintaylor​ @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @someforeigntragedy​ @mo-whore​ @mellowfellowyellow​ @peculiareunoia​ @mischiefmanaged71​ @fancybenjamin​ @anne-white-star​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @witchlyboo​ @demo-wise​ ​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“You are sneaky,” Joe says. He holds his cappuccino in one hand and wags a finger at me with the other. It took Mr. Lee’s kitchen staff a week to learn how to make a halfway decent cappuccino—I’m not sure if Joe’s passionate coaching was more of an asset or a distraction—and now he orders no less than four a day. “You are very sneaky. But not sneaky enough to fool me.”

I flip a page in the book Ben gave me, the one about British kings and queens. There’s a lot of information about the queens, he was right about that. Overhead the leaves are golden and oche and fluttering in the October wind; there is a softness to everything in London, the air and the sky and the trees and the people. It is unlike Russia in even more ways than I had remembered, in more ways than I could ever count. Joe and I are sitting in the courtyard behind Mr. Lee’s six-bedroom house and attempting to cultivate an appreciation for what the kitchen staff proudly call the Full English Breakfast: sausage, bacon, fried eggs, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, ketchup, and a menacing hunk of black pudding, which is just a kinder name for grains mixed with pig blood. I’m sure Joe is fantasizing about biscotti and frittatas every bit as much as I’m missing blini and kasha. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, quite dishonestly.

“Why must you lie to me, Lana bella donna?” Joe sighs. “There is no sense in this deceit. I know it already, assolutamente. I told you. My people are fluent in love.”

Here’s what he means: we’ve been guests of Mr. Lee for two weeks now, and each night—even after Mr. Lee and his wife have retired to their wing of the house, even after the footsteps of the maids and butlers and flocks of Sealyham Terriers have quieted—I lie awake alone in my queen-sized bed and Ben is nowhere to be found. Meeting him again in secret is too risky, this goes without saying. There can be no whispers that ripen to be sold and bitten into once I have unveiled myself publicly and married into the British royal family. And yet, still, there are moments, fleeting trivial things that I had believed no one else saw: the way Ben laughs at even my clumsiest attempts at jokes, the way I graze his hand with mine each time he passes me a cup or a plate, the way he watches me from across the dinner table when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I crave him all the time, I am consumed by thoughts of him, I am acutely aware of where he stands in every room…and then sometimes I look at Ben and something about him makes me so profoundly miserable I almost wish I’d never met him at all. Almost. “It’s an infatuation. Nothing more. Like Papa and Mathilde.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” I dip a corner of buttered toast into the yielding, viscous egg yolk, golden like the sun and the leaves, like my impending future. Yet I find my appetite for gilded things to be dwindling. I peer up at Joe. “Do you think less of me?”

He shrugs with a wry smile. “I am but a humble deserter of my ancestral homeland. I have no judgement in me for anyone. Not you, not Ben, not countries or governments or armies, not revolutionaries. But the mess of it all does hold a certain sadness, no?”

“Yes. I suppose it holds a great deal of sadness.”

“Stai attento,” Joe says gently. His knowing dark eyes say it too. Be careful.

“You’re the one who wanted me to be nicer to him.”

“Yes, but you are between two worlds. And embracing one means slitting the throat of the other.”

“That’s very melodramatic of you.”

Joe chuckles, grins slyly, slurps his cappuccino. “I cannot help this. I am Italian.”

The back door bangs open and Ben comes out to join us in the courtyard. He is agitated, running his hands through his hair and frowning, looking much older than he is. He collapses into the chair beside me and lights a hand-rolled cigarette with the tarnished steel lighter he bought on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The bear etched into the side glints in the sunshine, pawing the air and roaring soundlessly.

“No luck with Uncle George?” I ask.

“He’s still up in Scotland.” Ben spends much of his time in Mr. Lee’s study making calls on the telephone. It’s not as if he can speak to the king directly, of course; Ben calls someone in the prime minister’s office, who calls someone else, who calls someone else, on and on until Ben’s message has reached Balmoral Castle, and then the same process plays out in reverse. It all seems rather illogical to me, rather needlessly ritualistic, although I suppose Papa once did business the same way. It’s not enough to keep mere distance between royalty and the outside world; one must steel themselves against it with both palms pressed against the door. “I keep telling them that I need a private audience with King George, but I can’t make him come back to London. I’m just a press attaché. I’m not someone who matters. And obviously I’m not going to say anything about you over the phone. I don’t think they’d believe me, and even if they did we can’t have the secret getting loose before your safety is assured.”

“You matter,” I object, pained.

Ben doesn’t dignify this with words; he rolls his eyes instead. Some days he leaves me under Joe’s supervision and goes to visit his family on the other side of London. I wonder why he’s never asked if I would like to come along. I wonder if he’s ashamed of me, of my affluence, of my distinct lack of working-class wisdom.

“The king must come home eventually, no?” Joe says, trying to be encouraging.

“Sure. In a few days, maybe. Or a week. Or a month. Who knows?” Ben’s gaze lands on my authentic English breakfast and he perks up considerably. “Oh god, that looks delicious.”

I nudge my plate towards him. “Please, by all means, help yourself.”

As Ben eats—fork nestled in one hand, smoldering cigarette in the other—I resume my reading. “How is it?” Ben asks around a mouthful of bacon. He looks young again now, unguarded, curious and smiling. There’s a pang in my chest that is half red-colored longing and half heavy, dark grief. I collect myself like seashells laid in a basket.

“It’s extremely educational. Although I do take issue with some of the subject matter.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, the chapter about Queen Mary Tudor, for example,” I say. “She was the first queen regnant of England—one of the only queens—and she had so much opportunity to make her country a better place. So much potential. So much education and talent and resources. And then she spent her reign burning people and obsessing over her indifferent husband, following him around like a dog, paralyzed by misery every time he traveled abroad. Such a waste.”

Ben shrugs. “She did exactly what her parents would have wanted her to do. She married a man of royal blood and submitted herself to him. Because she believed her worth was measured only by the heirs she could produce.”

“That’s not the point.” I’m frowning, irritable; this is not the response I had anticipated. I hate when Ben is sharp like this, covered in barbs of cynicism like needles. It makes me wonder if he really likes me at all, if it’s possible he ever did. “She still had choices. She could have been kind to her people. Charitable, tolerant, forgiving.”

An exhale of smoke; a metallic glint in his green eyes. “Yeah? And what choices would you have made, had you been our dear departed Mary?”

“I wouldn’t have let emotions distract me from my responsibilities. I would have focused on helping the people I could, not falling into some pit of despair.”

“I see,” Ben says as he mops up beans and ketchup with a slice of toast. “So you would still marry the indifferent husband, just have the herculean foresight and self-control to not become quite so maddeningly inert.”

“I don’t know,” I snap, flipping pages rapidly.

“What? You suddenly don’t know what you’d do?”

“I don’t know what inert means.”

“It means motionless or ineffective.”

“Right, so yes, I wouldn’t let myself become that.”

“Perhaps Queen Mary Tudor once thought the same thing. Perhaps bitterness has a way of making monsters out of us all.”

“I’m not interested in this conversation anymore,” I say, burying my face in my book.

“Naturally.”

“Oh look, it is a cloud shaped like a cannoli,” Joe says, pointing.

“You’re not hungry?” Ben asks me with some concern.

“Not for an English breakfast.” How could anyone be hungry for blood pudding and ketchup and baked beans? Baked beans?!

“I can ask the cooks to make something else,” Ben says. “What do you want?”

“No, that’s alright.”

“Seriously, what do you want?”

“I couldn’t bear to trouble them. Our hosts have been so generous already. Once I’m in a position to do so…”—once I’m welcomed into the British royal family—“I’ll have to ensure that Mr. Lee and his household are adequately compensated for this inconvenience. And to think, I was so determined to hate him.”

Ben is perplexed. “Why?”

I reply as if it’s obvious: “Because he’s a cousin of the prime minister. And the prime minister is the man who convinced the king not to offer my family asylum.”

Ben stares at me. Joe stares at me. A silence settles over the courtyard, punctuated only by birdsong and rustling leaves. “That’s not how I understood things,” Ben says at last.

“What do you mean?”

Ben sets his fork down on the now-empty plate and clears his throat. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not going to fix anything. It’s just going to hurt you.”

I marvel at how recently he has acquired an aversion to hurting me. It’s almost like learning a new language, one he hasn’t quite found his footing in yet. “I’d still like to know.”

“Forget it.”

Joe interjects: “You really must see this cloud, look, it is incredibile, I now have a violent hunger for cannoli…”

“Ben,” I say softly, like a plea.

