#i hope he flies into the surface of the sun

[so-idialed-9]

"Tell Simon Cowell to go fuck himself. Team 1D." -Fin Power, vocalist/guitarist for Stone

Edit - here's a link to the TT

Takeaways -

People aren't as afraid of Simon tanking them - his power is fading

Simon's recruitment isn't going well, per the article

He's recruiting someone already with a record deal and years of performing - which matches what former X Factor contestants and industry people have said for years about how things happened with X Factor, Modest, and Syco, lending credibility to other aspects of their stories

- Katie Waissel, X Factor contestant, said she had been touring and making albums and doing collaborations, and when Simon recruited her she said no repeatedly. She said he sent people to her recording sessions to pressure her, then suddenly her other deals went bad, her own lawyer who it turned out shared an office with Modest's team pressured her to sign with Simon as written which turned out to be a horrible deal for her

Fuck Simon Cowell

[fayes-fics]

Rescue and Ruin

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Anthony rescues something for you... and it will likely lead to your ruin.

Warnings: None really. Flirting, sexual tension, banter, and the promise of more. A lot of teasing, soaking wet Viscount.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author's Note: Unbetaed. Very belated request fill for @daisfordaysstuff (request:  I’m rewatching season 2 again, and I think I need one on this scene [lake Anthony]). I just had to post an Anthony story today to commemorate the birthday of Jonathan Bailey, the man who plays this titan of a fictional character. This is actually my oldest request fill, lingering in my inbox since Sept 2022. Sorry, my lovely; I hope late is better than never. I just got an idea of how I wanted this to play out. I hope you enjoy <3

“I’ll get it!”

A chivalrous call comes as you watch in dismay as your favourite bonnet take off in a gust of wind and flies over the lake, landing almost gracefully about twenty feet out into the gently rippling water.

You had just stolen down to the water's edge to get away from the crowds for a few moments of solitude, drawn to the beauty of the water as the sun danced on the little peaks caused by the gusty breeze. It had looked like a shimmering mirage from the terrace.

You are shocked when the one and only Viscount Anthony Bridgerton gives you a brief, polite nod as he passes you, then dives off a little jetty, still fully clothed, making you gasp loudly.

What on earth?!?

This is his garden party. Well, strictly his mother's, but he is Viscount, and this is the Bridgerton family country estate, Aubrey Hall. You are still awestruck to be here, a guest of your maternal aunt you are staying with here in Kent. Why on earth he would dive into his lake to rescue something as trivial as a hat seems mystifying. You are certain he has staff that could assist rather than take it upon himself and quite clearly ruin his outfit.

He re-emerges to the surface from his dive and swims with awe-inspiring speed towards your hat as it skates across the surface, propelling along not unlike some toy boat. When he finally reaches it, he holds it aloft triumphant and twists to swim back one-handed as he keeps it above the water.

You find yourself drawn down to the jetty he jumped off of. To give your thanks, express your surprise, and take back your hat and hope it is salvageable. You twist around to check, but all the other party guests seem oblivious to the incident or his actions, the string quartet playing so loudly closer to the house and the buffet table so laden everyone's eyes and ears are preoccupied.

“Thank you, my lord,” you demure as he pulls up to the jetty and places your bonnet on the wooden slats by your feet. “That was completely unnecessary, but I am, of course, so very grateful,” you curtsy and pick up the bonnet.

Luckily, thanks to his swift actions, it will be fine. Just the brim and lower edge touched the water. You wring out the soaked ribbons as best you can, then wrap them around your neck and tie them in a secure bow. It may be too wet to wear on your head for now, but at least it should dry while tied securely and draped down over your back. You curtsy again as you feel him watching you, unsure what else to do to convey your gratitude.

He laughs, and you see him fighting with the buttons on his jacket, still standing in the lake, the water around waist height. “There is no need to curtsy or to be so formal Miss…?�� he squints up at you expectantly.

“Oh, it's Miss y/l/n,” you rush out and, for some reason, curtsy again.

“I mean it; please stop curtsying, especially to a man in such a state as me,” he says drolly, fighting off his jacket and tossing it, sodden and heavy, onto the jetty.

You are blatantly staring as he peels away his waistcoat and fights with his cravat. His thin cotton white shirt has turned entirely transparent in the water; it is barely there. Under it, you can see so much skin, toned and rippling muscle as his jerking movements strip off his clothing. Over his chest is a patch of dark hair clinging to the material you cannot look away from. You have never even so much as seen how a man looks without a shirt on before, and this sight makes your heart pound and your body tingle.

Glancing up from his actions, the corner of his mouth quirks up, and you know he has caught you—openly ogling him. Your cheeks are aflame, and you cut your eyes away.

“You may look, Miss y/l/n,” his pitch has dropped to something low and velvety, and it buzzes right into your core. Hesitantly your eyes dart back to his handsome face; the lip quirk spreads into a devastating, stunning smile. “It is alright; no one has marked us,” he assures, his gaze cutting to your right towards the house, then back to your face. “You shall not have broken any rules of propriety by talking with me. Or staring at me as you are,” he teases, an eyebrow arching appealingly.

“My lord, that is not what….” You begin to protest, knowing it's a lie even as you voice it; your reflex to appear chaste is so crucial to your need to find a match that your aunt and parents are so desperate for you to make.

But your words die out as he places both hands firmly on the dock and propels himself up and out of the water in one swift, athletic move. Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth as he unfurls upwards from the kneeling position, drawing up to his full height. Water sluices down his body and makes his clothing cling to every single contour of his toned, defined torso. He looms closer; you tilt backwards, entranced by the tracks of droplets over the lines of his handsome face, his burned umber eyes catching the sunlight and boring into you as he crowds closer.

“Do not lie to yourself or to me, Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles, “we both know you were and, indeed, continue to stare”.

His words make your body riot; your stays feel too tight for your lungs to breathe, your skin pricking hot. He’s so close now you can smell the vaguely mossy lake smell on his skin, on what little clothing he has left on; it’s dancing there on the breeze alongside something spicier and amber that you can only assume is his cologne. You want to stutter an apology, to offer your thanks again, to ask him to leave, to ask him to stay, to ask him to touch you—so many jumbled, contradictory thoughts.

“The more pertinent question is, do you like what you see?” he murmurs and leans in, his words ghosting warm on the shell of your ear.

This is the sort of thing your aunt has warned you about. Rakes. Handsome, wealthy, titled men who will tease and take what they can from young, innocent ladies such as yourself. You want to be affronted, tell him to desist, and give him a scathing remark about appropriate behaviour. But once again, you don't. Your body drawn to him, you want to trace your fingers over the swell of his chest muscles, to feel those strong arms grab your waist and haul you against his sodden form.

“No answer is, in some ways, an answer,” he chuckles with a lilt that is both arrogant and devastatingly attractive.

“My lord, we may be seen at any moment…” Your protest is weak and breathy, not moving away as he continues to stand far too close to you, as lake water drips onto your shoes.

Suddenly a clammy hand wraps around your elbow, and you are being pulled towards the nearby cluster of thick trees and bushes that abut the lake. You almost stumble and smack into him face-first as he pulls up short and releases your arm. The air feels cooler here, with dappled shade, verdant and alive with the scent of flowering bushes and leaves. The view of the house and, indeed, the party guests is wholly obscured. No one would ever know you are here.

“Do you have an answer now that we cannot be seen?” he breathes inches from you, towering over you.

“My lord… I,” you cannot find words, hanging your head. You know this is wrong. Very wrong. Your aunt would kill you for being this wanton, for allowing him to do this to you. And yet…. Every fibre of your being wants this. To see what he will do. To see what you will let him do. You suspect it's more than you even understand.

“Say it after me….” he intones, a finger tilting your chin up to look into his fiery gaze.

“I…” he begins.

“I…” you parrot.

“Like…”

“Like,” you repeat, and the grin on his face grows wider.

“What….”

“What,” your breath quickening with each word.

“I…”

“I,” that finger still lingers under your chin, caressing gently.

“See.”

“See,” you exhale shakily.

“There. Now was that so hard…hmmm?” he teases, that finger now joined by his thumb stroking over the point of your chin, the lake water running down his forearm to the point of material bunched under his elbow that now drips down the front of your dress. The dampness seeps through the material and into your heated skin.

The cord of tension in the air is palpable. You don't know what to say or what to do.

“I have another question for you,” he buzzes, and the fingers on your chin slip lower, over your throat, lighting a line of fire as they trail over your delicate skin. Your pulse pounding in your veins. You swallow hard and feel the calloused fingertips trace into your suprasternal notch. “Maybe this one you can answer,” he huffs a sarcastic laugh as your body spirals and you fight to keep your breath even.

“What is it, my lord?” your voice barely a whisper.

“Would you be willing to help me, your gracious host today, get dry?” he practically purrs.

“How…. how on earth could I do that?” you stumble.

He smiles predatory and so handsome you give up and let your chest heave, ragged breathing.

“Under your dress, you wear a chemise, do you not?” he continues, those fingers tracing over the wet bow of your bonnet strings tied over your clavicle.

“Yes, my lord,” you answer shakily.

“Well did you know such items can be an excellent towel in a pinch,” he shrugs one shoulder and lifts an eyebrow as his fingers slip lower over your breastbone until they reach the neckline of your dress, at the swell of your breast.

There is no point in pretending he is not utterly destroying you now. You can’t school anything—the blush darkening over your skin, creeping up from your chest, the tingle in your lips, the hot flush you feel all over. A viscous pulse in your underwear that feels entirely alien and where your decision-making seems to be centred at right this very moment.

“So I suppose my last question, for now, is, are you willing to give it to me?” you gasp at his turn of phrase as those fingers swirl patterns over the neckline of your dress. “Your chemise, of course,” he amends with a wink.

Utter, utter rake.

“H-how can I give you my chemise without removing my dress too?” you wonder aloud.

“Well, that is the challenge, isn't it?” he smirks. “Now I can see two options here. I can do the gentlemanly thing, turn my back and allow you to undress and then you may hand me your chemise once decent again. I will dry myself the best I can and return to the house to change.”

“And the second option?” you cannot resist querying.

“Ahh, that,” he seems to pull even closer, and the fingers slip over the neckline and onto the silk ruching that covers your breasts; even through the material layers, you can feel his fingers lingering over your nipple and the throbbing between your legs turns almost painful. “The second option is that I am not a gentleman. Not in the slightest,” his answer cryptic but dripping with a dark, forbidden promise.

“What does that involve…?” you pant.

You watch, enthralled, as his tongue pokes out of his mouth and licks his bottom lip, and in seeming slow-motion, his mouth begins to form a shape to speak words…

“ANTHONY!!”

The yell is from a few feet away, on the other side of the bushes. Both of you jump apart as if burned.

“ANTHONY?!” the male voice calls again, “ARE YOU AROUND?”

It's obvious the person has no idea you are merely a few feet away, only that they are looking for him.

Stay here, Anthony mouths silently, and you nod, your heart beating wildly at the whiplash of experiences.

With one rueful glance at you, at the interrupted moment, he turns around and fights through the mass of foliage back out to the lawn.

“Oh, there you are!” the voice exclaims. “We wondered what the devil had happened to you!!”

“Colin…” you hear him respond.

“Hell and the devil. Why are you soaked through?? Did you decide to go for a swim fully clothed? Did you find my special tea??” his voice ramping up in incredulity as he likely clocks Anthony's bedraggled appearance.

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” Anthony’s reply seems clipped. “I rescued a small beautiful creature, if you must know,” he obfuscates.

“Ahh, hero antics,” Colin laughs. “Well, you had better go change right away. Mother expects you to make a toast for our esteemed guests in a few minutes.”

You hear Anthony’s frustrated noise of derision and have to stifle your giggle behind the back of your hand between deep breaths, trying to bring yourself back to a state of normality after the rollercoaster of experiences you just had.

“Urghhh, alright,” Anthony sighs, embattled, “I think I dropped my pocket watch back in the bushes. Give me one moment to find it, and I will accompany you back to the house.”

“Side entrance,” Colin responds dryly.

“Indeed,” you hear Anthony call.

You tense as the bushes before you start to rustle as he fights through them to reach you. He stalks up to you, and you gasp audibly.

“Shhh,” he warns quietly, his lips right at your ear, gusting hot, “it looks as if I must sadly depart. Your chemise is safe for today, Miss y/l/n.”

With a boldness you didn’t know yourself capable of, you grab the shirt's sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

“I would never want not to be helpful to you, my lord,” you whisper tremulant, fingers twisting in the soaked fabric. “If removing my chemise can ever be of assistance to you in future, please be sure to let me know.”

You cannot believe you allow yourself to say something so scandalous.

He pulls back slightly, and it's his turn to exhale unsteadily, his pupils dilated; his expression wild. You can see a vein hammering in his throat.

“Oh goddd,” he moans, closing his eyes as if pained.

“What?” concern suddenly flooding your tone.

His eyes reopen, and they pin you with their intensity.

“Mark my words,” his tone is low, gravelly, “if you continue to talk so brazenly, it will only encourage me.”

It is the sexiest warning bell you have ever heard.

“And if you continue to tease and defy me, I will pursue you. Relentlessly,” he growls, and once again, your body is rioting.

“Good god. How long does it take to find a pocket watch, man?” Colin calls impatiently, once again breaking the moment between you as it threatens to bubble over.

“I've found it!” Anthony twists to call over his shoulder. “I’ll be there presently!”

“Hurry up!” Colin grouses.

Anthony turns back, and his breath is hot over your cheek. He seems to stare at your lips for an inordinate amount of time as you stare back. Transfixed.

“Today, I shall be a gentleman,” he states reluctantly and draws away slightly. “However…” and your heart spikes in victory, “once that clock strikes midnight. I make no promises. And I shall be standing right here,” his tone decisive, his finger pointing to the spot right by his feet. “Just so you and your chemise will know where to find me,” he rumbles, then gives you a polite bow and is gone.

You have to grab onto a tree to stop yourself from swooning. Already knowing you will be stealing away from your room as the clock strikes midnight. Uncaring of consequences.

You want him to ruin you.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxxii) (ao3)

(An update to celebrate the end of @nessianweek ❤️)

Chapter 32: Cassian flies down to Velaris for the first time since his recovery and Nesta receives not one but two visitors at the House of Wind.

(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

Nesta felt Rhysand long before she found him.

As she rose from the chair beside Elain’s bed, skirting the sunlight that streamed in through the wide windows of the bedchamber, the High Lord’s presence was something slick and dark, snaking through the corridors of the House of Wind like a long-fingered shadow— stretching, searching.