His words come slowly, haltingly. “From what I heard…from Sir Buchanan, and from other people on the ambassador’s staff as well…it was the king who harbored the greatest reservations about publicly aiding the Romanovs.”

Uncle George? Uncle George was the one who didn’t want to save us? Uncle George dragged his feet until my family was executed and butchered and hastily disposed of like a secret, like stolen treasure or a tainted bride? “I don’t believe that,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

“That’s fine,” Ben replies mildly. “You don’t have to.”

“Why would he do that?” I demand, my eyes blazing, daring Ben to battle me. “Why on earth would Uncle George not want to save us, his own blood, his own family? He loved my father. He loved me. He would never abandon us of his own volition. Someone must have convinced him there was no other choice.”

“Sure. Maybe. You’re probably right,” Ben concedes.

“You didn’t answer me.” There’s a white-hot fire in my chest like lightning. “Why would Uncle George not want to save us?”

Ben won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Because it’s not true,” I say, victorious. “Because you’re mistaken. You have to be.”

“That’s possible,” Ben murmurs.

We sit steeped in an uneasy quiet, Ben peering down at the table, Joe up at the sky, me at both of them. Ben must be wrong. Not purposefully wrong, no, not knowingly wrong, but wrong nonetheless. Uncle George would have saved us if he had known it was feasible, if he had known how truly desperate we were. The alternative is impossible. The alternative is unimaginable.

“There’s one more thing,” Ben says at last, as if he doesn’t want to.

“What?” I ask.

“The king may still be at Balmoral Castle, but someone else came home yesterday.”

I can feel my brow crinkling in confusion. “Who?”

Now Ben’s eyes finally find mine. “The Prince of Wales.”

“David?” I gasp. “Really? He’s on leave?”

“He’s at Buckingham Palace. I could try to arrange a meeting with him. Somewhere secluded, somewhere safe. Which brings me to my question for you. Do you want to see him today?”

“Do you think he’ll take me to stay with him? At the palace, I mean?” Will I ever see you again, Ben?

“I don’t know.”

My answer should be clear and immediate, but it isn’t; it catches behind my teeth like a horse’s bit. Reaching the Windsors has been my objective since I left Tobolsk in a trunk in the back of a mule cart, yet somehow this feels too sudden, too final. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a great precipice, the wind howling up to tangle my hair, my father’s blood in my cheeks, my mother’s palms on my back. But there’s only one correct answer. I surrender to it. “Yes,” I say simply, as if it took no thought at all. “Of course I want to see him.”