Testing.

Her attention was pulled towards the library at the end of the corridor, and it felt familiar, that pull. That power. The way it glided across her skin, needled at her senses like it was trying to lure her out; similar in the way of distant cousins, so many generations removed.

With reluctance, Nesta followed.

Every step she took down the hallway seemed to bring her closer to something heavy, a dark touch against her skin that was as cold as the midnight sky in the middle of winter. It made the silver in her veins writhe, and when at last Nesta pushed open the door to the House of Wind’s private library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find a single chair filled by the empty hearth.

In the blink of an eye, somehow two weeks had passed since Nesta had last laid eyes on the High Lord of the Night Court.

She couldn’t really say she’d missed him.

“Where is Cassian.”

It was a question that might have been wrapped in thorns for the way it came out, barbed enough that even Nesta was surprised. Her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness of the library, the vast space silent, draped with the light of the noonday sun.

The High Lord flicked a hand towards the windows, a vague gesture towards the city down below.

Silver rings gleamed on his fingers, a burst of starlight against the impenetrable black of his shirt and pants, and as his dark eyes lifted, Rhysand kept his face blank and impassive, relaxing into his chair as Nesta paused in the doorway, letting the shadows fall across her as she lingered, hardly daring to step forward into the sunlight. Rhysand was bathed in it— a warm slant of golden light burnishing his sable hair and illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw as he tilted his head to the side, cataloguing her hesitation.

If he realised that he was the last person in the entire realm that Nesta wanted to see today, he didn’t show it. Rhysand merely rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, curling his fingers towards his palm.

“Nesta,” he said, a curious expression flitting across his face, like he was trying to summon an ember of warmth when he spoke. “I came to see how you were doing.”

A lie if ever there was one.

Rhysand might as well have had ulterior motives written right across his damned forehead.

He sat back, crossing one ankle over his knee in a stance that was only deceptively casual. Nesta wasn’t a fool; Rhysand might have appeared calm, like the mirrored surface of a still lake, but beneath… she knew his display of ease was just as false as her own. Through narrowed eyes she watched him, feeling the flames lick at her bones as they coursed through her like a whisper, a lethal undercurrent every bit as potent as Rhysand’s.

“Where is Cassian?” she asked again, folding her arms over her chest and remaining, steadfast, in the shadowed corner by the door.

“In the city,” Rhysand answered, letting his hand drop to pluck at a piece of lint at his knee. “The flight will be good for him. He needs to rebuild the strength in his wings.”

Nesta said nothing.

Rhysand’s eyes glinted. “Did he not tell you?”

There was something cruel there, something biting that said the High Lord didn’t like the way Cassian seemed to act as though Nesta had become the centre of his world. Somehow, something told her he was hoping she’d say no.

But Cassian had told her. Had knocked tentatively on her door that morning, stuck his head around the frame and asked if she wanted to join him. He’d been building up to it for days, taking small fights here and there, never far from the House roof, and even though he always asked, Nesta had never stepped out to watch him. She preferred to linger in the shadows, like it might protect her somehow. But Cassian had always come right back to her when he touched ground, like he couldn’t stay away too long, and with the sun climbing higher in the sky, she thought he might have returned by now.

Not that she was concerned.

Not really.

She just couldn’t keep her mind from straying to that night when everything had fallen apart, when she’d been lying on that cold floor, unable to do anything but watch as he lay broken and too far from her reach, his wings in tatters, his blood spilling on the stone.

What if he was hurt? What if it was too soon, his wings not strong enough to bear his weight yet—

“How are you, anyway?” Rhysand asked, hauling Nesta back to the present.

It was almost conversational, almost like he cared.

Suspicion crawled along her spine, dripping thick as oil. In the five days since Rhysand had last visited the House of Wind - for that godforsaken dinner that Nesta had heartily declined Cassian’s invitation to - he had seemed entirely content to leave her be, learning of her welfare through questions posed to either Cassian or Azriel, and yet now Rhysand sat in that chair, in the library that had become Nesta’s source of peace, asking her how she was. She didn’t fail to miss the way his eyes flicked to her folded arms, like he could sense the fire gathering there behind her ribs, pooling at her fingertips.

“Fine,” she bit out, looking right past him and out of the windows, to the sun-drenched city below. The river was a silver ribbon running through the winding streets, glimmering as the midday sun beat down upon its length, and she knew that if she only stepped forward, the light would brush her cheeks and warm her skin.

She didn’t move.

The power beneath her skin coiled, curling in on itself as if preparing to strike, and Rhysand’s face was a mask of indifference as he followed her gaze to the windows. Tapping a finger gently on his knee, he looked back once more at the hands Nesta wrapped around herself. Something flickered in his violet eyes, the stars there winking out as his attention snagged on the hands she kept concealed. The High Lord cocked his head to the side, examining her the way one might look at a beast in the woods.

His lips parted as he leaned forwards, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her with a kind of scrutiny Nesta hadn’t felt since her mother had died.

And then—

“Cassian will kill me, but I need to know what happened that night at Hybern. Inside the Cauldron.”

Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in Nesta’s entire body locked, stiffening as Rhys’ voice quieted.

She should have known, she thought, as her heart pounded indignantly in her chest. The moment she saw him there, waiting for her, she should have known the questions were coming. Questions he’d asked before— ones she hadn’t answered then, and certainly didn’t feel like answering now.

“I told you last time,” she answered, her voice a rasp that threatened to cut her throat on its way out. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Fury bubbled in her gut, stealing her breath as she watched Feyre’s mate look at her with barely-concealed disdain, his lip curling as he dragged his eyes across her frame. In another life, another time, perhaps Nesta might have found a way to get along with Rhysand. Maybe even like him. But if she was a fire refusing to relent, then so was he. All her sharpness, all her stubbornness… it was thrown back at her, reflected in his eyes. Like calls to like, she’d heard them say, and as Rhysand looked at her with a glare that she knew was identical to her own, she wondered if in this case, like didn’t call to like, but repelled it.

“Is that all you’re here for?” she hissed. “To see what you can gain by what happened to Elain and I in that throne room?”

Somehow, his face darkened even further. A shadow crossed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists as tight as Nesta’s own, and whatever patience he’d had before, it was fraying now, perilously close to snapping. His power rumbled, like a distant thunderhead about to break. He closed his eyes, as if letting it wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a grim determination shining in the violet.

“You feel it,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Nesta. I know.” He held up a hand, spread his fingers and exposed his palm to her. She felt that rumble of darkness again, like it was skirting the edges of the House library, lurking. “I can feel whatever it is the Cauldron gave you. And I might have let it lie, but then Cassian mentioned the House magic had changed—”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Nesta growled, and this time it was true. She really didn’t have any idea what he meant about the House changing, and Cassian hadn’t said a word to her about it—

Rhys barrelled on, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Your power needs to be controlled,” he said, and if she wasn’t convinced of his arrogance, she’d have sworn that concern shaded his words. “You may not believe me, but you’re my sister-in-law now. I came to check that you and Elain were both well, for Feyre’s sake if nothing else.” He ran his hand over his hair, took a breath. “I want to see if Elain—”

“Stay away from her,” Nesta hissed.

“She may need a healer—”

“What she needs is to be kept as far away from all of you as possible.”

“‘All of you’?” he echoed darkly. “And does that include Cassian? Shall I tell him to stay away, too?”

Nesta folded her arms, refused to answer. The ice that had burrowed deep into her bones reared, and a chill skirted down her spine as pressure began to build in her fingertips, pushing against her skin, begging for release. It felt like… destruction, pure and simple. Nesta clenched her fists, taking a deep breath in an effort to force the burning cold back down again, right into the deepest recesses of herself, and when she looked up and met Rhysand’s eye, she saw his lips thin, and felt his own power rumbling in answer as her own battled to stay present.

Those starless eyes were utterly flat as he curled his hands around the carved wooden arm rests of his chair.

And then she felt something brush against her— against her mind.

It felt like claws, sharp enough to tear through the fabric of her thoughts, like he might crack her open to see what was hidden inside.

The sound that left her was one of horror as she stumbled backwards, her spine flush with the wall as she pinned the High Lord with a ferocious glare. Her palms were flat against the wood-panelled wall, the fire in her burning, and even though Rhysand’s eyes remained steady - like he was trying hard not to startle her - there was a tendril of shadow, no more substantive than mist, still pressing at the boundaries of her mind— boundaries she’d never noticed as a human.

Never needed to notice.

The hair on her arms rose, her skin pebbled as she fought to control her breathing. She knew Rhysand could enter minds, but he hadn’t ever tried to enter hers before. That brush of power felt unnervingly like a hand, tapping softly at the mental barrier she had unwittingly constructed around her mind, and it was enough to make her blood run cold— colder than the ice inside her ever could.

A snarl ripped free of her.

“Nesta, you need to learn control—“ he began.

“Leave,” she hissed.

“This is my house,” Rhysand tossed back.

Nesta glanced once to the windows— the sunlight outside, the city that she didn’t want to see any closer. Something inside her recoiled, and yet still, she scowled as she pushed away from the wall.

“Then I’ll leave,” she spat. “I’ll leave this whole damned place, and when Feyre returns, you can be the one to tell her why her sister is lost somewhere in Prythian.”

Rhysand gritted his teeth, his starless eyes cold and ruthless as he pushed to his feet. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he gave her one long, lingering look that scorched. With an elegant hand, he straightened his black shirt, a deep frown heavy on his brow as disapproval radiated from him in waves. Whatever fraction of warmth he’d managed to conjure before, it was gone now.

“Good day, then,” he said sharply.

Nesta didn’t answer, only watched him march past her to leave before she slammed the door closed behind him.

***

Velaris was a beauty in the sunlight.

The river gleamed like the shattered surface of a diamond, shifting with the current, and as Cassian looked out over its banks from ground level, he realised how much he had missed it. Missed this, losing himself in the same city he’d spent fifty years fighting to leave. He hadn’t thought at all how much he might miss this place during those long years Rhys was under the mountain, but now, as he tilted his head back and filled his lungs, he swore he’d never forget again.

From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of the market, a thousand voices on the wind like chimes, and the air itself was perfumed with lemon verbena and sea salt. Cassian took another deep breath of it, leaning his forearms on the railing overlooking the river, and thanking the Mother that he was able to stand there on that bridge at all.

Grateful— so grateful that the city had survived Hybern’s attack, and he had survived Hybern’s throne room.

His wings twitched at the memory. The flight down had been a strain on the freshly-healed membrane, but the burning he’d felt had been one of muscles remembering what it was to work, not pain. He’d felt the wind on his face and the elation fizzing in his blood, and for an hour he’d wandered the city before heading to the Palace of Thread and Jewels to place an order for a handful of dresses that didn’t seem too dissimilar to what Nesta had worn below the wall. He’d ordered some for Elain too, and charged the lot to Rhys’ account. And now, he was content to merely stand by and watch, to let the city roll by as the sun warmed his face, resting his wings as he relished the ache.

It was there, looking out over the Rainbow, that a familiar scent was carried to him on the wind.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, you know,” Cassian said dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the city before him.

He could practically hear Mor roll her eyes as she joined him at the edge, looping an arm through his and pulling him away from the railing. Beneath the sun, she was practically gilded, her blonde hair shining almost the exact same shade as the golden necklace around her neck. She nudged him in the ribs with an elbow as she nodded to his wings and scowled.

“I heard you’d flown down here and had to check for myself.” She huffed. “Az is going to win the bet, isn’t he?”

Cassian laughed softly. “Sorry?” he offered, stretching his wings with a grin. There was only a little tug of pain now, and he was certain that he’d be back to flying miles a day within a few short weeks, well within the timeframe Az had set when he’d bet Mor those ten gold coins.

“I don’t know whether or not to be insulted,” Cassian continued, letting Mor lead him across the bridge and into the winding city streets. “Az had more confidence in me than you did.”

“It’s nothing to do with confidence,” Mor protested, her painted lips parting as her jaw dropped. “I just didn’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

It was Cassian’s turn to nudge her in the ribs. He’d almost forgotten how easy it was between them— the banter of friends who had known one another so long. And yet, he’d always thought that when Mor smiled and laughed, there were no secrets to be had between them. Nothing they failed to share. He turned his head to the side as they walked and studied her, wondering what else she’d kept close to her chest all this time.

“Drink?” she suggested, pausing at the threshold of a riverfront cafe, tilting her head towards the round wooden tables shaded by pale yellow umbrellas. Lemon trees were dotted between tables, citrus-scented candles already lit in the centre of each.

Cassian nodded, letting himself be herded towards a table at the back, and within ten minutes - like the staff had dropped everything in their rush to serve members of their Lord’s circle - Mor was seated with her back to the river, cold drink in hand as, idly, she stirred the crushed ice with a straw. Cassian didn’t know whether he wanted to grimace or not; the recognition he received on the street had buoyed him once, made him feel like the world lay at his feet.

It felt sour, now.

He shook his head, fingers curling around a tall glass of water. Gratefully he drank, but still, he couldn’t stop the curiosity from taking hold whenever he looked over at the blonde he’d come to view as a sister.

Really— what else had Mor neglected to tell him over the centuries?

“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat after letting the silence stretch for a beat too long. “Are you ever going to tell me about the human you mentioned back in Illyria?”

Mor’s face fell. Her fingers slackened around the edge of her glass. “Cass…”

He shook his head. “Come on. Don’t you think it’s been secret long enough?”

She hesitated, the bracelets at her wrists sliding down towards her elbow with a musical clink as she tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear. He’d known her long enough to know well that it was one of her tells— an easy way of avoiding eye contact. For a moment he was sure that she was going to leave him sitting in silence, her eyes never straying from the ice beginning to melt in her drink, but then, so quietly he barely heard her, Mor said:

“We met during the war.”

Cassian felt his entire body still. Mor’s eyes were dark, like the memory alone veiled them with grief, and each word seemed to tear its way up her throat, like she had to force her tongue to shape the words.

“I was in love— so deeply I thought the world might stop turning if we were parted. I was so sure that once the war was over, we’d be together. We’d be happy, for whatever amount of time fate granted us. And I was prepared to give up everything. To leave here. To leave you, and Rhys, and Az, and never look back. I was ready to leave it all.” A pause. Heavy, loaded with hurt so many centuries old. “And then the wall went up.”

Her voice caught; stuttered.

“It took me years to find a way through, and when I did… it was too late.”

Cassian swore he could feel her loss radiating from her even now, and his heart twisted with sympathy as he said, gently, “Tell me about him.”

Still, Mor didn’t look up. Slowly she reached out, dragged a finger around the rim of her glass as if searching for something to do with her hands.

“She was a queen.”

She.

Cassian blinked.

The words stalled on his tongue, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right thing to say. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his fair share of lovers of both sexes over the years, but Mor had kept this secret so close to her chest that he’d had no idea. Not even the faintest suspicion. And a queen…

He supposed it made sense now, why Mor had sneered so decidedly at the human queens they’d met in the Archeron manor.

With a frown carving a deep line between his brows, slowly Cassian leaned forward and placed his hand on Mor’s wrist, watching as her fingers stilled on the edge of her glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “And I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“It was just… easier to keep things the way they were,” she shrugged. Her eyes remained fixed on her drink, on the table beneath it. “It hurt, Cass. To know that she lived her life and then just… died. Without me.” Pain limned her face, tightened her jaw and made her voice a whisper. “Their lives are so brief— so fleeting. Everything I said before… I was just trying to protect you.” Another shrug punctuated her words, and at last - at last - Mor looked up. Her eyes were wide. “Maybe I didn’t go about it in the best way…”

Cassian couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him.

Mor’s eyes rolled, her huff soft as she folded her arms and rested them on the table. “Nesta and I won’t suddenly be the best of friends, but I can admit that I was wrong. I just… didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know,” Cassian said, shrugging as he rested an elbow on the arm of the wooden chair, curling his hand into a fist beneath his cheek. “But she’s my mate, Mor.”

It was the first time he’d said the words out loud to her, and although a shade crossed her brown eyes, she didn’t seem shocked. Her sigh was so quiet it was masked by the breeze.

“I know,” she echoed. When Cassian opened his mouth to ask how, blithely she waved a hand. “Truth, remember?” She smiled wryly. “I knew the moment she was tipped out of that Cauldron.”

He shook his head. “I felt it long before that.”

Mor hummed, welcoming the way the conversation shifted, tilted away from the parts of her left most vulnerable. “It wasn’t as strong then. Her mortality… it dimmed it, masked it just like the wall dampens our powers when we cross the border.”

And yet, Cassian thought, it didn’t really matter, did it? The how or why or when. He felt it now, stronger than ever, and as though he was pulled by an invisible string, his head turned, looking out across the river to the mountains on the other side of the city— to the House built right into the rock.

The windows gleamed, reflected the sun. And he wondered… which one did she sit behind? And how far was the distance between them now? Could he measure it in heartbeats?

“I miss her,” he said when he tore his eyes away. “I saw her this morning, and yet I miss her. What the fuck is that?”

Mor reached out to grasp his hand, and when he looked, he swore he saw tears linger behind her eyes, silver lining her lashes.

“You’re lucky” she said. “So lucky, Cass.”

He didn’t feel especially lucky, and yet, as he looked back to the House…

Cassian pushed away from the table.

“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding slowly. And as he stretched his wings and shot Mor a wry smile, he looked back across the city to the House and felt it pulling him back, a line in his chest as tight as a bow string. With one last look, and one last smile, Cassian looked to the woman he’d known for so many centuries and turned his back.

Decidedly he said,

“I’m going home.”

***

It was with aching wings that Cassian landed smoothly on the roof of the House, yet he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he tilted his head back and took a last look at the sky, the sun beating down on his skin. The wind ran fingers through his hair, brushed his cheeks, and Cassian savoured it: the elation that came with flying, that feeling that tasted so much like freedom.

It had been harder, flying up from the city rather than down. The muscles that had only slightly pulled with exertion before were protesting now, as if to remind him that he still had a little way to go before being back to full strength, but—

It didn’t matter.

The sun was shining, the day was warm and beautiful, and he’d just taken his first proper flight in weeks. As he entered the House in search of Nesta - because wasn’t he always in search of her these days? - he didn’t think there was anything the Mother could throw at him that could ruin his good mood.

And then he found her.

Nesta was curled on the sofa in the library, her legs tucked beneath her, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Though a book lay open in her lap, pages splayed, every line of her was stiff and weighted with tension, like she’d waded into a lake with rocks in her pocket. Her eyes didn’t move across the page— didn’t move at all in fact, not even to glance his way when he entered the room. Nesta kept her attention on the page before her, staring down like she wanted the entire room to swallow her.

Suddenly, Cassian felt like his heart was in his throat.

The grin that had been plastered to his face dropped, his steps slowing, as if he suddenly felt he had to move slowly.

“Good book?” he asked with a breeziness he didn’t feel, throwing his weight down onto the sofa beside her. Anything to provoke a reaction.

He wanted her to scowl, wanted her to glare at him, to ask him what he did with all that battlefield grace when he wasn’t using it. Come on, his eyes seemed to say when they looked her way.

Nesta said nothing.

“I went to a dressmaker today,” he said lightly, casting an arm wide and letting it rest on the back of the sofa. His fingers were an inch from brushing her shoulder, and gods, he longed to close that distance and let his skin brush hers, even if it was just for a moment.

Nesta blinked.

“Maybe you could come with me next time. Let her take your measurements properly.”

“No,” Nesta answered quickly, stiffly, her eyes still fixed on the pages of her book, like she might find solace there if only she searched hard enough.

“You liked the city before,” Cassian said gently, cutting a glance to the bracelet still tied around her wrist.

The one he’d put there.

The one that, even now, she never took off.

“No.”

Hopelessness was a bitter taste, cresting in his chest like a brutal wave as Nesta turned the page in her book. He was certain she hadn’t read a word since he’d entered, and yet she sniffed and focused her attention entirely on the pages before her, like he wasn’t there at all.

He frowned.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable, and sensing that Nesta wanted nothing but solitude, Cassian sighed before rising from the sofa. He stretched his wings, watching her, waiting for her to ask him to stay— waiting for her to just look at him.

She didn’t.

He didn’t know what had set her off today, but somehow, he didn’t think he’d get an answer even if he asked.

“I’ll… leave you to it, then,” he said uneasily.

Nesta sniffed a little, but still, said nothing.

He wasn’t fool enough to think she’d ask him to stay, and yet still, he hoped. Like a fucking idiot, he hoped that she might turn to him and let him in.  Cassian felt his heart crack, her pain like a razor that sliced into him with her every dejected blink, and his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to fold her in his arms and hold her until everything stopped hurting.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaning over, though, and dropping a kiss to the crown of her head as he rose to his feet. He didn’t miss the way her eyes closed, like part of her wanted to savour it. His hand cradled the back of her head as his lips touched her hair, like he might be able to hold her to his mouth, kiss away the pain. He curled his fingers in her hair before pulling back, giving her a gentle smile as he eased away.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said.

Briefly, Nesta looked up. She met his eye, her face filled with regret, and it was all Cassian could do to brush a thumb across her cheek before he left— smiling gently, even as his heart broke.

***

“Well, don’t you look terrible.”

Azriel’s voice was a cutting drawl, brutally acerbic as Cassian entered the small sitting room that bridged the gap between his room and the Shadowsinger’s. His brother sat alone, occupying one of the four chairs that had sat before that hearth for centuries now, with Truth-teller balanced in one scarred palm as he inspected the blade. The flat edge, freshly oiled and polished, shone like a mirror.

Cassian sank heavily into the chair that was always reserved for him in this room, allowing the cushions to swallow him as he rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “Rough day,” he said with a barely-there shrug.

Az lifted a brow. “It’s barely past noon.”

When Cassian didn’t answer, Azriel laid Truth-teller across his knee, and leaned forward as his shadows darted out to wind around the legs of Cassian’s chair.

Nosy fuckers.

“Rough flight?” Az asked.

“Not really.” Cassian shrugged again, more definitive this time. His eyes flicked up. “Don’t worry. You’ll still win your bet.”

Az smiled, wicked, before returning his attention to the weapon in his lap. “Mor will be furious.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “It’s Nesta,” he said from behind his fingers. “Something’s bothered her today.”

After a moment, Az glanced up from his blade. “Rhys was here earlier.”

Another groan rumbled from somewhere deep in Cassian’s chest, a sound so weary he was astounded he didn’t fold. “How many times do I need to say it,” he muttered. “Pushing her isn’t going to help anybody.”

“You know Rhys,” Az shrugged. “He’s curious. And you know as well as I do that he can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

Cassian tipped his head back. “Sometimes I wish he would. That inability to do nothing got him stuck Under the Mountain fifty fucking years ago, and it’s exactly what’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass now.”

Azriel said nothing. Shrewd, he looked Cassian over, taking in every ounce of tension that lay thick across his frame. A small furrow carved a path between his brows.

“How is she?” he asked.

Cassian shook his head as he straightened in his chair, leaning an elbow on the curved wooden armrest and resting his chin atop his curled fist. “She’s in the library,” he answered. “Never seems to leave it. Like the books are the only thing that can comfort her.”

It’s the only escape I have, she’d told him once. A lifetime ago, in that stable below the wall.

Shadows whispered at Azriel’s ankles as the Spymaster took a final look at Truth-teller before sliding the blade back into the rune-embossed sheath. His eyes carried the echo of concern— not as potent as Cassian’s, but still there was something there, lurking just beneath the hazel, that said Azriel cared in that quiet, unassuming way of his for the woman sitting in silence downstairs.

“This is all new to her,” Az said softly. “She needs time to adjust.”

“She’s drowning, Az.”

Azriel sighed. “It’s not good for her, staying closeted away up here. She needs some fresh air. Needs to see people that aren’t us.”

Cassian stilled.

People that aren’t us.

Something clicked.

“Of course,” he murmured. “She won’t go into the city, but maybe… Maybe I can bring someone to her instead.”

Az looked confused, but Cassian leaned forward in his chair.

“I need you to do me a favour.”

***

The early afternoon light slanted across the library, warm where it fell across the patterned carpets. The room was washed with ochre, bright and rich, and yet—

Nesta hadn’t moved since Rhysand had left, frozen like one the statues that used to grace her father’s gardens.

Motionless and cold as stone, she sat with the same book in her lap that she had been pretending to read when Cassian had returned from the city earlier, the pages unturned, unread, as cracks formed in her chest that felt like valleys. She had watched the sun trace a path across the sky, pretending to read in the hopes it might help her forget all else, but it was useless. Just like the statues in her father’s garden, she was stiff, immovable— her eyes flat and hollow, feeling more like an imitation of life than anything else.

Bitterly, she sighed.

And just when she was about to close the book and give up altogether, the library door opened with a whisper against the carpeted floor. Cassian entered first, shouldering his way through the doorframe, holding the door open for Azriel and, behind him, a woman that Nesta did not recognise. A woman with wings— an Illyrian.

“Hey, Nes,” Cassian said, his voice quiet, like she was a deer he didn’t want to startle.

She blinked— said nothing. Both Azriel and the woman smelled of cold, like snow and wind, and though she wanted to ask so many questions, she couldn’t find the energy to speak.

The stranger stood in the centre of the library, the light gliding smoothly over her burnished skin as warm brown eyes took in the scene before her. With something like wonder on her face she looked at the windows offering a vista of the city below, and only with effort did she tear her attention away, noting the towering shelves that lined the walls before letting her gaze land, finally, on Nesta, sitting curled upon her sofa.

She took one look at her - just one - before turning sharply on her heel and looking up at Cassian and Azriel both. The move exposed her back, and the wings she kept tucked tight against her spine. As Nesta looked, she fought the urge to gasp, smothering the horror as it built. With the sunlight shining at an angle, each raised welt on the stranger’s wings was cast into brutal relief; deep valleys made by old and deliberate wounds appeared all the more vicious in the direct light, and the membrane of her wings was littered with so much scar tissue Nesta thought it was a wonder she could lift them at all.

But the stranger did not seem to care that the sunlight exposed her scars. She merely tilted her head, the movement causing her ruined wings to shift.

“You can go now,” she said simply.

Azriel nodded, slipping back through the door without another word, but Cassian… he hesitated. The stranger put her hands on her hips, a gesture that suggested she would brook no argument as she jerked her head towards the windows, braided ebony hair falling over her shoulder.

“Go down to the city. Go to Windhaven. Go anywhere. Surely you have better things to be doing than supervising a conversation between friends, General.”

Nesta frowned. Friends— she didn’t think she’d ever had many of those, and yet the dark-haired stranger stood there with her damaged wings, her cheeks still flushed from the cold of wherever she’d been before, and declared herself Nesta Archeron’s friend. She blinked against the strangeness of it, and as she watched, Cassian looked up and met her eye, a glimmer of hope dancing across his face that made some small part of her want to reach out and grasp it, if only to keep that spark in his eyes for a little while longer.

At length, he nodded.

“I’ll be training on the roof if you need me,” he said.

The woman grinned.

“We won’t,” she said, so saccharine it almost pulled a laugh from Nesta’s throat. Even Cassian smiled softly at that, his eyes flicking back to Nesta as if he, too, had sensed the laugh she’d almost loosed. Holding his hands up in surrender, he backed away, slipping through the door without another word. In his wake, the woman turned and offered Nesta a smile that was gentle and soft— kind in a way so few had ever been towards her.

“Nesta?” she said, walking slowly across the library floor. “It’s me. Emerie.” She gave her a small wave. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

There was hesitation in the way Nesta unfolded on that sofa, letting her feet drop to the floor as she sat up straighter. Every move was slow, like she was still waiting for a trick to be revealed. Her eyes darted to the door, but Emerie shook her head.

“They’re gone,” she said with a shrug. “Nosy busy-bodies the pair of them, but I figured it would be good for us to catch up, just the two of us.” She nodded to the sofa, to the empty space that yawned beside Nesta. “May I?”

Nesta didn’t know what to say.

Suddenly, she felt the absurd urge to cry. The encounter with Rhysand that morning had plagued her all day, the words he’d said thrown back at her in the empty silence of the library. If not for Cassian - and Azriel, she supposed - Nesta didn’t think she’d see a single friendly face, what with Elain rarely able to leave her bed, and it was beginning to build now— a kind of loneliness she’d never really felt before, starting to wear her thin.

She looked to the door again, nodding as Emerie sat down, adjusting her wings with stiff movements over the low back of the library sofa.

“Cassian has been kind to me,” Nesta began, “but I’m glad to see another friendly face.”

Emerie’s brow furrowed. “Are they in short supply around here?”

Nesta shrugged. “You could say that.”