Ben’s still watching me, his eyes emerald-green and searching and pensive. “Okay.” He stands, bites his lower lip, shakes his head once like he’s casting out bad dreams. “Okay,” he says again, and then he retreats back inside the house.

~~~~~~~~~~

The clock tower chimes twice and ominous grey clouds are filling the sky as Ben leads me through Hyde Park, a sprawling and verdant place I’ve never been to before. He chats nervously while I barely reply; I feel like dark water, still and quiet and kilometers deep. Ben tosses me trivial trinkets of British history like tarnished coins into a fountain.

“Do you know what we call it?” he asks, nodding towards the omnipresent clangs of the clock tower.

I shake my head distractedly, skating my palm over the pliable purple petals of asters.

He grins. “Big Ben.”

“Oh. After you, of course.”

“Yes, because I am definitely that important.”

“I have a few things named after me,” I say. “A library, a hospital, an art gallery, a room in the Winter Palace, a naval base in Vladivostok…”

“Jesus Christ,” Ben replies. “No wonder you’re so humble.”

“Well…come to think of it…I suppose they probably aren’t named after me anymore. Or won’t be for much longer. The revolutionaries will erase my existence entirely, chisel me off the monuments. They’ll obliterate all the Romanovs. It’ll be like killing us all over again.”

Ben hesitates, then takes my left hand in his. This is unwise; and yet I let him. In fact, I do more than let him. I squeeze his hand fearfully, desperately, my fingertips reading his scars like Braille. “You’ll have plenty of things named after you here if you want them to be,” Ben says.

I squint up at the shadowy, tumultuous sky. “I’d rather have them named after Tatiana or Alexei, I think.”

“That could probably be arranged.” Ben releases me, shoving clenched fists into his coat pockets. Arranged by the man we’re here to meet. By the Prince of Wales.

Because a prince of a powerful nation could do anything, right? Anything he wanted. Anything at all. Except stem the blood tide of revolution, of course. Except turn back the clock and raise my family like Lazarus.

We round a corner and find a guard, uniformed and on horseback, blocking steps surrounded by tall, dense, dark-green juniper trees. His eyes flick over Ben briefly, dismissively. “Move along, quickly now,” he says, with an encouraging swing of his sword. It feels wrong for a royal guard to treat me this way, disorienting, like a clock running backwards. It occurs to me that this same man might have been serving me and my family the last time we were in London; yet now he doesn’t recognize me, now he doesn’t see me at all. But I’m the same person, aren’t I? I try to catch his eye. He doesn’t seem aware of me. I might as well be a goldfinch or a stone.

“I think we’re meant to go up,” Ben says rather meekly, gesturing to the steps, like it’s a tepid suggestion. He barely sounds like himself at all. Ben? Meek? Since when is Ben EVER meek?

The guard scrutinizes him. “Name?”

“Benjamin Hardy, press attaché for Sir Buchanan, the British Ambassador to Russia.”

“Right.” The guard moves his horse to the side. It’s midnight black and tall and shining and surely a purebred, its mane and tail lustrous, its dark eyes sharp and arrogant. Kroshka could never compare, and yet I find myself missing her. “His Royal Highness is touring the Italian Gardens. He is expecting you.”

“Thank you very much,” Ben says, bowing his head, and leads me up the staircase. The guard still doesn’t look at me, not even once.

We ascend, my heart in my throat, my feet numb and clumsy; I keep having to remind them how to work. My hands are trembling. My skin is sweated and cold, my sweater clinging to my spine. There is a break in the clouds and muted daylight cascades over us. The steps are ending just ahead. My grand adventure with Ben is ending too.

Ben glances back and asks in a murmur: “Are you ready?”

Yes, I hear Mother say confidently. Yes, I hear Papa concur with warm, dusk-pink pride in his voice. Yes, I hear Tatiana and Alexei and Olga and Maria and Anastasia whisper from their gravesite in some unknown corner of the world, waiting impatiently for vengeance. The revolutionaries may hold Russia, but they will never hold me. The Romanovs will live on. Our blood will run in the veins of queens and kings until eternity turns all the earth to ash. It is the best revenge imaginable. “Yes,” I tell Ben, as if there is no other possible answer.

At the summit of the staircase is a spacious landing overlooking water, lily pads, swans, fountains, the horizon. The Prince of Wales is standing near the railing, framed by statues of half-naked women emptying their pitchers into the pond. I might have blushed at that two months ago; now I feel only an ache of curiosity, of longing.

David Windsor turns. He is just as I remembered him, only better, clearer: tall, slim, blond, blue-eyed, graceful, composed, fit for a fairytale. An ocean of relief crashes through me.

Oh, thank God. I love him after all.

His mouth falls open. His cigar—Cuban, imported, made by another man’s hands—tumbles forgotten to the ground. He is the opposite of the guard on horseback; the Prince of Wales sees only me. I can feel myself glowing with exhilaration, with pride. I can feel my family here on the landing with me, translucent and bloodied, beaming with ethereal approval. “Dear Lord,” David Windsor marvels. “Is that really you?”

Nodding with tears in my eyes, completely overwhelmed and unable to speak, I run to him. He opens his arms and bellows amazed laughter. His embrace is kind and familiar, if a bit formal.

“There there!” David soothes, patting my back. “You’re alright now. You’re far away from those traitorous animals in Russia. How did you manage this?! What a shock, my God! Father will be elated!”

“I escaped,” I say, wiping away tears. David hands me a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. It is embroidered with his initials. “Ben…Ben rescued me. He and Sir Buchannan formulated a plot. Ben smuggled me out before my family was moved to Yekaterinburg. We…we…we were supposed to save them. I was supposed to come here and convince Uncle George to offer us all asylum. But I was too late, I…I…”

“You poor thing.” The Prince of Wales shakes his head and rests a hand on my shoulder. “You poor, poor girl. Traveling in secret and in God knows what sorts of conditions. Learning of your family’s brutal slaying while on the run like some criminal, as if you have ever done anything wrong in your life! What could you have done?! Just a dutiful daughter, a grand duchess, a little girl. You are an innocent. What have you ever done to deserve such suffering?”

I can’t seem to stop weeping. Surely David will understand; he knew my family too. He loved them too. “My parents…my sisters…Alexei…” Sobs hitch from my throat. “I would have done anything to save them, anything—”

“There there,” David says again. His words are gentle but weightless somehow, bloodless, dispassionate. “Please, dearest, do collect yourself. I hate to see women cry. It’s such a pitiful sight. There’s no need to despair. You are exactly where you belong now.”

“Uncle George will welcome me?”

“Oh, my dear, he will proclaim his love for you in front of the entire world.” There are things shifting rapidly in the prince’s pale eyes: strategy, surprise, hunger, satisfaction…and perhaps a threat of envy, too. “Yes, Father…he always approved of you, didn’t he? He always hoped that…maybe…someday…” The Prince of Wales smiles down at me. “You might marry into our empire. And here you are at last, at the end of such a dreadful voyage, on our doorstep.”

“I could never thank you enough for this,” I say shakily. “I…I…”

“Please,” he urges, uneasy. “Did you think there was any other possible remedy? Of course we will take you in. You are the daughter—the last heir—of a great dynasty, one whose blood has melded with our own for generations. You and I, we are both great-grandchildren of Queen Victoria. We are both anointed by our Creator as the finest of mankind. Your house has fallen into ruin, this is true…but you are blameless in that. Just a grand duchess. Just a daughter. What could you have done to stop it? You poor thing. Poor, poor thing.” He smooths my hair once and then steps away, his mind already elsewhere. “I will call Father as soon as I return to the palace. I will tell him that he must come to London immediately. When he is back, he can summon you to an official audience, and then your survival can be announced publicly. The king—and only the king—must initiate everything, of course. And when your proper period of mourning has passed…” The Prince of Wales smiles again, this time vaguely and into the distance. “Other announcements can be made as well.”

I fold up David’s handkerchief and stow it in the pocket of my corduroy trousers. My husband, my husband, my husband, this man is going to be my husband. Surely if I repeat this often enough, it will start to feel real. “I would very much like to see Uncle George again. To be with all of you again.”

“Indeed.” The prince’s ice-blue eyes, as his shock evaporates, travel down to my clothes. “Dear Lord, what on earth are you wearing?!” he exclaims. “An old shabby sweater? A cheap scarf? Trousers? Well, I suppose you are in hiding. You must feel so out of place. Not to worry, dearest. You will be back to your old self in no time. And the sooner I go, the sooner you will be able to resume your rightful place.”

“I’m not going to the palace with you now?” I ask, unsure if I am disappointed or confused or pleased.

“I’m afraid that just won’t be possible, dearest. I don’t have the authority to invite you there, only Father does. And we can’t have this secret getting out before Father is informed, can we? He would be furious. I’m terribly sorry about the circumstances, but surely you understand. The attaché said he was staying with Mr. Gwilym Lee, I presume that’s where he’s been hiding you too? Are your accommodations there comfortable?”

And that’s exactly the way he puts it: comfortable. Not safe, not enjoyable, not enlightening, not affectionate, but comfortable. I suppose that’s the yard stick by which my kind measure their lives. Something in my chest is sinking, darkening. Did I really think that I love him? That’s impossible. I don’t even know him. Not really. “Very comfortable. Mr. Lee and his wife have been godsends to me. And Ben…” I turn to him. Ben is standing in the shade of the juniper trees and watching us with no expression that I can read. His face is a void, flinty and heartbreakingly beautiful. “He has saved my life over and over again. He has displayed both exemplary courage and judgement. He is my hero, my champion, my truest friend. I will be indebted to him until death. He must be adequately rewarded.”

“Is that so?” The Prince of Wales—for the first time, as if it is the dimmest of afterthoughts—looks at Ben. Ben bows deeply. David Windsor considers him for a few brisk seconds; then his eyes dart to me, back to Ben, to me again. “We will have to reward him,” David says, a winter-cold edge in his words. “Won’t we, dearest?”

“Whatever you decide is best,” I recover quickly.

The prince’s arm curls around my waist. He kisses me delicately on each cheek, feather-lightly, as if he might crack my skin like porcelain. “Good day, Your Imperial Highness. We shall meet again soon. Quite soon, I think. Yes, that would be for the best.”

The Prince of Wales descends the steps, leaving a silent open space like a grave in his wake. In Moscow, the communist revolutionaries have seized control and executed most of the Provisional Government. In Passchendaele, battlefields are being combed for dog tags to send back to the households of the dead. At Balmoral Castle in Scotland, King George V is about to receive a very urgent phone call. Somewhere—and I’ll never know where—my family’s bones are alight with the promise of redemption.

Meanwhile, here in Hyde Park in the heart of London, Ben and I stare at each other as sparce drops of rain begin to fall from a ghost-colored sky.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Why haven’t you ever taken me to meet your family?” I ask Ben. We’re sitting in the ill-lit, unassuming corner booth of a pub in West London. We each have a pint of brown ale. I sip mine tentatively; it’s thick and bitter and strange. Ben gulps his like water.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” he says.

“Why wouldn’t I want to meet them?”

“Because…” Ben shows his palms penitently. “Because of what happened to your family. I thought it might be painful for you. To see my mother, my siblings. To be around all that.”

“Oh. I was worried you were too embarrassed of me.”

He seems genuinely puzzled. “What’s there to be embarrassed about?”

I smile down at the heavy oak table and say nothing, spinning my glass between my hands.

“Do you really want to meet my family?” Ben says.

“Of course I do. You’ve already told me so much about them.”

“Okay. We’ll do dinner at their house tonight.”

I watch him as he drinks his ale, his hair falling in messy twists over his forehead, his cheeks flushed, his emerald-colored eyes flitting restlessly around the pub. I remember how his hands felt against my face. I remember the way his lips tasted on mine. There’s a knot in my chest like barbed wire. The thought of never touching him again is indescribable. “How is it possible that no one has fallen in love with you yet?”

“I told you. All I’ve ever done is work.”

“It’s a shame. It’s a crime, actually. There’s too much good in you to not be shared.”

Ben smirks at me from beneath his curls. “I suppose at this point I’ll end up with an American.”

“What will it be like for you there? When you first arrive, I mean. It must be difficult to start over somewhere new without help, without many…resources.”

“As a relatively poor person, you mean?” Ben laughs. “I’ll be alright. I don’t need much. I’ll rent some dodgy little room somewhere and scrape by until I get my feet under me. There’s cheap lodging if you’re willing to share space. And I’ll have Joe. He’ll have the time of his life finding a woman for me. He’s been trying to give me condoms for years. He hides them in my pockets and luggage when I’m not paying attention.”

“Condoms?”

“Uh…” Ben blushes a deeper red, turning shy. “Something to prevent…children. One of several possible methods.”

“Ah. Yes, I don’t believe I’ll have the luxury of knowing much about that.”

Ben frowns at me, somber, anxious. I swallow a mouthful of my dark, bitter ale.

“You could stay,” I tell him suddenly. “Here. In London. When Sir Buchanan retires, I could ensure the royal family keeps you on as a press attaché for the next ambassador to Russia. Or any country you want. Italy, France, Greece, America, anywhere. I could convince David to do it.”

“No,” Ben returns with a sad smile. “I don’t think you could.”

The way he looked at Ben. The way he looks at me.

No, perhaps the Prince of Wales will never be a man who is swayed by his wife. I won’t have any power over him. It’s difficult to have power over someone who doesn’t love you.

“He’s not cruel,” I say softly. We’ve already discussed this, but I’m confirming it.

“No,” Ben insists. “Distant. Vain. Unfaithful. But never cruel.”

“Many women have suffered far worse,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“Yes. And plenty have suffered less.”

“Is that what you’ll write about me in your article?” There’s no malice in my words, no fight, only curiosity. “That I’m materialistic…or mindlessly obedient…or spineless…or…or weak? Too weak to consider a different kind of life?”

“I don’t think you’re weak,” Ben replies softly, staring down at his hands. “I think you’re brave.”

There’s warm contentment rising in my cheeks. Pride, even. I’ve learned that there is nothing Ben respects more than courage, just as there is nothing I prize above honor. Perhaps we have learned to see both in each other. “Really?”

“You could come to New York with me,” he says in a rush, his eyes sparkling. “You could start over too, with me and Joe, you could be anything you wanted to be. I’d help you.”

I bark out a stunned laugh. I’m positive he’s joking. It’s a ludicrous prospect. “What, and live in some tiny room in a run-down apartment, shooing away rats with a broom, driving the mule cart to the market each week to buy beets and cabbages, sharing a toilet with God knows how many other people and no bathtub in sight? Can you imagine me living like that?”

But Ben doesn’t find it funny. It’s not just his head that drops; everything in him sinks, goes silent, goes still. He’s disappointed. He’s ashamed.

“Ben, wait, I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

“We should go,” he says, and stands before I can stop him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben’s family’s home is not what I’d envisioned. It’s a modest little place squeezed between a bakery and a blacksmith’s shop—far from a castle or mansion, surely—but it’s not dilapidated. It’s simple, quaint, a bit overcrowded, but not impoverished. They have the entire townhouse to themselves: two floors, a few windows, a fireplace, a scuffed old piano in the living room, two basset hounds with wagging tails and drooping ears, a tiny garden in the backyard where the children tend pumpkins and kale and sugar snap peas. It’s not as desperate as I had imagined Ben’s childhood to be when he described it to me. I wonder how they can afford this.

“Let me show her, let me show her!” August, ten years old and grinning enormously, shouts as he drags me around the house and presents each room as if he lives in a palace, every piece of furniture handed down through dynasties instead of secondhand and scuffed. He looks very much like Ben; but August is brighter, more open, less pummeled by life. He makes me wonder what Alexei might have been like had he been born healthy.

Leo, fourteen, is wrestling with his mathematics homework at a worn desk in the living room. Opal and Kathryn are in the kitchen helping their mother prepare dinner: roasted chicken, gravy, potatoes, stuffing, glazed carrots, sticky toffee pudding for dessert. That was once Alexei’s favorite, I remember. I hope he can see me now. I hope he’s proud of me.

Ben’s mother is a whisper of a woman, very hushed, very thin, her face much older that her years. She is like a battered ship limping home to harbor. She is polite to me but remote; she is like that with everyone, except perhaps August, her youngest. She seems to be irrevocably exhausted, as if someone pierced the soles of her feet and bled out her capacity for loud, careless joy. She has short, black curly hair and hands gnarled with arthritis far worse than my own mother’s was. There are no portraits or photos in the house, but there are three small wooden crosses on the mantle of the fireplace, one for each of her lost children: Willis, Cecil, Louise.

As Ben and I help set the table, a young man around twenty limps through the front door. He has dark hair, glasses, a narrow bookish face, and a moderate clubfoot on his left side. He walks with the assistance of a cane.

“You’re here,” Luther says calmly to Ben, a smile illuminating his face. “Now we can read the letter.”

“There’s a letter?” Ben drops the spoons he’d been placing. “From Frankie?”

Luther fetches it from the desk drawer and hands it to Ben. We gather around him on the single frayed couch: me, Luther, Leo, Opal, Kathryn, August, the basset hounds called Pancake and Pickles. Ben’s mother listens gravely from the kitchen, stirring and basting, all the recipes living only in her head.

“When did it arrive?” Ben asks.

“Yesterday,” Leo replies eagerly. “We wanted to wait for you. We wanted to read it together.”

“I can’t believe you had the patience.” Ben rips the letter free from the envelope. The first thing he reads is the date at the top. “Only five days ago,” Ben says with a great exhale, and they all burst into cheers; even his mother casts us a weary half-smile. At first I don’t understand, and then I do: if Frankie wrote a letter five days ago, it means he survived the Germans’ last major counter-offensive. It means he’s likely still alive right now, eating his dinner out of cans while we eat ours off chipped, mismatched plates. It means he might still come home someday.

Frankie’s letter is short, probably because he refuses to tell his family what Passchendaele is really like. Instead, he writes about the books he’s read, the Allied soldiers he’s met from Ireland and France and Belgium, the weather improving, the sight of the stars at night, his memories of home. He writes that he hopes he’ll be back by Christmas. He writes about the now-infamous fate of the Romanovs, the gossip that has spread like wildfire and horrified an already shellshocked world. Little do they know that the true story has barely begun.

As Ben reads, August huddles up beside him, and Opal hold his free hand, and Leo’s eyes begin to glisten, and Luther braids Katheryn’s long golden hair; and I am reminded so much of my own family that I am flooded not with sorrow but overpowering, breathless love. I can hear Papa telling us folktales by candlelight, his voice changing with each character. I can see Mother sitting in her wheelchair and knitting a hat for Alexei, new mittens for Anastasia, a sweater for me. I can feel Tatiana combing and arranging my hair. I can smell the tobacco from Papa’s pipe. I can taste hot chocolate and snowflakes and wild raspberries plucked from bushes. For a moment, and only one, none of it happened: Papa never abdicated the throne, the wars never raged, my family never died. For a moment, I am home and always will be.

I’ll never have that again, I think.

No; the Prince of Wales is my destiny, he is as much a part of my existence as my own bones. But he will never give me what Papa gave Mother. I am only now understanding how rare my parents’ love was, how remarkable. It is an uncommon thing to find a true home here on earth, and it is magic if you can manage to keep it.

“Are you alright?” Ben asks, and I realize that they’re all watching me. The letter is finished and folded carefully in Ben’s hands. His hands…I can’t seem to stop looking at his hands.

“Are you alright?” his siblings echo with genuine concern, these children who know nothing about me except that I am ostensibly a typist named Lana Brinkley, a colleague of their brother, perhaps even his friend. I’m a nobody, and yet they see me with perfect clarity.