Her eyes travelled to Emerie’s wings, to the scars right down the centre of each. The injuries were a mirror of one another, the jagged edges and raised tissue in the exact same place, like somebody had taken a careless hand to each wing with purpose. Emerie’s face turned a shade paler as she watched Nesta take in those deliberate wounds.

“My father is a cruel man,” she said in explanation, as if it were the only thing that needed to be said.

Behind her ribs, Nesta felt her heart constrict.

“So was my mother,” she whispered in answer. Her eyes went to the scar on her thumb, the brutal reminder of all she’d endured. “And my grandmother, too.”

Emerie pressed a hand to that scar on Nesta’s thumb, as if she might be able to mask it somehow. “I trust they’re gone now?” Nesta nodded, and Emerie patted her hand lightly, like the news pleased her. “Good. Maybe soon, my father will be too.”

Her voice was blithe and dry, and yet there was still a spark in her deep brown eyes, one that Nesta suspected Emerie had fought hard to rekindle. She studied the woman before her— Emerie’s scars so much more obvious and devastating than Nesta’s own, and yet… Emerie had written her letters, had found joy in her books. Was still living, despite it all.

“How do you…” Nesta started. Failed.

How do you carry on?

How do you open your eyes each morning and still drag yourself from bed, despite everything you’ve endured?

Emerie seemed to understand anyway.

“He gave me life,” she answered, “but that doesn’t mean he can bend me to his will. He might have broken me once, but that doesn’t mean I am without value.” She shuddered, cleared her throat. “And besides, broken things can always be mended. And they are always stronger afterwards.” She met Nesta’s eyes without fear, and if she noticed the silver there, she said nothing. After a moment, her dark eyes sparked. “But I didn’t come here to cry, Nesta Archeron from Below the Wall.”

She said it like it was a title, and Nesta couldn’t help the wry huff of a laugh that escaped her.

“Then why are you here?” she asked with a raised brow.

Emerie grinned in answer, lifting up the canvas bag she’d brought and pulling out a book. “I’m here because I’m  sick of talking books with you over letters. They’re so incredibly drawn out and slow. I’d rather do it in person.”

She handed it over, the cover emblazoned with the name Sellyn Drake. Nesta felt the smile pull at her mouth, a feeling so foreign these days that she almost wanted to hide it.

“The smuttiest I could find,” Emerie said before Nesta could bury that smile beneath a glare. When Nesta looked up, the Illyrian’s eyes were practically dancing with glee, and Nesta couldn’t help it. She laughed— laughed, for the first time since Hybern.

She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

She felt her face drop, felt heat build behind her eyes. Not the burn of the silver fire, but the warmth of tears threatening to spill, and Emerie leaned over, patted her on the hand once again, as if to tell her it was okay— to cry if she needed to.

Nesta shook her head, forced away her tears. Emerie smiled softly, and as if already knowing what they needed, a silver tea service appeared on the low table before the sofa, steam rising in curls from a decorated silver teapot. Courtesy of the House, Nesta assumed, and for a moment her mind went back to what Rhysand had said earlier, about the House’s magic changing.

She hadn’t asked for the tea.

And yet there it was, two porcelain cups sitting beside a bowl piled high with sugar cubes, a pair of small silver tongs lying perfectly straight alongside. Nesta tilted her head, frowned as the tea fragranced the air, but said nothing as Emerie clapped with delight and reached over to lift the teapot, filling both porcelain cups before reaching for the sugar.

“You know, I was surprised,” Emerie began after a moment, dropping a cube of sugar into her tea,  “when the almighty General of the Night Court came into my father’s shop and asked for book recommendations.”

“Like I said,” Nesta shrugged, leaving her own tea to cool. “He’s been kind.”

Emerie raised a brow. “More than kind, I’d wager.”

Nesta felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks, but flipped open the cover of the Sellyn Drake novel instead of looking up and meeting her friend’s eye. Still, Emerie pressed.

“Come on, Nesta. You’ve got to be sleeping with him.”

Nesta’s mouth dropped open— in disbelief, in protest, in laughter; she wasn’t sure. At length she took her head, dipping her gaze again.

“No,” she answered at last.

Emerie almost choked on her tea. “What? Why?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch as disbelief wrote itself across her face. “Nesta, he’s enamoured with you. And you obviously feel the same.”

Nesta waved a hand, refusing to focus on how obvious she apparently was. “Before, maybe. But it’s different now.”

“It’s easier now,” Emerie countered. “Surely.”

Nesta shook her head once more. “No, it’s not. I’m not…” she trailed off. Didn’t know how to say it. “I’m not who I was before.”

Emerie shrugged as she set down her tea. “I think he’d love you anyway.”

It was Nesta’s turn to choke.

That word— love.

She’d stopped him from saying it. Hadn’t been able to bear it; didn’t think she could stand to hear the words fall from his lips, to hear him tell her he loved her, when the woman he had fallen for was gone.

“I’m not me anymore,” Nesta whispered.

“The Nesta Archeron that wrote me letters to thank me for lending her books…” Emerie reached out, taking Nesta’s hands in her own. Her palms were warm, and Nesta wanted to pull away, afraid that the flames might make an appearance, but Emerie held tight. “I’m certain that I’m talking to her right now.”

She pushed before Nesta could protest.

“I know what it is to be… irrevocably changed by someone else’s hand. After my father cut my wings…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to you in Hybern. Azriel wouldn’t tell me anything beyond the basics when I asked before he brought me here, but I think I know a little of how you’re feeling. I felt like my father had robbed me of everything that made me who I was.”

“They couldn’t heal them? Your wings?” Nesta thought of Cassian’s wings; entirely rebuilt. The way he’d looked so mournfully to the windows over the past few days, like the inability to fly had been a wound in itself. She didn’t know how Emerie had coped, if flight was as integral to the Illyrians as Cassian had made out.

Emerie shrugged. “Not in Illyria. And certainly not while my father lives. Maybe someday.”

Silence fell, but not uncomfortable. Emerie offered her a small smile.

“My point is that I remembered who I was, eventually.” Her eyes glinted. “And besides, I don’t think the General is a fickle man. I mean it, Nesta. I saw his face when I arrived. He’s exactly the same as when he walked into my shop and asked what kind of books a mortal woman might enjoy.”

Emerie’s face was soft, and Nesta glanced to the door as if expecting him to walk through it, and a small, tiny voice at the back of her mind, whispered that maybe… maybe he would still love her, regardless of what had changed.

And as she looked at Emerie, suddenly…

Suddenly, the darkness didn’t feel quite so impenetrable. Like there might be a crack somewhere that would let the light in.

“Now,” Emerie said, sinking back against the cushions and letting her wings stretch the little her scars would allow. “Are we going to keep being maudlin? Or are we going to discuss this?”

She held up the Sellyn Drake novel with one hand, its pages gilded by the afternoon sun. Nesta managed a smile, reaching for her tea and lifting the porcelain to her lips as she jerked her chin at the book Emerie held aloft.

“Go on then,” she said. “Show me just how smutty it gets.”

***

After a handful of hours, when the sun had gone down and darkness gathered on the horizon, Cassian ventured back downstairs.

It had been agony, forcing himself to remain on that roof, throwing the same punches and tossing the same daggers in a cycle, and over the course of the entire afternoon he’d tried hard to keep his mind away from the library beneath his feet. Away from the woman inside it.

Nesta hadn’t left the library yet, and Emerie hadn’t ventured upstairs to ask whether Azriel could winnow her back home.

Cassian wondered whether something had gone wrong.

After retrieving the dagger he’d just thrown from the chest of a training dummy, he abandoned the pretence and headed inside, his boots heavy on the stone floor. With each step the library grew nearer, and the silence in the House was so complete even his breaths seemed to echo.

The door was still firmly closed when he reached the hallway, the sconces lining the walls glowing gently as he approached.

And as Cassian reached for the door handle…

Nesta laughed.

The sound drifted through the thick wood of the library door, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was enough to make him weak, and fuck, he’d die for that laugh.

He gripped the handle to steady himself, fingers curling around the metal, but he didn’t turn it. Even though he wanted so desperately to open that door and see her smiling…

Softly he drew away from the door, smiling to himself as Emerie’s laugh joined Nesta’s. Another peal of it rang through the hall, following him as he turned his back and walked away, chasing his steps as he headed right back the way he came. And as the sun fell fully behind the mountains and left the House of Wind in shadow, Cassian looked over his shoulder and heard that laugh again, quieter now but no less precious, and felt hope bloom in his chest.

Beautiful, fragile, perfect.

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[bellewintersroe]

okay i'm glad! then i'm sending this in if you ever get back in a BoB mood, but no pressure :)

can i request headcanons on how some of them would react (i was thinking mainly Liebgott, Roe and Speirs, but absolutely feel free to add anyone you want too like Luz or Malarkey) if the Easy company gets dispatched in a town near the sea/has to sleep in a beach or similar, and the sweet and kind nurse that is always dispatched with the second battalion (who everyone is crushing on ofc hahaha) as soon as all the high ranks are gone just, takes off her uniform (so she is like in her bra and underwear) and just bolts it towards the sea, calling for the others to join her and play around in the water, because she just loves the sea that much?

i just thought something fun and light could be cute, since the boys definitely need some fun time :)🫶🏻

heyyyy omg so sorry it’s taken so long to reply but thank you thank you thank you for your request! I love this idea sm!! I have altered it slightly to make it more realistic (don’t ask why cos I bend the rules all the time) but I hope these head cannons are okay!!! &lt;3 <3 <3 <3

Band of Brothers x Nurse!Reader Headcannons

General HC’s for 2nd battalion + some more men reacting to their well loved nurse having some fun in the water.

So first let me set the scene, you’ve all just been told you’re being shipped back off to the pacific and morale has somewhat dropped again.

theres so much anxiety snd tension in the air that nobody really can unwind, so after one particularly gruelling training session, 2nd battalions nurse decides to have a little fun…

It’s a boiling hot day in Austria, the lake looks so inviting, and she’s such a sweetheart she just wants to boost morale. All the men absolutely adore her, if they don’t have a crush on her they find her endearing and a comfort to them.

“fuck it.” She mutters, stripping off her uniform as she runs closer to the pier, dropping each piece of clothing behind her.

One by one all the men’s heads turn and then suddenly begin whooping and whistling in excitement. Joe Liebgott:

Stunned to see you stripping off, in fact he remains frozen with his jaw dropped for a few moments. He’s so used to seeing you all covered up and oh my god boobs.

“Close your trap, Joe, you’re trapping flies.”

wouldn’t take much convincing to get in, I think he’d be super playful with you, splashing you and dunking you.

deffo splashes you a little too much, but when you’d jump on his back and he feels the press of your boobs against his bare back- uhhhh his brain turns to mush.

“It’s so nice, isn't it Joe?”

“Uh- yeah, so nice…” deffo gets a boner.

Eugene Roe:

Maybe a lil different scenario, I feel like if there was a group of you he’d probably sit on the side watching and laughing in amusement.

he’d watch you strip off and immediately avert his eyes out of respect but ohmygodogogososo he’s blushing- he hasn’t seen a woman like that for years.

you’re already super close, so to be able to have downtime together creates something more… intimate.

if you’d jump in at the end of the day, the sun setting when it’s just the two of you I don’t think it would take much convincing to for him to get in the water.

you’d float further back from the surface with a smirk as he undressed, jumping in and purposefully splashing you.

would be a little more shy, especially if there’s more men around, but the second you joke about how he might need to give you cpr and the kiss of life he’s smirking and acting all cool and omg.

his hands would snake lower and lower down onto your butt and everybody would be none the wiser around you guys if there was others there.

who knew Roe could be such a flirt?

Ron Speirs:

Now this guy being your literal superior probably wouldn’t linger around to see you, 2nd battalions own nurse, strip off to go for a swim whilst all the horny men giggle like children from the land.

he’d deffo know he had to be more respectful, but let’s change the time a little, it’s just after the German army surrendered, you’re both wasted.

Rob asks you like ‘so what were you doing in the water the other day?’

You’d tell him in return you were just having some fun and he should’ve tried it. Ron, in a celebratory mood, and captivated by how fucking beautiful you are just thinks ‘fuck it’ and makes the decision to go on a ‘walk’.

You end up pushing each other into the water.

for a moment you’re probs shocked that this is literally Captain Speirs you’re swimming with, but things get… heated and there’s no time to think about being intimidated.

you’d deffo probs have the hottest, spontaneous sex with him in the water lmaooo.

George Luz:

You just know this man would be the first one to jump in with you OMG.

he’d be so excited like finally, somebody’s just as fun as he is…

Probs like that kid on holiday that takes it too far and dunks you to the point you’re so out of breath.

I feel like you two would physically play fight to playfully drowning each other. Would be chaos central and anybody who tried to come near you would get a face-full of water.

Don’t be surprised if you wake up the next day with bruises.

kinda sweet tho, you’d lay on the beach together the same night and he’d be all sweet, apologising and checking he didn’t take it too far?

Don Malarkey:

Everybody knows Don needs this time to unwind and just have some fun.

for the first time in months he feels more like himself, the two of you already have a very close bond so it makes you both so mutually happy to the see the other so care free.

I think he’d be laughing like crazy, probably throwing you off the dock and then jumping in after you, cos even tho he’s playing around he doesn’t want to be too rough with you.

would happily shove any of the other men in the water so that the two of you are left standing on the land together.

When he see’s you in your wet bikini oh my godddd- his brain turns to mush and he practically avoids even making eye contact with you he’s that nervous.

when you sit on his lap later that evening he’s done for.

he’s a little stunned cos you’re always so sweet and innocent… but it feels like a dream come true for Malarkey.

[miss-tc-nova]

S/O Goes Under - Octavinelle

You know, I liked this one. I know I could've made it more sinister, but apparently rip currents are more common and more deadly than most sea creatures...so I'm not going back into the ocean again.

But I hope you enjoyed this! Hope Floyd's not too ooc. He kinda got away from me. Slippery bastard.