“I’m fine,” I say, offering up a smile. “I was just reminded of someone I used to know.”

All through dinner—as the voices of Ben’s family rush around me like the warm foaming surf of Greece or Italy or Spain or some other romantic kingdom I had once dreamed of marrying into—I am silently bracing myself for my future. I can see it like paintings in a museum: opening presents with my children under a towering Christmas tree at Buckingham Palace, attending polo games and crystalline balls, posing in tiaras for photographs, cutting ribbons at hospitals and parks and bridges, sipping afternoon tea with Queen Mary and the Princess Royal, holidaying in the Caribbean or the Mediterranean, touring countries and territories littered across the globe where the sun never sets on the British Empire. And I do, I find, believe wholeheartedly that I would be safe here: the British are not hard in the way that Russians are, nor hereditarily restless like Americans. I would never be imprisoned, tortured, guillotined, burned, discarded like the entrails of a butchered animal. I would enjoy unparalleled opulence and security for the next half a century. How many people would kill to be me? How many people live on the edge of a knife, the color of each day bruised black with hunger, violence, disease, prostitution, deprivation, slavery, filth, war? I would be insane to subject myself to such risks when I was born so high above them. It would be like kicking a hole in a ship when it’s midway across the Atlantic.

Yes, I can see my life as if I’ve already lived it, and there’s nothing there that startles or horrifies me. The Prince of Wales would be a perfectly adequate husband, popular with his people and courteous to me. He would never criticize or yell or—God forbid—raise a hand in anger. He would be handsome and stylish and proud of our children. Perhaps he would even abandon his mistresses as our bond grows stronger through the years. I realize that the thought of him with other women doesn’t especially wound me. It would be alright to embrace him, to kiss him, to do much more with him. I can stomach the idea of that. We would have a pleasant co-existence…a comfortable one, to use his own word.

No, what gives me pause is something else, something unexpected, something that is just now dawning on me: not the presence of the Prince of Wales but the absence of anyone else, the prospect of never experiencing real passion, of never knowing what it’s like to have someone I’m mad for between my thighs, of David having feasted on heat and desire and wildness while I will never taste it. I think of the bitterness that will grow in me like a child I’ll never deliver. I think of writing some dull, too-careful letter to Ben once or twice a year while whispers tangle in my skull: What if? What if?

Luther’s voice rouses me, hesitant and bashful as he stirs his mashed potatoes and gravy together, avoiding everyone’s eyes: “Ben…listen, I hate to ask this…but there are a few more textbooks that I need for the Michaelmas term…the professors just told us about them, and I thought I had enough money squirreled away but I’m…well, I’m a little short…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ben replies instantly.

“I’ll pay you back someday,” Luther insists. “I’m keeping a list of the expenses and when I have my own dental practice I’ll give—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ben says with a wave of his hand and changes the subject, and then I know exactly how his family affords this house. I know how they afford everything they have.

As the sun is setting and his mother is clearing the table to serve dessert—and adamantly refusing my offers of assistance, slapping my hands away with her crooked fingers—I follow Ben out into the backyard when he goes there to smoke one of his very inexpensive hand-rolled cigarettes, one of infinite tiny sacrifices his mother’s and siblings’ lives are now built on.

“He didn’t really say anything about my family, did he?” I ask Ben, meaning the Prince of Wales.

“No, he didn’t,” Ben agrees, vivid amber sunlight glowing on his face.

“He didn’t say that Papa didn’t deserve it. He didn’t even mention Tati or Alexei.”

“No,” Ben says again.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Ben debates telling me something and instead replies: “I don’t know.”

“You have all these secrets now. You used to just hurl anything that crossed your mind at me like stones.”

“Yes, it is immensely inconvenient to have grown a conscious.”

I’m studying him in the receding light—fire like a yellow topaz—acutely aware that our grand adventure is waning like the starving crescent of the moon. “Can I ask you something else?”

Now Ben seems nervous. He flicks ashes from his cigarette with a restless hand. Everywhere I look I find the color of embers, like the whole world is burning. “Sure.”

“What made you choose the name Lana?”

He’s a little relieved, a little disappointed. “Oh. That.”

“If you even have a reason.”

“There’s a reason,” Ben says. “But you’ll hate it.”

“Yeah?”

“Firstly, I liked that it sounded like a nickname instead of something regal and important. Secondly, it’s easy to pronounce and won’t divulge your Russian accent. Thirdly, and most importantly…” He smirks guiltily. “It means something in Gaelic.”

Gaelic is one of the languages I haven’t gotten to yet. It’s a humble language, a working-class language, no royals study it to my knowledge; there is no recognized Irish royal family and there hasn’t been since the English invaded them in the 12th Century. But I suppose it’s likely that Ben has come across plenty of Irish people during his travels, maids and cooks and shipbuilders. He might have even grown up with some. “What does it mean?”

“Little rock.”

I erupt into giggles. It feels fantastic. “You…you named me…rock…?”

“Little rock,” Ben clarifies. “Which makes it cuter.”

“You are possibly the worst person who has ever existed, Benjamin Hardy.”

“Who’s going to keep your ego in check if not me?”

“My husband, I suppose,” I say, flatly now, as indigo night falls like a curtain.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Lees’ house is quiet and still like winter. The staff have gone home for the night, the Sealyham Terriers are slumbering somewhere with their noses tucked under their paws, Ben and Joe are outside in the courtyard tossing sticks into the firepit. It’s cold when the wind blows, but not cold enough to drive them inside. They don’t want to go to bed; they know it’s our last night together. Nothing will ever be the same after tonight. I don’t want to go to bed either.

I’m rummaging through the kitchen trying to find a pot, mugs, milk, sugar, and cocoa powder; my plan is to surprise Ben and Joe with hot chocolate, but I’ve never made it myself before. I’ve rarely navigated a kitchen at all before.

“Can I help you with something?” Gwilym Lee asks from the doorway, startling me. There’s a Sealyham Terrier wagging its stubby white tail by his feet.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…I hate to be an inconvenience…I was just thinking as we were sitting out there around the fire…perhaps some…hot chocolate?”

“Ah, just a moment.” He moves deftly around plucking items from cabinets and drawers. He’s a wonderfully benign person from what I’ve seen, and so is his wife Hazel. She has blonde hair and umber eyes and a way of telling the most cheerful, long-winded, dramatic stories. Oddly enough, she’s Australian.

“How did you meet your wife, Mr. Lee?” I say as he begins heating milk on the stove.

“Her father is a shipping tycoon back in Australia. He was here on business and brought Hazel and her mother along. I bumped into them at a Christmas ball and couldn’t stop staring at Hazel all evening. I asked her the most idiotic questions just to hear her talk.”

“What a romantic meeting,” I say admiringly. It’s the sort of thing princesses dream of. And grand duchesses too.

“It wasn’t all a fairytale, let me assure you. My parents were horrified.”

“I can’t imagine why. She’s lovely.”

Mr. Lee chuckles. “Because she’s not Welsh, of course! Although I suppose that wouldn’t be so obvious to you, being from…” He gestures vaguely, raises his eyebrows. “Elsewhere.”

I smirk down at my shoes as he stirs sugar and cocoa powder into the pot, neither confirming nor denying. “Now that you mention it, I have heard that the Welsh are…rather prideful of their heritage.”

“We’re like the Irish. We’ve never stopped bristling at British rule. And I come from an old, old family. There are artifacts in this house that date from when Wales had its own kings.”

“Rebellion everywhere,” I mutter to myself, feeling like I’m drowning in it. Perhaps everyone is, all over the world since the dawn of time; perhaps rulership is something that will inevitably be hated and act hatefully in reply. “So your parents wanted you to marry a Welsh woman.”

“Welsh was heavily preferred. From the Continent would have been acceptable. English would have been very bad, American even worse. But Australian? That was unthinkable! Australia was once a prison colony, you know. They’re just English people without the veneer of sophistication.” He grins, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, this shallow prejudice. “They’re barely humans at all.”

I observe Gwilym Lee, tall and poised, as he pours hot chocolate into three mugs: blue, red, green. Steam rises in the air like smoke, like ghosts. Something about the way he moves reminds me of Tatiana. “What made you decide to marry her anyway?”

He shrugs and smiles at me over his shoulder. “Life is long. With the wrong person, I imagine, it feels much longer.” He sets the mugs on a tray and gives it to me. “Anything else I can do for you, Miss Lana? Or should I say Lana bella donna, as Joseph does?”

“No, you’ve done quite enough already. Thank you, Mr. Lee. You shall be generously rewarded. I’ll see to it.”

From the shadowy doorway, he responds: “I’d rather you see to your own happiness.” And I’m left standing alone in the kitchen as Mr. Lee and the Sealyham Terrier vanish, the dog’s nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

I bring the tray out to the courtyard and sit in the firelight, sipping my hot chocolate, as Ben and Joe toast theirs and discuss the ethnic neighborhoods of New York City: Little Italy and Chinatown and Little Spain, Irish in Hell’s Kitchen, Norwegians in Bay Ridge, Poles in Greenpoint, Syrians and Lebanese on Washington Street in Manhattan, African Americans moving up to Harlem from the treacherous South, Jews in Borough Park, Greeks in Astoria, Russians in Brighton Beach. It’s the whole planet in miniature. Joe wants to live near other Italians. Ben wants to be able to volunteer at settlement houses and maybe even meet Jane Addams one day.

I’m listening to them, but from a distance; Ben keeps trying to draw me into the conversation and I ignore him. I’m too busy thinking about what I’m going to do next. I have an idea, you see; I’ve had it for longer than I could admit even to myself. It’s unforgiveable, but it won’t go away. And I know it’s the right thing to do because at last when I commit to it—silently, like the dead of night—I feel a great calmness settle over me, a great peace. As I cradle my mug of hot chocolate, my hands don’t shake at all.

Abruptly, I rise to my feet. “I’m going upstairs now,” I inform Ben.

He blinks. “Okay.”

“I expect you to join me in precisely one hour.”

“Okay,” Ben says again, thunderstruck, smiling. Joe stifles a rapturous laugh and pounds on Ben’s shoulder with his lithe little fists. Ben, still smiling, doesn’t seem to notice.

Upstairs, I take a bath so hot it fills the room with steam, and I lay in the tub listening to the echoing plinks of dripping water and the late-October wind rattling the window shutters. When I drain the water—opaque and shimmering with rose-scented soap—I can feel the weight of the past two years shedding off me like a snake’s skin, bleeding away like summer, disappearing down the drain. I sit at the vanity, brushing out my hair, naked and serene, gazing at my reflection. In the mirror, in the golden lamplight, I see not flaws, not history, not the future, not my family, not tragedy or triumph, but only myself; and I don’t think that’s ever happened before.

Exactly one hour after I left him, Ben opens the bedroom door. I’m waiting for him on the bed with my hair loose and wild, my skin dewy with steam, my heartbeat steady. He inhales, exhales, closes the door as quietly as possible. He walks to the bed and covers his face with his hands, his beautiful, scarred hands. I think of how pure his flesh is, uncolored by dynasties or pacts. I think of how everything he has he built himself. I stand to meet him, laying my hands lightly on top of his own.

“Ben?” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You can look at me. It’s alright.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he drops his hands. His eyes drift over me like snow: soft, quiet, melting away. I feel no nervousness, no shame. Ben is pulling off his sweater. I skate my palms down his chest, his belly, his forearms lined with ocean-blue veins. “Goddamn,” he gasps, resting his forehead against mine. I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. His fingers tangle in my hair. His clothes are in a messy pile on the hardwood floor.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I say.

“Believe me, I want to.”

“Everything?”

“Everything,” he breathes.

I climb onto the bed and he follows, touching my face and my neck and my breasts, kissing me so deeply the rest of the world ceases to exist. There’s no one but us, there never has been, there never will be again. The valleys and peaks of his body fit perfectly with mine. I guide his hands lower, lower, lower.

Ben cautions: “Are you sure? Now? With me? I don’t want you to regret this. And I might be legitimately terrible because I’ve never done this before—”

“I don’t care.” I’m smiling; I can’t seem to stop. “I don’t want my first time to be with some prince I barely know. I want it to be with you.”

“I love you,” Ben says. “But I guess you already know that.”

“I do now.”

It’s like a dream in the weak golden lamplight: our skin, our voices, the effortless rhythm we stumble unsuspectingly into, no pain, no thought, time running neither forwards nor backwards but fading away entirely like ink in water.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, we bathe together and put on pajamas—the Lees keep the dressers stocked for guests—and turn off the lights. Ben doesn’t offer to leave, and I don’t ask him to. We slip beneath the blankets and find each other again, our fingers linking together, our minds untroubled. Tomorrow will be different, surely, but tomorrow doesn’t feel real yet. It’s a legend, it’s folklore. It’s a myth people shared around bonfires, carved into stones, painted on cave walls.

I say in the darkness: “We really must thank Joe for the condoms.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“How many more do you have?”

“Four or five, I think.”

“Hmm.” I kiss his stubbled neck, and then his jaw, and then his mouth with teasing darts of my tongue. I can still taste myself on him, inside of him, growing into his bones like roots. I can feel his lips smiling against mine.

“So you want your second time to be with me too, huh?”

“Silence, commoner,” I murmur, grinning, dragging him closer by the collar of his shirt, drawing him into me like the moon pulls the sea.

[mykingdomforasong]

Skysolo and 14 for the casual affections ask? 💕

[Prompt list] [rebellion-era, relationship status is kind of up to interpretation here, rate T]

Luke had learned what the different controls on the Falcon's dashboard did a long time ago. Some were consistent with his X-Wing, and others he'd seen Han handle enough times to figure out on his own. Still, Han insisted on over explaining every component of it from the Co-Pilot's seat.

"Han," Luke said, rolling his eyes at another explanation, "I'm a great pilot."

"With an X-Wing, and that's barely a step up from a speeder. You've never flown a freighter like this before, kid." He fiddled with more controls that Luke was sure didn't need to be fiddled with. They barely broken through the atmosphere, and were enjoying a nice sub-light cruise around the planet. Even if Luke had never flown anything before, there wasn't a thing to worry about. That didn't stop Han.

"A lot of the controls are the same," Luke said. "Don't you trust me?" He asked.

Han slipped out of the co-pilots chair and crouched a little next to Luke, draping his arm over his shoulder. Luke thought he might just yank him out of the seat all together.

"Well, sure I trust you," Han said, "I just worry about your level of experience."

Luke huffed. "I have plenty of experience, and you know it. I've been flying since long before we even met. I just think you don't like flying co-pilot."

"I don't have any problems with being co-pilot," Han said, standing up straight, leaving just a hand on Luke's shoulder.

"Oh please, you've done nothing but try to annoy me out of the captain's chair," Luke said.

"That's not --" he started. "Look, I'll fly in any position, I'm versatile."

Luke smiled and leaned forward to adjust some controls. "Sure, Han."

"Just because I have a preference for piloting doesn't mean I can't co-pilot. I'm worried about your piloting skills here. Flying on Tatooine or in an X-Wing is a lot different than out here." Han sat back down in his seat.

Luke picked up the speed, jetting out into open space, taking tight banks and looping the ship for fun, keeping an eye on Han's face (a palpable mix of fear and entertainment).

"Seems the same to me," Luke said. "You could let me pilot more often, just to prove it to you."

"Prove what?" Han asked, his arms crossed in front of him.

"That I'm good at this," Luke gestured out to space, "and maybe even that you like the way I pilot."

Han mumbled something.

"Hey, I'm good at this and you know it!" Luke said, almost yelling at him.

"No one's denying it, kid!" Han yelled back. They were quiet for a moment as Luke brought the ship back to a cruising speed. "Do you like flying her?" Han finally asked.

Luke shrugged. "She's a good ship. Not as impressive as you like to boast." Luke smiled, hoping to show Han that he was (mostly) teasing.

"Your brain is full of blue milk. She's the best ship in the fleet." Han rubbed the dashboard as if the Falcon was his pet.

"Yeah, well, I'm the best pilot," Luke said.

"No," Han said without hesitation. "Best gunner, though," he added, a little quieter than the first part.

Luke smiled. Complements from Han were rare, superlatives even more so. "So, who is the best pilot then?"

Han rolled his head towards Luke, before slowly and affirmatively pointing at himself. It was, of course, the answer Luke expected. "And!" He added quickly, "the best co-pilot."

"I won't tell Chewie you said that."

"You'd better not. I like my arms right where they are," Han laughed. After a second, Han let out a deep breath. "Alright, kid!" He said, leaning forward to power up the sublight thrusters. "Here's your chance to prove you're a better pilot," Luke bounced in his seat with anticipation. "You do a good job, and I might just let you do it again some time."

That was a possibility Luke couldn't and wouldn't pass up. Based on the smile he caught on Han's face as they jetted off into space, Luke knew he'd done a good enough job to impress him.

[bukojuiice]

this is how you fall in love ━ levi ackerman

ೃ pairing: (levi ackerman x  gn! reader)

ೃ  the entire division of the survey corps are not convinced that you and levi are absolutely actually together. however, it took a small expedition outside of the walls and an abnormal titan incident for everyone to coo adoringly at the soft and loving demeanor that levi holds around you and only you.

ೃ genre and warnings: canonverse, fluff, and strong language.

ೃ  my nav  →  my aot masterlist  →   sign up for my taglist

ೃ 1.6k words

ೃ dedicated to one of my first uni friends, @ryscenery because if the two of us didn’t yell (affectionately) at each other for our love for levi, this fic may have never been birthed. i hope you enjoy! 🥺

Love certainly makes you do the wacky. But in a world where chaos is imminent, war is always looming, and people die to giant man-eating humanoid monsters, how can one possibly make their life akin to that of a romance novel?

Well, unfortunately, you can't.

It's a Live and Let Die world, after all.

But... to the remaining few of humanity who are strong and lucky enough to be still wandering the faces of the unknown world, love is a treasure. A gift only a few can find.

And somehow, and someway, you were lucky enough to find comfort in someone you never thought you'd expect to find.

Levi Ackerman.

The stoic and blunt smart-ass captain of the Survey Corps? Yes, him.

Honestly, it's quite a surprise. No one would have ever thought that someone could shake the world of Humanity's Strongest Soldier. It almost felt like a dream, honestly. Your subordinates and co-captains can't even get their heads wrapped around the fact that there's something between the two of you. Well, it's not like either you and Levi were bold enough to rub it in other people's faces.

Even Hanji, who made it seems as if they were utterly convinced over the fact that the two of you are together by teasing the two of you every time that you were within a few feet of each other, has their doubts.

It didn't take long until a minor expedition outside the walls made everyone in the division finally realize how much you and Levi were pining lovestruck dorks when hidden from the eyes of prying and spying soldiers.

An attempted attack from an abnormal titan had forced you to stray away from the rest of your squad's formation. Baiting the abomination away from your subordinates led you to get lost in the outskirts of an abandoned town. With a terribly injured leg, none of your essential equipment with you, and with no means of communication, you had no choice but to wait for the rest of the scouts on patrol to find you.

However, you were afraid of one person.

Levi knows how strong and how much you can hold up in a fight (Your Titan kill count is one of the highest in the Corps), but he hates how reckless you can get. How stubborn. How irrational your decisions can be at times and how much you hate the fact that he reprimands you for the littlest mistakes. Even if those mistakes could ultimately be the cost of your own life.