Premise: The boys have to rescue their S/O that goes under

Words:

Azul - 363

Jade - 360

Floyd - 331

~~~~~

Azul

The housewarden relaxes in the shade, going over the Lounge’s numbers because, yes, that’s how he relaxes. Every now and then, however, he glances up, a smile playing on his lips as he spies his beloved frolicking in the water not far off.

Peering up from his book, he surveys his companions. The twins are happily building the most elaborate sand castle in all of Twisted Wonderland. Meanwhile, his darling has ventured a little further into the water, paddling about contentedly.

Without warning, the human goes under in a peculiar manner, causing Azul to sit straight. Immediately, his eyes dart back to the eels, both still in perfect view.

A jolt shocks his heart and Azul is on his feet, racing across the sand, ignoring the occasional stumble that threatens to break his ankles.

Hitting the water, Azul’s form shifts, drastically increasing in size as he races along the rush of water kidnapping the land dweller. Spotting his helpless human being dragged out to sea—drowning—tears at his gut, spurring the merman to swim faster.

Within reach, an arm flies forward, his hand snatching up his beloved as soon as he can. Immediately after, his direction changes, thrusting the pair sideways. Knowing better than to fight against a rip current, Azul swims well out of the current’s grasp, scrambling for the surface.

Breaking thought, the young man lifts his hands, palms open where lies the tiny human. Before he can panic, his darling coughs up a mouthful of water, blinking and sitting up. Gorgeous eyes peer up at his monstrous-sized form in awe, but Azul—self-conscious like no other—simply sighs.

“Do they not teach you about rip currents in land schools? Yes well, admittedly, this form is far more suited to water rescue, so thank you for forcing me to use it. Excuse me?! S-Stop being ridiculous! If you continue this nonsense, I’ll place you back in the rip current.” *Sigh* “Fine. I suppose I can indulge you just a little while, but we’ll have to stay in the water. I’m even less agile on land in the form if you can believe that. Hm? I’m just glad your safe, sweetheart.”

Jade

Jade has his fun in the water, now choosing to admire the scant beach foliage and fauna he comes across in his stroll. However, his gaze repeatedly and frequently wanders back to the water, where his dear happily splashes about.

Chuckling at the scuttling crab far too small for any worthwhile meal, he surveys the sands once again. Azul hasn’t left his lounge this entire trip, grumbling about the sun and avidly avoiding the water. Meanwhile, Floyd pestered Jade and his partner until they dug a trench in which to bury him and he couldn’t be any happier. Yet nothing pleases Jade more than seeing his love enjoying this time of relaxation and fun in the water.

 Just as he’s about to continue his walk, he hears a large splash and his gaze jerks to the water, entirely undisturbed and no human in sight.

Knowing that Azul is still lounging in his chair and Floyd is still buried to his neck in sand, Jade takes off. Before he can even hit the water, his mer form is in full effects. In the distance, he can just see the flailing figures being whisked to deeper waters.

Faster than he ever has, Jade bolts the current towards the struggling human. Even with his love in his arms, Jade’s speed never falters, only changes direction to escape the current. He breaks the current but receives no immediate response and continues the race back towards the shore.

However, about half way back, a cough rips his attention back. Turning onto his back, Jade floats in a way to keep his partner above the water. Shaking the water from the face, the human peers up at him.

“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble. But don’t worry, you’re safe now. I must teach you how to avoid rip currents in the future. Hm-hm. You like it? Oh yes, I can swim considerably faster in this form. Shall we return to the shore? Are you sure? I see. Then would you like to float with me? Certainly, feel free to hold onto me if you’d like. Of course, I’ll always have my eye on you.”

Floyd

Floyd’s hands scrape through the sand, heaping mounds and mounds out ground and letting it pile up high around him. He’s spent plenty of time on beaches in the water, but not nearly the same amount of time in the sand. This whole sand castle thing his babe told him about sounded fascinating and he’s attempting to build the best one ever seen. The couple began this journey together, but recently his other half abandoned him for the waves, which he didn’t mind.

Happy with his mote, Floyd takes a glance around. Jade was off on some nature walk, being boring, while Azul was reading in his chair, also being boring. That partner of his, though, appeared to be having fun, splashing around.

Suddenly, his babe goes under with a yelp. At first, Floyd cackles, knowing exactly what happened. But the longer it takes the land dweller to resurface, the more his laughter fades. Ultimately, he starts cursing as he runs for the water, diving right into the current.

His mer form takes over as he speeds through the water, easily spotting his drowning other being carried away—no longer struggling. Snatching up the human and slithering out of the current, Floyd rushes back towards the shore. He reaches the shallows and hoists the victim up on the sands.

The harsh heave is enough to coax the water to come back up. Yet as those eyes blink, Floyd glares back down with a pout.

“Are you stupid? You can’t swim against a rip current. No, you’re supposed to swim sideways out of it. Geeze. You’re lucky I’m a good swimmer. You’d be toast if it weren’t for me. Huh? No, you made me change forms, so now you’re gonna sit here with me in the shallows. You arguin’ with me? Don’t make me put the squeeze on you. My grip’s a lot stronger like this. That’s right. Like this! Ahaha! You know I wouldn’t let nothin’ happen to you. You’re mine.”

~~~~~

Nova’s Twisted Wonderland Masterlist

[sempersirens]

sempersirens' masterlist

hello! i'm dee. i currently write for joel miller (tlou) and my requests are open

i do not have a taglist, so please follow my updates blog @sempersirenswrites to be notified each time i post a new fic

last updated: 09/07/24

all fics are 18+ and have specific content warnings for each chapter. no use of y/n. mdni

a bird in your teeth

pairing: neighbour!joel x f!reader status: completed since moving into the neighborhood a couple of years ago, you've become close with the miller family. as a young woman living alone joel is protective of you, and he intends to show you how much so. part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue

sun bleached flies

pairing: previous dark/raider!joel x f!reader status: ongoing stumbling upon the settlement of jackson whilst 4 months pregnant had almost felt too good to be true. for the past seven years, you had been able to raise your daughter, mia, surrounded by a safe and supportive community. however, your small slice of paradise comes tumbling down the day joel miller arrived. despite only crossing paths for a fleeting encounter all those years ago, you would never forget the face of your daughter's father. chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six extras: cut monologue from chapter three

yes, chef

pairing: chef!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus joel miller is the head chef of a prestigious michelin star restaurant in the city. after working for him for over a year, you're determined to not let his ill-temper and cutting words dampen your spirit and love for your career. you won't give in at chipping away at his tough exterior, living in the hope of finding something sweeter below the surface (request) | part one | part two | part three extras: playlist i imagine joel x reader dancing around joel's kitchen to

raising hell all over town

pairing: best friend's dad!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus you've been a friend of sarah's since you were old enough to steal bottles of her dad's whiskey for parties. sarah was always the sensible one in your friendship, getting you out of the trouble you usually started. but now sarah has gone off to college, who else but joel could pick up the pieces? part one | part two coming soon

the fig tree

pairing: au therapist!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus a twenty-something woman, on the brink of everything and nothing at all, takes on a new therapist to heal from her traumatic past. however, lines become blurred when you discover dr. miller has skeletons of his own. series masterlist

daughter lessons

pairing: jackson era!joel x f!reader status: completed (one shot) would it kill joel to just touch you?

strangers in the night

pairing: historical fantasy au!joel x f!reader status: ongoing does death truly do us part? over six different lifetimes, he finds you. no war, plague, or famine can keep him from stumbling into your life. and he is always hardened and stubborn; goodness seems immiscible to his existence. but you are always there, a lighthouse illuminating his way home. will it take the end of the world for tenderness to finally carve a home between you? series masterlist | part one

[kinascum]

OUR MOMENTS - M. STURNIOLO

WARNINGS: none

NOTES: you might have seen this in my old bc re-wrote it and posted it here again whoopsie

As autumn approaches and the last days of summer fade away, you and your companion both find yourselves appreciating the newfound tranquility. The backyard pool, once a hub of activity and laughter, now lays silent, save for the occasional gust of wind that ripples its surface. The air grows cooler, but it only serves to draw you both closer together, wrapped in each other's company. You cherish these peaceful moments, savoring the opportunity to simply be together, bask in the stillness, and enjoy each other's presence.

In the fall, flour flies over your heads as your soft laughter echoes around the kitchen, and the episode of Gilmore Girls is left forgotten in the background. You continue to mix the pumpkin-flavored batter as Matt takes a moment to appreciate these little moments with you, where your hair falls perfectly over your face and your smile doesn't leave your face even when you are done playing.

The winter embraces you with its coldness as you sit next to Matt in front of the fireplace, hands clasped together and brought up to his mouth, where hot air blows into them, bringing warmth to your senses. The soft tune of Lana del Rey's Paris, Texas fills the living room, creating a cozy ambiance as you both quietly scroll through your phones, legs tangled together, while Chris, takes sneaky pictures of your cute moment. The mugs on the table sit still, smoking with their scent, as you immerse yourself in the feeling of Matt's body on yours, enjoying each other's company on a mid-December evening.

The spring sun is shining bright, and you can't help but feel happy as you watch Matt walking towards you wearing a beautiful handmade flower crown on his head. The wind is blowing the petals around. The fresh breeze carries the sweet fragrance of flowers in the air, and you feel grateful for these little moments that make life so beautiful.

"What are you staring at, huh?" You tease him, and a playful smile lingers on your lips. He snickers, and a hand reaches out to cover his mouth. "You have some..." He bursts out laughing, and the flower petals fly off, landing on your hair, making it a mess. You laugh too, and your hair gets thrown back by the wind, making you feel alive and carefree.

With the changing seasons, you and your boyfriend found solace and comfort in the simple and quiet moments you shared. As the leaves turned golden brown and the air grew crisp, you both took the time to appreciate the unique beauty and serenity that each season had to offer. Through these moments, you also discovered the depth of love and affection that your boyfriend was willing to give, as he showed you the true meaning of being present and cherishing each and every moment. Whether it was a cozy night in by the fire during the winter, a walk in the park surrounded by blooming flowers in the spring, a lazy day at the beach in the summer, or a hike in the vibrant foliage of the fall, you both found joy and happiness in each other's company, and the changing seasons only brought you closer together.

559 words!

cute and short, I hope you liked this:)

[deathblossomed]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒

@thuganomxcs :

The Raiden Shogun prepared the Musou no Hitotachi. Her blade imbued with so much electro, a sight to make the bravest turn and retreat..but Yusuke was a different breed himself. No vision on his person, he was still able to gather the power of electro and conjures it into his fist.

Ei looked upon the boy and saw shades of the Yokai she's fought on equal footing so long ago..but why in this boy? What did HE have to do with Raizen? Without much thought she lunges forward and Yusuke follows and his fists collide with her sword, and the collision brought forth a bright flash of light followed by thunder that echoes through the entire country as the sky darkens to abrupt their rather sunny day. The boy had done impressive work but this was an archon and swiftly she pushed forward knocking him off balance and swiftly made quick work of him with a slash across his chest, cutting through him to the point that his innards were practically visible.

He had fallen, his body unmoving, the life flees his eyes and his heart came to a stop. Yusuke's body had collapsed from the roof's edge and his lifeless body fell from the fortress and into the shallow sea. Today was supposed to be a day he would go and visit Botan once again...but of course Yusuke could not help but involve himself with another person's problem. Whilst he body remained lifeless upon the water's surface there was something else happening..'within'. Change was coming.

BOTAN IS SUPPOSED TO MEET WITH YUSUKE TODAY. She's excited, spending the morning pulling her hair up into a ponytail and putting on a floral kimono. It's odd, being friends with a human when she's spent so much time living among yokai and dead souls. But she's happier now, less lonely. And for as much trouble as Yusuke seems to get into, it's never a dull moment.

She's about to fly back over to the mainland when something strikes her inside. She's a shinigami, a death spirit, she sees the dead before they even know what they've lost. But she's never had a feeling like this, a sinking in her gut, a sudden chill like the sun has gone cold. It has to be Yusuke, it's always Yusuke.

Without another thought, she jumps onto her oar and begins to fly, letting instinct guide her. She flies so quickly over the ocean's surface that the water splits and ripples beneath her. Her hair billows back, her heart beating rapidly. She doesn't stop until the imagine in her mind matches that on the horizon.

Yusuke's floating on the surface, blood weeping into the water. She grabs a hold of him, rolling him onto his back, holding him above the water. "Yusuke, Yusuke," she cries, a hand against his pulse. He's not breathing but he's still warm. Botan uses her oar to carry him, flying to shore and laying him flat.

She kneels beside him, eyes watery. This can't be happening, it's not his time, he's still so young. She hovers her hand over his chest, pouring every ounce of her healing energy into him, leaning in close. "Yusuke, please, wake up. You idiot, you stupid idiot, what were you doing? It's not your time. I won't let you go early," she folds over him, pressing her forehead to his. "Open your eyes, please, open your eyes."

When she gets close, she feels something pulsing, not like a heartbeat but something alive all the same. A spark of hope stirs within her. That's right, he's too stubborn to die, he'd see a white light and walk in the other direction. And his ghost is nowhere to be seen, surely he'd be waiting to make some snarky remark about her being late. She wraps her arms around, cradles him close. "Wake up, Yusuke. I love you, I'm not letting you go," she pleads, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

[stupidthoughtsinwriting]

Try Again | Loki x OC

Chapter 1 - (Next Chapter) -(Chapter List) - (Main Masterlist)

Summary: Enjoying a holiday in Greece until a dreadful call changes it all...

Note: Ohhh I've posted it! okay, first of all, I am open to making a tag list to those interested, just tell me in the comments and I'll put you in. Two, this is the fastest fic i've finished and to me that's astonishing because as you may notice, most of my fics take me months to complete and in finishing this in a few nights is a feat to me. And third, understand that i am going back to class on Monday and thus i might not have as much time to update this as much but i promise i will be working on it and have patience with me. I am unreliable in consistency but I can promise results, even if the time is indefinite. The second chapter is in the works so bear with me and i hope you enjoy!

The sun rests low on the horizon, slowly dipping down amongst the waves. It turns the water a gorgeous shade of gold and the sky flies past in a flurry of bright and brilliant colours. Though as slow as the bright star sinks, it still let off a bit of heat. A welcoming warmth caressing the tanning skin of those still out, enjoying the last rays of the day before heading inside to avoid the chill night.

A child plays in the sand. Building castles of great architecture and collects shells and rocks of all forms and sizes, anything piquing his interests really. A bucket sat beside him and in it rests all his collected treasures. He uses some of the colourful shells and stones to decorate his castle, giving it colour amongst the muted tones of sand.

His mother sits not far from him, basking in the last of the heated rays before the inevitable task of packing up for the day. She watches her boy, clad only in his swim trunks, unruly obsidian curls bouncing at every movement as he fiddles and plays with his toys in the sand.

A warm yet solemn smile painted her thin lips as she watched over her young one, seeing features oh so similar to her husbands. From his ivory skin and up to his emerald eyes, their son was but a copy of his father. The spitting image save for the too few features he had of her, like the scattered bloom of freckles that decorated the bridge of his small nose and cheeks.