Catching sight of a shadowy figure and the sound of the clopping of horses from beyond a steep hill, you brace yourself for another long and agonizing lecture from Levi as he continues to approach.

"Captain (Y/N)!" Armin, a rookie soldier from your fleet, calls out. A look of relief forming on his face. "We brought Captain Levi! He's just behind us!"

"Oh, great." You whisper, grimacing to yourself. "Just great." Your wounded leg fails you as you try to prop yourself up onto your horse, falling back down on a mound of rubble.

You only wish you could know what Levi is feeling right now once he sees the predicament you've brought upon yourself once again.

"Captain (Y/N) has strayed away from our formation!" Jean reports sternly, a tinge of worry straining his voice. "They have diverted an abnormal titan from ruining our formation! As of now, none of us in the fleet know of their whereabouts! Neither do they have a flare gun nor any kits in case of an emergency, as they have left them with Krista before the expedition!"

Erwin clears his throat, shaking his head to try and keep his calm facade. "We'll send some soldiers to scout the-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the distinct cry of a nearby horse could be heard. As the rest of the surviving soldiers turn their heads to where the sound came from, they could do nothing but stare agape at Levi's fleeting figure cross through the safe area and again into dangerous territory. No one could dare to stop him, after all. There was no way.

All they could do was stare in awe at the dramatic yet sweet gesture of the stone-hearted captain that happened right before their tired eyes.

Maybe now they're finally convinced that the two of you are actually together.

(Levi's POV)

I sprinted through the vast fields with all the remaining strength I could muster. After a long exhibition, I didn't expect I'd have to drag my ass around to find (Y/N). Yet, I could not recall the last time I found myself so short of breath.

Dammit. Please be safe.

I am only vaguely surprised to feel an icy trickle of sweat on the back of my neck and my wringing hands as I hold onto the saddle.

Hurry... I must hurry.

There was not a moment to waste. If there were a titan to cross through these shitty grasslands ever again, I'd have to kill these fuckers as fast as I can. Whatever it took to reach them.

....How unlike me.

I hated this feeling. I knew it was inevitable and could happen anytime, but my body launched forward before Erwin could even give his command. Duty decreed that I should have informed him, but the thought came far too late.

I have no doubt Erwin will conjure some excuse for me. After all, this is what everyone wanted, right? Didn't they want to see more proof of my undying love for them? Just because I don't make goo-goo eyes at them doesn't mean I wouldn't defy everything just to keep them safe.

Perhaps I am being irresponsible... but I have no choice but to put my trust in him.

For now, I have someone more important than anything else, someone I cannot fail. Someone I must save.

At the end of the maddeningly long field of nothingness and stark skies, my destination hoves into view.

As (Y/N)'s weakened figure appears closer and closer to me, I abruptly halt my steed and dismount from it. With all my strength once again, I rush to their side.

Moments later, you hear Levi's voice, whom you had seen off just this morning. Wincing in pain due to your injuries, you mentally prepare yourself for another scolding.

"Keep safe" were the words he'd never fail to whisper every time the both of you are forced to depart from each other. It wasn't the most romantic saying out there, but it meant a lot. Especially coming from Levi. He was not the most physically affectionate beau out there, but these little sweet nothings were enough to make your heart flutter.

Observing his looks as he approaches, Levi almost seems panicked. Out of breath, even breaking a sweat... you can't even remember the last time you saw him like this.

His piercing gaze bore into yours, and you felt as though you might fall into it.

Levi takes one step towards you and then another.

"I-I'm fine... okay?" You puff your chest and tug at his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry. I kicked that titan's ass before it could even get a hand of me. How about you? Are you alright? You're breathing so heavily."

He doesn't answer your question but instead drops his gaze into your shaking hands.

"(Y/N)..." His voice was barely audible, a whisper. There's this exasperated look in his eyes that you can't quite describe. And yet, through that faintest movement of his lips, you knew what he meant to say.

"Levi, listen. I'm-"

---And yet... he did not allow you to finish.

Soft warmth pressed against your lips. And his embrace... so intense yet so gentle.

He didn't have to say it with words; This is the first time Levi has shown such love through his touch. Kind, yet powerful. His kiss felt like the wings of butterflies, beating softly upon lips of crushed petals.

You remain in his arms, held tight to the Captain's chest.

The suddenness of his actions came as a surprise, of course... but even so.

The heat radiating from your bodies brought such a wellspring of happiness to you. You were so happy. So very, very happy.

It was so profound that you wished that it might never end.

"Tch. I thought I was going to lose you..." He trails off, squeezing your arm in slight annoyance. "W-why do you always have to be so damn reckless? Why can't you just stick to the plan?"

"Reckless is my middle name after all." You giggle, the kiss ever so deepening.

You're suddenly brought back into reality when a flustered cough echoes from behind you.

You and Levi took it as your cue to finally let go, releasing one another.

"I hope we're not interrupting something..." You turn to see Armin Arlert, a rookie from your fleet, approach the two of you awkwardly. "I'll be tending to Captain (Y/N)'s wounds... if you'd allow me." He clears his throat, clearly intimidated by the cold and striking facade emanating from Levi.

"Captain Erwin sent us." Mikasa added stoically. Ah yes, the ever so tactful commander.

"Were you brats watching?"

"No! Of course not!" Jean, Sasha, and Connie who were lagging from behind, dismiss Levi's claims with a dramatic wave of their hands. "We totally weren't-"

Levi sighs, "Look. Even if you were, I wouldn't get mad." There's a slight blush that slowly creeps on his face yet quickly fades away. "Just... don't get into details once Hanji or Erwin tries to bug you about it, alright?"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Thank you for coming to pick us up." You smile weakly as you let Armin kneel to tend to your wounds. "Who knows what could have happened if we were left here alone?" You nudge Levi's shoulder suggestively."

He smirks, chuckling to himself. "If we were, then they'll finally have more proof that the two of us are actually together, won't they?"

taglist: @crapimahuman @hu-tao-main @smg-valeria​ @moonless-abyss @midnightangelfox @dukina @chibishae34 @arvinrusselisbae @kenmakeii  @eissaaaa @yummyyumi​ @the-one-that-lurks @prxttyguardian

[stargazingthenightaway]

See Something You Like? Part 2

Pairing: Rebels Rex x Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Warning: NSFW 18+ Sexual tension, yearning, dirty thoughts, praise kink, size kink, Dom!Rex, slight predator/prey vibes

A/N:  Ahhhh! Thank you for all your lovely comments! ILYSM 💖 💖 🥰 🥰 Just a heads up, it might be a couple weeks before I get the next chapter up. Report card season is here, and I need to get those sorted. Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist.  

Fuck.

Your heart stutters as you bolt upright, frantically wishing the panic away. The heat from your face alone could give the twin suns of Tatooine a run for their credits as  mortification sinks low in your chest. It’s a struggle to keep your breathing even, outwardly trying to appear calm when all you want to do is sink into the floor and disappear. Of all the times to be caught fantasizing about riding this man’s face! It was like your depraved thoughts had summoned him, taunting you with the object of your fantasies, dangling him just out of your reach. Look but don’t touch. 

You haven’t turned around yet, and judging by the silence, you can tell Rex is still waiting expectantly for your answer. Kriff, how were you to answer that. You can guess how well telling him the truth would go “Interrupting? Oh no sir, I was just imagining how you’d sound as you hold me down and make me cum on your tongue.” Pfft, you’d be written up for inappropriate conduct and get a one-way ticket to the Hoth base. Try getting yourself off when your fingers are stuck under your armpits trying to stay warm. Bye-bye happy times.

As these thoughts are going rabid fire through your head you don’t notice Rex has leaned up against the wall by the door, giving you a slow once-over, lingering on your ass and appreciating the way the fabric clings in all the right places. Lifting his eyes up he can see the flush making its way up the back of your neck. Rex chuckles quietly to himself, too quietly for you to hear, as he takes in your reaction to being caught bent in half, for anyone passing by to see. But lucky him, he got to see that tantalizing sight of you, face down-ass up, groaning quietly like you needed a good fuck. Rex had to hold himself back when you’d uttered “Fuuuuck me” in such a wrecked tone, wanting to fulfil your plea and fuck you like you asked, like you needed. If he played his cards right he’d be able to hear so many more of your sweet sounds, and they’d be all for him. 

Finally deciding to just get through this conversation as quickly as possible, you turn around and feel your knees go weak. Maker save you. The sight that greets you is like something from the holo novels that you keep hidden under your bed. Rex had decided to forgo his cuirass and spaulder, showing off his black undershirt, which left his arms on full display. All that beautiful, unobstructed muscle led down to his vambraces, fitted snuggly against his wrists. His hands were resting low on the holster belt slung around his hips while his legs were crossed over at the ankles. He looked deceptively at ease except for the way his eyes were focused on you. All sultry, and brooding and hungry. You can’t help but feel caught in his gaze and there’s a fleeting thought that if you were to run Rex would give chase until he had hunted you down, snared in the cage of his arms. That mental image makes your lower belly clench in anticipation, already eager to be caught.

You’re brought back to the present when Rex raises a questioning brow your way, still waiting for you answer, though he’s more amused by your reaction judging by the smile tugging on the corner of his lips. 

Frantically shaking your head, the answer you’ve been looking for finally shoves its way past your throat. “No Sir, no interruption at all.” You notice one of his hands twitch by his sides before going still again.

Rex tilts his head to the side, “Are you sure?” His eyes are tracking your movements, looking for any little tells that could help bring you closer to him. “You sounded pretty desperate there, cyar’ika.”

If only he knew. You try to send what looks like a reassuring smile his way “Absolutely! I was just lost in thought.”

He pushes himself off the wall, intrigued. “Now what could have caused your thoughts to stray?” He stalks closer, and for each step he takes, you take a step back. It’s not long until your back is pressed against the shelf and he’s standing in front of you.

The way he looks at you sends thrums of pleasure through your veins, his proximity sending your senses into high alert. You catch a whiff of his cologne, a subtle spice that has you leaning into him, only for you to quickly jerk back.

Nonono! Abort! Abort! In a sad effort to avoid the real reason for your wandering mind and to prevent your body from utterly betraying you and jumping Rex where he stood, you throw out the first excuse you could come up with.

“My friend Ria dared me to beat her high score on this particular sim,” you wave blindly behind you, “and I have until tonight to win.” You mentally cringe and are already planning on how to apologize to Ria. While she’s a sucker for drama, Ria prefers to hear about it then to live it. She dislikes being pulled into your schemes, especially recently, with your ideas of avoiding a certain Captain while you try to control your libido. 

Rex crosses his arms over his chest, shirt pulled tight across his biceps, and just making himself look bigger. Your eyes flicker down and back up to his face, trying not to get distracted.

“What are the stakes?” He asks

“Huh?” Is your eloquently response. Why was he still interested in this? Your answer was supposed to be enough that he’d let you scurry away, but here he was asking for more. 

“What happens if you lose your bet?” Rex patiently rephrases his question, looking like there was no where else he’d rather be at this moment. He enjoys how flustered you’re getting, especially when your eyes stray down his torso before rushing back to his face. 

Your hands flutter by your sides. “Oh, um,” you flounder, not thinking he’d press this hard for answers, “well, there wasn’t anything specific, just that I’d have to do something for her, however and whenever, she asks” Nailed it! “Sort of an IOU kinda thing.” You mentally give yourself a pat on the back. Surely he’d let you go now.

Rex rubs his hand along his chin, humming to himself as a grin starts to form on his face. This was the opening he was hoping for! He thinks it’s cute how you’ve started to relax, thinking you’re safe, that he’ll let you go. But he’s far from finished with you, not by a long shot. If he has his way this conversation will continue far into tomorrow morning, and every morning for as long as you will have him. His eyes find yours and you see a triumphant glint that causes your breath to hitch.

“So what you’re telling me is that she gets to do anything she wants to you, however she wants, when she wins” He practically purrs out the last part, a deep rumble coming from his chest. 

You don’t know why but the way he says that, paired with the smouldering look he’s giving you, sends a shiver all the way through your core. When he puts it like that it sounds like some sort of dirty rendezvous, in all the best ways. Something he said suddenly catches up to you and you narrow your eyes at him.

“What do you mean when she wins?” You step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you think I can’t beat her score?!” Of all the nerve!

Rex looks down at the finger smushed into his chest then back up to you. Such a spitfire! He adores how innocent you look when you’re flustered, the rosiness of your cheeks and your fluttering hands, but this. Well, this version of you gets his blood singing, ready to prove he’s a worthy opponent for you. Indignation lights a spark in your eyes, and coupled with your battle ready stance to throw hands, has his cock ready to stand at attention. Rex knows he just needs to push just a little bit more to get you just where he wants.

He wraps his hand around yours, and moves it away from his chest. While furious, you still have enough coherency to feel how his palm completely engulfs your fist. Stars, is he this big all over? You almost miss how his thumb starts rubbing soothingly along your hand. “It may just be the soldier in me, but in order to beat a high score you actually need to shoot the targets in front of you, not just stare at them cyare.”

Force take you, he had been watching you longer than you thought! Your face burns in embarrassment and you make a move to take your hand back. Rex tightens his grip to prevent you from moving away and pulls you close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. You try and salvage some of your dignity. 

“That was a minor blip,” you mumble to his chest before looking up, staring defiantly into his eyes before you spit out “I bet I could hit more targets than you with my eyes closed.” 

There’s a strange gleam in Rex’s eyes when he hears your challenge, posture alert as he straightens up. “Oh ya?” The same challenging tone is in his voice. “You think you can take me on mesh’la? Let’s put a little wager on it.”

It’s too late to back down now, so you think for a moment before tossing out your wager. “Alright, if I win, you take me on your next mission with the Ghost.” 

Rex nods along, almost too quickly, as he agrees to your side of the wager. The gleam in his eyes is still there as he casually tosses out what he wants “I’ll take the same bet as your friend mesh’la. I get to do anything I want to you, however I want.”

Fuck you sideways in an X-wing. There’s no way Rex could possibly mean it like that, but with the way he’s looking at you right now, like the tooka that got the cream, you can’t help but wonder.

You afraid that if you speak now, all that will come out of your mouth will be an undignified squeak, so you settle for nodding your head.

Bingo. Rex’s grin turns downright feral. “Perfect, it’s settled.” He abruptly turns you so that you’re facing the shooting range. “If you win, you get a mission,” Rex places the blaster in your hands, “and when I win, I get you.” The all to myself goes unspoken, but you can feel it hanging in the air between the two of you.

You swallow the lump in your throat before replying, “If you win. I’m confident I can beat you.”

“We’ll see.” He takes a couple steps back. You’re about to turn around to ask him what he’s doing when he orders “Eyes forward, and get into position” and you hasten to obey.

You can feel a new flush start to crawl up your neck and you fight it down. Now was not the time to think about what other kinds of positions Rex wanted you to take. Of how he’d sound ordering you to suck his cock, or to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you slow and deep, or how you can give him just one more. Stars, you desperately need to cum or get your head in the game, and since you can’t get to you bunk right now, the game it is.

You take your previous stance and settle in position. Rex is so quiet that you can’t help but quip coyly back at him “See something you like, Sir?”

The sound of your voice brings Rex back to the present, having found himself enjoying how quickly you moved to obey his order a little too much, needing to readjust himself. Your saucy little ‘Sir’ makes his hands clench by his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly. Brat, he thinks fondly.

Looking at your stance, he decides it’s not quite right for what he has in mind. He hums, “Maybe, once I get your stance to my liking.” His boots barely make any sounds as he moves forward. “For one, it’s too wide.” Rex comes up behind you, moulding his body to your back, hands on your hips. You let out a little eep, hoping he didn’t hear. “You need to bring your feet in” and proceeds to bracket your legs with his own, using his feet to nudge yours closer to your centre. “You should feel snug in your position.”

Oh, I’m feeling snug alright. Rex had maneuvered you in such a way that you were pressed right up against his groin, hips nestles between his legs. There’s a dull throb building between your legs when you feel him push in, moving your hips to the side and you can feel him. It wouldn’t take much effort to grind back against him, create enough friction that he would have to bend you over and fill you up. You yelp as there’s a pinch to the sensitive skin on your side.

Rex lightly scolds you “Pay attention. If you want to beat me you need to listen to what I tell you.”

“Yes Sir” you automatically reply. There’s a subtle shift behind you before Rex takes one of his hand and covers your eyes. “Don’t have any blindfolds handy, so my hands will have to do.” He says gruffly, his voice a tad deeper.

Before you can ask if everything’s alright, you hear him hit the start button and you’re shooting as best you can. There are still too many thunks from misses for your liking, but you are confident enough that you can pull ahead. When you’ve finished, you turn to hand the blaster to Rex, moving past him to reset the simulation. When that’s done you lean against the wall. You try to relieve some of the pressure between your legs by clenching your thighs together, but it’s not nearly enough, so you suffer in silence. As you watch Rex get into position you decide to have a little fun with him. You wait until he closes his eyes to start the simulation. Just as he’s about to shoot you ask “Do you want me to help get you into position, just like you did for me?” Your question catches him unaware and you hear a thunk sound out. A small laugh escapes your lips. “Losing your touch old man?” You tease, a smirk kissing the side of your mouth. “I didn’t think you’d take what I gave you so easily.” You mimic his words from earlier. 

Rex whips his head around to look at you, mouth open in surprise before he closes it in a thin line. “Oh cyar’ika, you shouldn’t have done that.” Rex tsks, shaking his head. “Here I was, thinking that I’d go easy on you, only winning by a couple more shots, but if that’s the way you want to play it.” He trails off as he extends his arm out in front of him before turning his body to face you, away from the targets. You can feel the smirk start to fade from your face and reappear on Rex’s. “I guess I’ll just have to show you that your place is under me,” and proceeds to shoot. Each shot making a ting sound. Every. Single. One. All without breaking eye contact with you. When he’s finished he motions for you to look at the score board. A perfect score.

You turn back to Rex as he puts the safety back on the blaster. “So, uh, congrats. You win.” You say quietly, realizing how quickly your plan backfired. 

Rex looks far too please with himself. “Of course.”

You haven’t moved from your spot by the wall and Rex strides over, victory in his eyes. You don’t see as your looking at your boots. When he’s close enough he gently takes your chin between his finger and thumb, bringing your gaze to his.

“Don’t you know mesh’la? I always win.”

To be continued. 

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