He also seems to have gotten mannerisms eerily similar that of his father, despite the brief and few memories he had of him in their short time. The pick at his hands and furrow that would rest on his brows whenever he was confused or sad was just so like her husbands. It brought an overwhelming need to be protect him from the dangers of the world, but she knew that as he grew, she won’t be able to protect him from everything and the best she could do was to teach him how to protect himself. But as of now, she would do just about everything to keep him safe.

Just as the sun began to descend the horizon, the boy abruptly stood up and walked over to where his mother lay beneath an umbrella, clutching tight on the offering he wished to show his mother.

‘Mama!’ he called out as he reached near her.

‘Yes, my darling?’ she replies warmly.

‘Wook at what I found mama’ he urged for her to look once he reached the tail end of her towel, plopping down on her lap, causing her to grunt at the sudden weight while he thrusts his hands to her face, the offering in question presented. She moves to sit up, the young boy still in her lap as she adjusted her position and lifts her Ray-Ban’s to her head so to properly see whatever it was he so wanted her to well, see.

In his small hands, lay a green sea stone. Big enough to dwarf the small hands of a child like his own yet still small in the eyes of others. It rests softly in her son’s palms, smooth surfaced, and tinted seafoam, she understood why it would pick at her son’s interest.

‘That is beautiful love’ she praises, earning a prideful look from the little boy, his chest puffing out as his grin stretched much like a Cheshire cat. It earned a hearty chuckle from the mother, watching her son’s actions. Joyous and confident, much like how his father was before.

‘May I?’ she asked and once a nod was returned, she plucked the stone from his hands, holding it up to the sky. She hoped that what was left of the day was enough for the light to pass through the translucent glass and it did. The stone glowed bright like the waters before them.

A look of awe shaped the boy’s face, his mouth hung open as he stared at the rock, but the mother’s gaze only strayed for a bit before turning back to her son. The look on his face made every hardship worth it and yet again, it brought another wide grin to her face.

Pressing a quick kiss to his temples, she gave the rock back to him and still, he stared at it as if it contained the hidden magic of the world. Taking the moment with his attention pre-occupied, she brushed away the sands stuck to his skin, from his face to his pale torso, she brushed away as much as she could, but the rest would have to be washed away when they get back to their room.

Speaking of which, she glanced at the sun, the sky a canvas of pinks, oranges and violets as the sun sunk down low enough and it now meant that it was time for them to pack up and head back inside.

Her gaze lingered in the horizon until a tiny voice called her back.

‘Mama’ the child called for her.

‘Yes dear?’

‘Do you think papa would wike this?’ he asked, turning her attention back to him. There had been few and brief times that his father was asked about and often this was the question asked. The other times he’d ask were always of his father’s character. Stories of the man were told and a picture of him was kept among the boy’s things as a remembrance, but it had been a long while since he’s asked of him again.

She stared at the orbs identical to her son’s fathers and she couldn’t help but think of him. His charming smile, his careful touch, his loving gaze, and intoxicating smell. She longed to be back in his once safe arms, but she couldn’t, and that truth is to be accepted.

‘Yes he would luv’ she answers. The truth was, knowing her husband, he’d love anything and everything their little boy gave him. From a messily drawn card for Father’s Day and his birthdays down to a piece of cereal the boy had been eating, the man would have been grateful for anything his boy gave him.

 ‘Bwilliant’ he murmurs, and she just knows he will keep it safely stashed amongst the other things he thinks his father would like. It warmed her heart to have a son so kind and giving. It made her proud that he was growing up to be as so and she just hoped her husband would be as well.

‘Alright darling, we have to go pack up now. Go get your stuff and then we can go back to the room so you can have a bath and then dinner’ she explains to the young boy, tucking away the curtain of curls that hid his face behind his ears before cupping his cheek and giving his little button nose a kiss, causing him to giggle in her hold, his face scrunching up. ‘Alright?’

‘Okay mumma’ he nodded to her command and set off to get his toys and treasures from the sand. Watching him pick up his stuff, she began to pack up as well. Tidying up the drinks and towel she had brough and place them in her bag before brushing off the bit of sand that stuck to her skin before putting on the blue summer dress atop her swimsuit for when they head back to their room.

The boy trudged back to her with a heavy bucket in hand and his kiddie camera slung around his neck. The bucket nearly overfilled with all the stones and shells he collected, along with the beach toys he used to make the castle.

Dropping it with a heavy grunt, the boy huffed and puffed at the exertion, causing his mother to stifle a laugh yet still a sound managed to escape, her hand immediately flying to muffle the sound but seeing it went unnoticed, she relaxed and dropped it.

‘A bit heavy love?’ she asks.

‘A wot heavy’ he says, emphasizing the word like a true drama king. Wonder who he got that from?

‘Alright. Now, do you want to wear a shirt before we go back?’ she asks, offering him the top he wore earlier.

‘No tank you’ he declines, shaking his head.

‘Alrighty then’ she puts his shirt back in the bag before slinging it on her left shoulder and picking up the castle shaped bucket (which did weigh a lot, no wonder her son was left panting) with her left hand. Her right: out in offering for the young boy to hold as they slowly walked back to their hotel.

‘Did you have fun today?’ the mother asked as the walked along the beach.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ he shouted in enthusiasm, jumping up and down. The mother could only smile at the boy’s joyous behaviour, glad that she could give him fun memories to look back on.

The rest of their walk was filled with conversation about what the new thing’s he discovered about the sea life, the castle he so artistically constructed and the promise of coming back here another day and by the time they reached the lobby of the resort, the mother could see how the exhaustion of the day was taking a toll on her little boy.

‘Ahh, Miss Ackland’ Mr Birch, the evening manager greeted from behind the reception ‘good day I presume?’ he questions, noting how tuckered out her normally energetic son was started to sag against her. With a brief glance to the boy and a small chuckle, she nodded.

‘Yes, it was good day. Especially for this one’ she replies, rubbing a thumb over the hand in her grasp, hoping to at least rouse the child until he’s eaten dinner.

The man chuckles a bit, seeing how unresponsive the boy is to her attempts. ‘My, the young tyke seems real knackered.’ he comments with an accent much like her own yet the way the words flow so smoothly would have anyone wrapped in a trance,

‘Yes well, all day out in the beach seems to do that’ she responds politely.

‘Well, best not keep you from your young one and leave you to it. Have a nice evening miss.’ he bids her well off with a gentle smile that would leave any woman with a common-sense to a puddle, yet she has her immunity, and she powered through with it.

‘Actually, would you mind sending some food to our room in 15, 20 minutes? We haven’t had the chance to get some dinner and I’m hoping to feed at least a little into him before he’s off for the night.’ She requests of the manager, really wishing to at least have her boy a few bites before going dead to the world.

‘Certainly miss.’ He dutily responds, already picking up a phone to call the kitchen ‘Just the usual ma’am?’  he asks of the meal, turning to her with the phone to his ear.

‘Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you Mr. Birch’ she says with a kind grin, faintly hearing his conversation as mother and son walked away.

‘Yes, to the Amphitrite suite in fifteen minutes… Thank you’.

---

Once the pair arrived back to their room, the sun had finally set, casting a now dark canvas, littered with twinkling stars, though it went unnoticed to the weary boy who had let go of his mothers’ hand as soon as they entered and dropped with a thud on the chalk white cushions once he was near enough while his mother, Ms. Ackland, relieved herself of the heavy weight she had been trudging since the beach.

‘Leo’ she called to the boy softly, opting to not chastise the young one when he was already weary. ‘Come on darling. Quick bath and some dinner then off to bed, sleepy head’

‘But I’m not sleepy’ he whined, an indicator of his true predicament, even as he refuses.

‘Well, a quick wash and some supper then’ she bargained even though she knew he’d out like a light by halfway through dinner and when she received no response, she added ‘and we’ll also wash up the shells and rocks you collected, and you can sort through them after.’ And with that, his head shot up, his curls bobbing as he ran (well more speed walk than run) with what energy he had left to her side, awaiting for her instructions and wanting to get his bucket of treasures so he could wash them.

With the young one finally clean and sand free, dressed in his favourite dark blue pyjamas, they set off to the sitting room portion of the suite, just in time for room service to arrive with their supper. Since Leo had his attention to his rocks and shells (fully washed and draining on a colander borrowed from the hotel), his mother was the one that had gone to get the food, still wearing her blue summer dress since there wasn’t enough time for her to get cleaned herself but she planned on doing so after her little boy had gone to bed.

She thanked the room service and closed the door of the suite before fixing up the plate of food and brought it to where little Leo was pre-occupied, seemingly sorting the rocks by colour and size on the towel laid out before him while he let the shells dry out in the colander a little bit longer. She sat beside him, setting the plate a good distance away from his work area and began to feed her little man.

The rest of that time had been quiet, save for the thud of rocks on the whitewashed coffee table and the occasional murmur to open his mouth so the mother could feed him bites of the pork Souvlaki. In between bites, she’d offer her opinion, helping out a bit on his activity but not once has he said anything. Only responding in nods and a shake of his head, another symptom of his fatigue and true to her word, with the plate half cleared, she noticed the lack of hands working through the rocks and a weight leaning on her. Turning her head, she found the boy sound asleep, a rock he had been looking at still in his grasp but the lack of movement and the slow and steady breaths he let out was enough for her to know.

Pushing the plate aside, she carded a hand through his curls, making him curl up more beside her and all that did was take her back to when it was her husband that did the same thing. Head on her lap, she would comb through his raven locks and all that would do was press a face farther onto her stomach, arms wrapping around her waist so he could pull her closer.

This was most endearing when she has pregnant. Her beloved would whisper to her belly in a hushed tone. Her hand, as always, in his head of hair and when her nails would start to scratch at his scalp, a content sigh always left him before he burrowed in the warm mass of her stomach.

Thinking back, those were near the last good moments she had of just the two of them. A loving husband, doting and caring to his beloved wife as the two prepared the arrival of their little one. So cheery and full of life, once was he and now all she could help but do is miss those moments, let alone the man he was back then.

After a small while, the mother took the boy in her arms and having done this so many times before, it was an instant that the boy instinctively wraps himself in his mothers’ hold, arms circling her neck, legs locking behind her as he laid his little head to her chest, right over where her heart beat a rhythm that often lulled him to sleep. She planted a kiss at the top of his head, right on his unruly curls at she took him to the bedroom.

Laying him down in the middle of the queen-sized bed, she laid with him for a bit to make sure he would no longer stir before carefully untangling herself from his hold. She propped some of the pillows beside him, just to make sure he wouldn’t move to far to edge and fall and covered him with his blankie before deciding it was enough and she left the room, shutting the door quietly.

Taking a survey of the suite, she figured on tidying up and finishing what was left of supper before taking a shower herself, wanting to be rid of the day’s clothes and into her own pyjamas while she indulged on some wine in the balcony.

Nearly giddy at the thought, she set off in doing so and half an hour later, she emerges from the ensuite in fresh clothes, warmed somewhat by a thin green cardigan she put over.

The mother then set off to the kitchenette where a good bottle of wine chilled in the mini fridge. Now without any distractions or hesitation, she took a wine glass the concierge so kindly provided, and poured herself a hearty amount, tasting the aged, fermented juice and relishing at the thought of getting lost from her head for a few hours after a glass or two.

With the glass near empty, it was then that she remembered that she hasn’t even touched her phone nearly the whole day and seeing it sat on the counter, with a quick reach, she had it in her hand. She wasn’t surprised of the lack of notifications, so she set it down and finished the last of her glass’s contents. What did surprise her though was the call that connected a minute later, the familiar name on the ID catching her unexpectedly.

She answered the call before it dropped, wanting to hear from the man after a while of no contact.

‘Thor’ she starts, putting the phone to her ear as she poured herself another glass. ‘Long time’

‘Yeah, um. It has, hasn’t it?’ his deep voice grumbles through the phone’s speaker.

‘Five months to be exact’ she clarifies, bringing the glass to her lips and takes a sip.

‘Sorry, it’s just…’ he started to explain himself, but she cuts him off.

‘No. Don’t, don’t do that. Don’t say that. I could have called but I didn’t, and I am as much to blame’ she clarifies, regretting making the comment when she didn’t want to take apologies when she was just as much at fault as he was.

‘Right, alright. Um, where’s little Leo?’ he asks, diverting the conversation to the boy so to get out of that uncomfortable subject. 

‘Ohh, he’s already in bed. Sorry. Had a long day’.

‘Wow, that early. It’s just a little before nine. Usually, he’d still be very active. Well from what I can remember that is.’ The blond man chuckles, remembering the nights he’d spend with the very energetic child.

‘Actually, it’s about ten before 11 here.’

‘Her- Wudduya mean here? Aren’t you in town?’ the man asks, clearly very confused and he sounds it and that is her fault.

‘Ohh, were in Santorini on holiday. Sorry, I haven’t informed anyone really and I would have you but-’ you haven’t called, and I couldn’t make the call myself the last bit went unsaid but the both of them knew.

‘Oh, okay. Alright.’ He pauses for a while, leaving a pregnant silence to fill until he did. ‘Well, is it good there?’

‘Very’ she responds immediately, uncomfortable by that gap. ‘it’s beautiful. The water, the architecture, the culture, the people, it’s absolutely wonderful.’ She describes, looking to the balcony where there was a perfect view of the sea. ‘Leo’s enjoying himself too. Playing in the beach all day, making sandcastles and he collects shells and rocks that take his interest and earlier he went about to sorting them, but the little man fell asleep halfway into dinner. Too worn out from the day to even finish his sorting.’ She giggles a bit, remembering how the little boy looked all curled up beside her.

‘Seems like you’re having a good time.’ The man responds, a bit despondent but she didn’t hear that.

‘We are.’ She says with a bit of pride ‘we are’ she repeats though this time she’s uncertain and dejected because a part of her is guilty. For actually having a good time and without the man she loves. And another part.. just wants him. To be here with them. To enjoy this with them but, we can’t have all we want now can we.

She faintly heard someone talking, someone angry and that was followed by the sound of the phone shuffling before she heard Thor again.

‘Sorry Em, could you hold for a minute?’ he requests, and she answers back yes but before she could ask anymore, he mutes.

She put the phone on speaker and set it down, taking a gulp of her wine and as promised, after a minute, he came and called her back.

‘I’m back. You still there?’

‘Yah’ she manages before swallowing her drink ‘still here. Everything alright?’ she asks, wondering who it was that was so angry (though she should have known).

‘Yeah. Everything’s just fine’ he replies, sounding out breath.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, absolutely. Terrific’ he says with far too much cheer, it annoyed her enough to know it was fake.

‘Thor.’ She says firmly, setting her glass down the marble counter ‘What’s going on?’ she demands sternly, using the voice she rarely would use to chastise Leo with when on bad behaviour, not wanting some half-arsed answer.

Again, a long of silence stretched on until with a heavy sigh, he began.

‘He’s in hospital again.’ He confesses and she shakes her head, knowing well who he meant. Irritated was she, evidently enough to pick up her glass and divide its contents into half.

‘He’s always in hospital’ she replies after swallowing, swirling the liquid around the glass and she watches in fascination, wanting to get her head from what he just said.

‘No. This is different.’ He presses, knowing the times he’s said this before were for minor and abrasive accounts.

‘What do you mean?’ she pesters, her voice now wobbly as a burst of possibilities swirled in her head.

‘He um- ‘he stops himself, swallowing the hard pill because knowing her, telling her this would only tear her apart. ‘He rang me earlier.’ That enough was a giveaway that something was wrong, the severity was the only missing piece. ‘He was in pain, and he could barely let out anything before he dropped the phone and groaned in agony.’ Her breathing hitched then, tears welling her eyes while her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I got to him as soon as I could, and when I found him, he was on the floor, in pain’ He hated repeating that but all he could do was relay the accounts of what happened as it was still all so fresh and hope he could filter it as much as possible. ‘I called for an ambulance and tried to get him to tell me what was happening, but he couldn’t even respond’ he chokes, remembering the sight and it flashes before his eyes, as if he was reliving the whole painful ordeal again.

Emma on the other hand, had tears quietly running her cheeks, hand still tightly clasped to her mouth for fear she would let out a sob that would not only alert Thor but Leo as well. Her mind ran rampant, creating images and images of her pained husband, lying helplessly in pain on the floor, asking for help to no one because of his solitude. Not knowing if he there was anyone coming at all.

Guilt held a tighter grip on her breaking heart as her mind convinced herself that it was her fault that he was alone. She should have been there. She shouldn’t have left. She should have taken care of him and maybe he wouldn’t be where he was if it she had just stayed and cared for him. But she didn’t and she wasn’t there when he was helplessly lying on the ground, wondering if the last thing he’d see was the dirt and bottles that undoubtedly littered the floors around him instead of his beloved wife and darling son.

She swallowed back the sob itching to escape her lips, desperate on not making a sound.

Her mind was taking a turn in the labyrinth it already was, taking her to unknown ends of painful scenarios her unyielding mind procures when she still doesn’t have the pieces to the whole story.

A creep of silence then went on for the benefit of both. Time for them to compose themselves before the once boisterous man continued.

‘The ambulance-’ he begins once more, though demurely ‘-arrived quickly. And they took him to the hospital immediately, seeing the state he was. Even the doctors didn’t know what was happening to him, but they gave him morphine for the pain.’ He somewhat assures and it relieves her a bit knowing he wasn’t in pain anymore. ‘They let him rest for a bit before they took him for tests. He’s resting now though. They’re keeping him for the night under observation but there was talk that the stay might be indefinite until they figured out what was wrong. Just in case another attack happened but you know him’ he teases lightly, not wanting to drown in the dampening mood this whole conversation, hell this whole ordeal has taken and neither did she so, she appreciates the lightening.

And she also knew what he meant. Her husband hated hospitals. Even stepping one foot inside churned his insides enough and being a patient? We’ll she knew enough to give her an idea of what happened.

It didn’t help her to think of his reaction to being told that he had to stay the night. Scared as he might have already been, the prospect of staying even longer undoubtedly terrified him and thus she concluded that he refused the longer stay.

Thinking of it, the only time he was at some sort of ease while in the hospital was when they took baby Leo for his newborn check up and even then he was anxious. The check-up had been a necessary. Just to assure the new parents that their little one was alright and properly checked on since a homebirth lacked that formality. The man himself had been the one to insist on the homebirth and Emma didn’t object to that, wanting to give the man a sort of peace as they brought their child to the world. His fears only eased once the doctor told them that everything is just as it should be about their newborn and there and only then did he relax as he rejoice on the fact that they had a health baby boy.

That clued her enough of his fear of hospitals and that information didn’t help her at all now.

‘The doctors are coming back in the morning for the results but after that, he insists on leaving’ he continuous to inform her, wary of her lack of response.

She hasn’t said anything since the start of his recount. Not a sound could be heard from her end of the line, and it unnerve him, making him check to see if the call was still on and it was. It took him a few good minutes, but he deduced why she was so silent.

He knew his sister well and the things he’s regaled to her… he just knew it was breaking her being apart.

‘Emma’ he called out, wanting to be sure he was still taking to someone. ‘you still there?’

‘yah’ she muttered, barely audible but he heard.

She had sunken to the floor, leaning against the counters as she pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she silently cried. Her phone still sat atop the island, her call with her brother-in-law still ongoing yet there she was, listening, tears running her cheeks as she listened to him describe the torment her beloved endured.

‘He needs you now’ the man murmurs, pleading for his brother’s sake that she come back. He knew his little brother wouldn’t take it if these pains continued on and he feared the day he would give up. And without the person he loves most, the person that had been his solace long before, his rock and home, he is terrified of that end coming too soon.

The woman could only swallow at the man’s words before clamping a hand on her mouth and burying her head to her knees as an unrelenting sob escapes her. She had no control of it and the others that followed but she did have control of how loud they would come to so she did her best to make as little sound as she possibly could.

Try as she did though, Thor heard her. Muffled as it was, he knew that sound better than he liked to admit and not once did his heart break not break for her every time.

‘just… please come back’ he begs her once more, intending to end the call and leave her to some privacy. He stays on for a bit longer and just as he was about to press the end button, she called out to him, saying his name in an unsteady voice, congested and clear that she had been crying.

Two days she wanted to say. Give her two days and she would do everything she could to be there as soon as possible but what left her mouth wasn’t so. ‘Take care of him for me’ she pleads her own, on the brink of another fit of sobs but she held on till the call ended.

‘Always’ he responds before ending the call and with that her resolve crumbles.

Once again, her hand flies to cover her mouth, going in to cover and muffle the onslaught of sobs she had no hope of controlling but… they never came. Whether it was for some preservation for Leo’s deep sleep or her sudden inability to, they never come. What took its place though was a rush of tears and a heavy heart.

Leaning back on the limewashed cupboards, she let her tears run and her heart sink for she thought she deserved it. The guilt eating at her from the inside. Churning her stomach to knots and crushing her heart to shreds. It manipulated her. Turning her to the villain at the heart of this mess when she had done nothing but protect herself and her son from the tragedy that was once a happy family.

Her mind was a cruel and fickle thing. Making her believe the lies it comes up with and without the one person who knew how to lead her out of the labyrinth, she was lost. Facing every new dreaded possibility at every dead end without escape or clue on how to get out because the person that always led her to the exit, became the reason she was lost and missed it.

She didn’t blame him though. Despite what the others do, not once did she blame the poor tortured soul of her husbands’ because how could she. She could have helped him and stayed by him, just as she vowed but breaking that promise lost her the right to blame, not that she would.

In sickness and in health… clearly she didn’t hold her promise on that.

She drew her knees back to her chest, letting her heart wrench while a hand rose to reach for the bottle of wine that still sat on the bench. Once she got that down, Emma took a big swig right out of the bottle, never minding the glass she used before. Her only goal. To suffer and hope she’d be numb enough to stop the tears from flowing.

And that’s how she spent the rest of the night. Sat on the kitchenette floor of her suite, back against the cupboards as she let her tears dry out while burning a bottles’ worth of wine through her liver, letting her guilt and sorrow drape over her as it would a child under a tablecloth on Halloween.

(Next Chapter) -(Chapter List) - (Main Masterlist)

[primordialfell]

A thought dances anew. Your eyes open to truth. Let's do this one more time, okay?

Dew trickles from the curled leaves that bask in the radiant Light of filtered sun. As you move your eyes down from the shimmering radiance, they come into contact with your opponent; you're familiar with him by now. He is your half-brother, your womb mate, the other side of your vintage penny. You breathe deep of the electrolytes that swim in the air, molecular bonds singing a jaunty tune as they fill your lungs and are combined in the furnace that is your heart. You are an irrepressible, violent miracle. It would take a man a hundred years to walk the breadth of your soul.

Your mind percolates with countless possibilities. Across the table, whose surface is decorated with pockmarks and craters, you see your half-brother, your counterpart. Your hateful core and your losing lot. It is better to have tried than not, his cocked brow says. You know him, at least the flies that swarm around his heart, and you know his works. Your mouth opens and strands of light sketch themselves out of your mouth; your words are art and they will fill the universe with conceptualization:

" i think i'm getting the hang of this. "

Your half-brother raises a hand and the silken fabrics of his shroud move with the gesture. With a brush of his hand he sweeps away a thousand galaxies, and like a great eclipse shadowing over the world he looms atop the board. In this game there's everything: every possibility can be displayed through the dolorous mathematics found within.

" WE APPROACH THE STATE CALLED 'ENDGAME.' PUT SIMPLY, WE WILL SOON DECIDE WHO WINS. "

You watch as a piece dances on its own, and you frown. It struggles to find its footing, skittering towards its own empire of thought and meaning. It is in this soul eclectic that you spy a tinge of loss and pain. You click your tongue. It has lost everything and yet it continues. Does anyone even remember it?

" it has been fun. but we should really call it quits soon. the day grows long in its teeth and here in our kingdom of consciousness we begin the harvest. our eyes dance with pheromones, half-brother, and we kneel amidst the tangents and proto-planetarium addled sky. "

He nods in agreement, his shroud spilling over his shoulders with that motion. He points an imperious digit at your piece, that swims through the air and revives a flower next to it. This is the game of amoebas and archaebacteria, it's simply the game that will choose where we go next. What we do next. It will decide if anything comes next at all. But it probably won't. This feels like it, doesn't it? Shouldn't that break your heart?

This old game is all you and your half-brother know. It's all you are. When you give up the game, what will you be? Both of you, that is. You'll both be askew, a spinning mast in a storm, fluttering over the infinite ocean without a course or chart to guide your way. Does it even matter, truly?

" ALL THINGS END, " your half-brother offers, comfortingly. You are a being of compassion and hope. You're the first human with a fractured femur that was carried to safety by her tribe members. You're the frog hiding inside a spider's nest, cleaning her of parasites while her webs and fangs shelter you from any that would hurt you, only her teeth are made of onyx and obsidian and her soul is aflame with hate and survival all the same. She will never know you the way you know yourself.

You're a novel way of seeing the universe, aren't you? Homoharmonic and psychedelic, baby.

" i know, but that doesn't make me feel any better. it shouldn't have to! " Your half-brother stiffens and his shroud seems to turn to burnished glass. Smoky air pools from his corners and his angles, each of which are obtuse but act acute, and it traces over your skin made of unalloyed gold. You are pyrite porcelain; sunlight scattered over the surface of a babbling brook. It's in these things that your children can hear you. In these things they will find you.

It's in this that you will see how the game ends.

" YES, WELL, " he begins, " THAT'S UNFORTUNATE. BUT SOON WE'LL SEE IT'S TIME TO MOVE ON. THERE ARE OTHER GAMES TO PLAY. OTHER PLACES TO BE. "

" this is somewhere to be, " you counter.

" BUT IT CAN'T LAST. "

" why not? "

" IT JUST CAN'T. "

" but it's so much fun. "

" BUT IT HAS TO END. "

" i don't want it to. "

" NOBODY DOES. "

" will it at least be fun? "

" PROBABLY NOT. YOU'LL PROBABLY LEAVE THE GAME CRYING, A CAUSTIC ECHO OF PAIN THAT SEARS INTO YOU. YOU'LL UNDERSTAND THIS IS THE END OF AN ERA. YOU'RE GIVING YOUR LAST CURTAIN CALL, BASICALLY. "

" what happens when the curtain falls, then? "

" WE BOW OUT. WE'VE PLAYED OUR PART BUT WE'RE JUST TWO MEMORIES OF A BYGONE ERA. IT'S TIME TO MOVE ASIDE. "

" i feel like i didn't get to do all i wanted to do. this change in the plot seems so sudden. was it poorly thought out? did circumstance damn us to this? "

" PROBABLY. "

" you aren't sure. "

" NO. BUT HERE WE ARE ANYWAY. "

You slump down in your seat. You felt like you had so much more in mind, so many fun ideas. Boss fights, epic showdowns, maybe a cool floating castle or two... but this is how it ends. The end zone is in sight and it's time to score the last touchdown. It's odd—you have spent all this time hating your half-brother, your womb mate, your vintage penny's tails. Here in the end, as you begin with a presupposition, you realize that he is like you. You're both fixed to this and you can't ever change; that makes you the same in one way for the first time in infinite eternity.

You're both vestigial.

Pain flits through you. You look down and a knife is buried in your chest. An infinite eyebrow cocks and you glance at your half-brother in consternation.

" SORRY. IT'S MY NATURE. "

" yes, the farmer and the viper, the frog and the scorpion. notice how these tales cannot exist without both peace and pain? "

" I'VE NOTICED BUT TO BE HONEST I DON'T REALLY GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE POTENTIAL POETIC IRONY FOUND WITHIN. THIS COULD BE THE LAST TIME WE EVER SPEAK TO EACH OTHER. CAN WE JUST PRETEND IT'S NOT HAPPENING? "

" this isn't like you, " you begin cautiously. Your half-brother hitches his voice. He sounds like he's going to start crying.

" IT'S NOT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG. I'M SCARED. " The floodgates break. His shroud is made of particles and collapsing atoms. Antimatter skirts around his head like a halo and you swear you can hear him sniffle.

" i am too. everyone is. it's scary. "

" IS IT GOING TO HURT? "

" most likely. "

" I SIT IN ANXIETY OF THE GRAND DESIGN. "

" we all do. "

" WILL IT BE LIKE FALLING ASLEEP? "

" no. "

[kovacs-of-courage]

Downspiral--A Eclipse AU Sky one shot

-------------------------November 8th, 1943------------------------------

-------------------------Pacific Theater------------------------------------

Sky gritted his teeth in concentration, jerking the yoke of his fighter plane forward. A myriad of alarms shouted demise from the view of his fractured canopy, smoke trailing his battered wings.

There’d be no landing this bird, not softly anyway. The brakes were the first system to go when the guardian’s laser hit, along with the rest of the empennage. Controlling its speed was an impossibility now, leaving Sky as the lucky(and not very grateful) pilot of a forever accelerating one-way carriage to hell.

The radio at his right sparked and flickered to life, incoherent static bubbling through charred wires and melted steel.

“Canary-O-...Canary One, Can you read me?” 

Sky recognized the voice immediately; It was his captain, his ship’s captain that is.

“I read you command,” Sky said casually, like he was on any other mission, and not riding a miles long death spiral over the pacific. He thought it lucky that he’d regained his memories days before, given the fact that he’d be most likely disobeying orders if his captain contacted him for the reason he presumed.

“The order to retreat was signaled, all airborne pilots need to fall bac-”

Sky put his right hand on the throttle, cranking the level forward; a hurricane's worth of wind blasting into his goggles.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m not doing that,” Sky said, unphased by the rapidly increasing g-forces of his chaotic descent.

“Oh yes the hell you are, petty officer. Some rat-fuck brass eagle and a beehive of metal flies wipes out half the fleet in an afternoon, and you think NOW is the time to start disobeying orders?” The captain screamed, his bafflement turned volatility evident.

“I do, actually,” Sky curtly replied. It didn’t bother him much, the idea of provoking the wrath of the military, and he reported to a higher authority anyway; whom he hoped he’d see again, if he survived this aerial bonfire.

The Captain, barely restraining his frustration, reacted as one might expect to hearing his best pilot casually go awol, in the heat of battle no less--

“Petty Officer, I am ORDERING you to turn back. You have five seconds to do so before I decide to take your cute little joke seriously, and order you blown halfway to hell.”

Sky scoffed, breathing unsteadily as plume-ing smoke flushed through the cockpit’s damaged windshield, “I’m...ha...touched you think me so important, sir. But I’m trying to focus here, so please shut up and let me fly.”

“Who the fuc-WHO THE FUCK do you think you are? You are disobeying a DIRECT ORDER; DON’T THINK I WON’T HAVE YOU SHO-”

Sky slammed his hand into the crackling speakers, disabling them, “This conversation’s over.” 

As skilled as Sky was in the air; even he needed some piece of mind to do his job right. 

He let the speed acclimate over his spiraling craft, the cranked throttle working its pistoned engine to the limits. He’d dropped out of the main area of devastation, the graveyard of falling tonnage where both the American and Japanese forces had been ambushed by Vah Medoh’s Guardian escort.

The fleet of propeller-mounted constructs swarmed the airspace, blotting out clouds and sunlight; more than worthy of protecting their prize. They numbered in the hundreds, maybe thousands at a generous estimate. Their numbers alone were enough to overwhelm any standing airforce, nevermind the lasers that boiled hotter than the surface of the sun.

Sky knew that there was a snowflake's chance in hell that he was going to catch up to Vah Medoh, in the state his plane was in. He’d worry about the flying war machine later--after he landed his soon-to-be pile of scrap metal.

It was a task easier said than done, Sky was finding. Fighting in the square center of the world’s largest ocean left his hands tied.

He did have an escape plan, if one could call it that.

North of his current, fiery heading was a thin wafer of land, two miles long at best. A paltry forest lined its inland paradise, surrounded by beaches of jagged stone and untouched nature. 

For most pilots, trying to land across such a makeshift, unwelcoming strip would be an effort in self-destructive fatality. A recipe for an explosion of shrapnel and blood; the makings of a grim cautionary tale.

Sky was not most pilots.

Landing would be the easy part; in that Sky was confident. It was the trio of guardians patrolling the island that worried him; an all airborne attache, separated from the main fleet, and primed to blast him to kingdom come at a moment’s notice.

He’d known of their presence before his dive to scrape the waves, deciding regardless to follow through with his daredevil scheme. It’d been apart of the reason he was so dead-set on his forward acceleration--faster targets tended to be harder to hit. 

He was flying the glass cannon of glass cannons; the slightest touch of a guardian’s laser beam an instant game over for him and his rumbling coffin on wings. Playing to his strengths, however few, would be essential to his survival.

That, and some out of the box thinking.

Sky had dropped in red-hot over the ocean waters, falling like a man made comet from the stars--riding his fighter a dangerous half-thousand feet or so above the surface. At his current, bone-rattling velocity, he’d reach weapons range in under a minute. Times like this made him thankful he was born and raised on skyloft; letting him shrug off g-forces that’d stop a human’s heart stone-cold dead.

The enemy horizon filled Sky’s cockpit in a moment’s blink; his craft racing toward the unsuspecting guardians like a goddess-thrown thunderbolt. They were spread thin across the island, a unit of one and a team of two patrolling to northern and southern ends respectively.

Sky went for the former, jostling his control stick back to raise his altitude, quickly matching that of his target. He breathed in deep, steeled nerves unshaken by the raging fires growing behind his seat.

Neutralizing a Guardian, according to his brother’s account, was a simple process when it came down to the mechanics. Its central eyepiece, the pulsating blue spiral at the bottom stalk of an aerial guardian’s chassis, doubled as its main cannon and only onboard optic.

Applying sufficient force to the shared hardpoint would, in theory, temporarily overlord both systems--disarming and blinding it simultaneously. An achilles heel of staggering proportions, something that Sky’s comparatively primitive weapons could easily exploit.

Pressing down on the control trigger to his wing mounted guns; Sky exhaled out as streams of cascading lead and destruction spat from his left and right. He clicked them on in the crucial seconds before collision, letting loose his full arsenal at as close as point-blank realistically possible.

The armor-piercing, high caliber ammunition tore through the immobilized guardian, shredding it’s ancient metals and circuity with the ease of a buzzsaw cutting up flesh. 

Sky pushed further still, the smoking shrapnel and crackling debris flying past him in seconds; swooping wide around the island’s western side, aggressively fighting his half-responding controls--the metals of his cockpit quivering in unsteady unison.

“Come on..come on...stay with me here,” Sky said, mumbling under his breath, “only a few minutes longer.”

The plane turned to it’s side, committing hard to it’s broad arc; thin lines of blinking scarlet dotted across it’s wings--signaling greater damages to come. 

Sky’s vision panned out, following the trailing reticles to their sources; finding the remaining guardians fast on his tail, primed to kill.

“And looks like the guests have finally arrived,” Sky said, thinking aloud.

The burning aircraft snapped from it’s exposed position, leveling it’s flight and moving between the paths of the ensuing energy blasts--avoiding contact by inches. Sky let the attacks pass, beginning a rapid ascent the moment after, the thrill of a thousand falls pumping his heart like an adrenalized sledgehammer.

The pair that followed Sky split into two roles, aiming to entrap him. He understood their strategy almost instantly, watching one guardian follow his steep climb, and another follow at a distance--leading its shots ahead of his predicted flight path.

Sky flew erratically, reacting to each timed strike with a knee jerk turn or roll seconds before impact, a playfully insulting dance through the smoldering air. He spat proudly in the face of the reaper. 

However impressive his aerial acrobatics were, Sky knew that it was a bandaid fix to a gaping bullet-wound of a problem. Neither he nor his fighter could do this forever. He’d eventually slip up and suffer the consequences, or his deteriorating ride would fail and result in the same.

Landing as initially planned wasn’t an option anymore, it was becoming clearer and clearer that the only way his bird was touching the ground again was by gravity alone.

So he climbed.

Sky pressed his machine to the limits, rising steeply into the clouds. He’d increased the curvature of his trajectory until his flight path was nearly wholly vertical, the guardian in pursuit coming close on his quivering tail; it’s blinking reticle dead-set on leaving Sky as an airborne cremation.

The chase breached the heavens and gleaming sun, the amber horizon reflecting patterns of infinite rays off each machine’s chassy--manned and unmanned. Sky pressed the bulk of his strength into the jittering controls of his cockpit, geysers of broiling steam screaming from its torn gaps. The ship was tearing itself apart by the seams, velocity and injury mixing together in a fireball cocktail of catastrophe--Sky’s cue to leave, in other words. 

Holding onto the windowless ridge of his canopy, Sky peered at the space directly below, the sight of the advancing guardian affirming his plan; it’s cannon mere moments from firing. He rushed to his instruments, speeding through its systems--and shutting down them all--effectively turning his ship into little more than a nine thousand pound paperweight. 

It was a win for both sides, really. The Guardians got to clear the airspace, and Sky got a golden ticket to freefall--on top of not dying no less! Now that’s a bargain, a steal some might even say.

That’s what Sky thought, at least. He was unreasonably calm about the whole affair, eager to plummet through ozone once again. So eager he didn’t bother to bring his parachute, only his beloved sword and shield. He had an escape plan, and it sure as hell didn’t include letting an oversized sailcloth make him a sitting duck. 

Sky hit the air running, finding his footing among the clouds and the setting sun almost instantly--like an angel being sent back to the heavens. It was like he’d never left, traversing the world among the stars as natural as he did the one below. He extended his hands to be level with his eyes, bending his knees--subconsciously arching himself against the wind’s pressure.

He’d left in a dash, faster than the guardian chasing him could process. The fleeting image of the pilot bailing not registering, as the airborne sheikah tank continued towards a head-on collision with the burning fighter plane; its beam cannon well into the process of firing.

The resulting shockwave rattled the air, the force hitting Sky’s back like a moblin punch, propelling him downwards. He shut his jaw tight, the taste of copper surging from his winded throat, the suffering mitigated by the visage of falling debris; comprised of charred steel and gears alike.

That was two down, and one sorry machine to go.

The remaining guardian, the supporting barrage from before, had a red dot on Sky the moment it’d realized he left his craft. A fast-ish response; good enough to handle most skydiving, sword-wielding maniacs, however many of those there happened to be. Its algorithms anticipated and prepared responses based on logical assumptions, predicting the opponent’s most sensible move and aiming to best counter it.

A key flaw in that thought process, as one might expect, was that it struggled to adapt to something truly stupid, a tactic so reckless that even a machine built for wave combat was left puzzled for answers. The type of bold, headstrong zeal that made it default to its base targeting mechanisms, throwing all advanced computing methods out the window and into a burning trash fire.

The type of bold, headstrong zeal that, to the bane of countless servants of demise and Ganon, was championed by the hero’s spirit. Sky’s landing strategy being the current example. He’d glided forward, giving each laser a wide berth in his swinging descent, choosing to fall closer to the Guardian.

He’d holstered the master sword, putting his head and chest behind his down-facing shield, his determination burning hotter than suns. The lasers increased in frequency, lines of calculating energy missing the hero upon each attempt, the cannon firing faster as Sky inched nearer.

Sky reached into his equipment, not more than a thousand feet from landing directly on the Guardian’s spinning propellers. He pulled forth a clawed, chain-loaded mechanism into his right hand, it’s ordained bronze and ivory reflecting the dimming sunlight. 

Seconds away from contact, Sky readied his shield to the guardian; It’s cannon seething energy, it’s cerulean pupil ablaze and overloaded. It was now or never, the final tipping point of many to decide the battle’s climatic conclusion.

Rippling lightning on it’s edges, the juiced-up laser bit jaws of scalpel precision through the skin of reality; gouging wounds of jagged white bleeding in it’s wake. It drilled into the goddess shield, the god-like thunder popping molecules and devouring matter in voracious hunger.

The force of the attack was immense, a malignant battering ram of bone snapping hatred. Sky was spared from it’s carnage, the idol of his goddess rewarding his faith--protecting him entirely against the forces of darkness. He pressed his strength, what remained, into his left arm; moving the shield in the initial stages of the impact--deflecting the projectile back to it’s creator.

Unable to avoid the parry, the Guardian was forced to swallow it’s own medicine. An eruption of smoke and whining electronics layered the space separating it and Sky. Not that it stopped Sky, who’d already reached out his clawshot, aiming square at the burning machine.

The clawshot hit, finding home in the lower region of the guardian; sinking into the darkened sight of it’s disabled cannon. Sky clicked it’s return button, snaking himself into the suffocating cloud, navigating with ease. He made contact in seconds, pocketing his grappling device once he’d gotten ahold. 

The time for gadgets has passed. Fi would guide him home, as she always had.

Brilliant light pierced the chaos, a beacon of hope and justice held righteous. The master sword dissipated smoke and doubts alike, humming softly in her master’s grasp. Sky held tight to her, climbing himself to the top of the guardian with his sparehand--a difficult task given the turbulent spiral it’d adopted.

Reaching the top, it wasn’t hard to see the reasons why.

It’d been left a shell of it’s former architecture, the explosion blowing craters in the roof of it’s inscribed carapace. One of it’s propellers had been blasted clean off, and another was bleeding sapphire flame in unsteady rotations. That left a single fully functioning propulsion mechanism, and little ability to repair it.

Which, to Sky’s credit, was his intended outcome.

He shakily hung to the guardian’s roof, his foot digging for leverage in bundles of exposed circuitry and gears. He reached into his equipment again, the golden hilt of his scarlet whip soon revealing itself. 

Sky slung his arm forward, circling his whip tight around the center shaft of the damaged rotor. It barely avoided the blades, the tilted angle of flight leaving it spare from injury--and allowed Sky the stability for decent footing standing atop the guardian, not at fear of being blown off. 

Still, that did little to stop or slowthe incoming crash; a cursory glance would make it seem like he’d just traded one suicide boat for another. Sky only hoped that the opposite was true, otherwise this entire effort would be in vain, and the world he vowed to protect would be less defended for it.

It’d be a tragedy of multiple degrees, spinning gears in a heartbreaking clockwork of guilt. And it’d stay as a possibility, a future that wouldn’t come, for so Sky sweared it.

He hadn’t died a martyr yet, and by the grace of hylia, he wasn’t going to start now.

Sky rose the master sword above his head, swaying under the rapidly changing heights. He closed his eyes for a second, a precious infinity of connection between him and the powers that he forever served, and the people he protected.

He let his will go onto his blades, and his blades onto the heavens, or their remnants. She answered his call, as she had countless times before, the vestiges of his love’s divinity whispering cascading adoration across the essence of Sky’s soul.

Thunder struck down onto the blade of evil’s bane, warm benevolence radiating from it’s cerulean shine. Sky let the sword absorb the energy, choosing then to drive it deep below his feet; an ocean of power and awe surging within the guardian, cleansing the corruption and rejuvenating it’s salvageable systems.

The Guardian whirred to life, as best as the circumstances allowed anyway; the mauve malignant replaced by backdrops of blinding white. It didn’t adjust itself upright, seemingly aware that Sky was aboard. It spoke in unintelligible garbles, in a language Sky had no understanding of.

It kept on it’s trajectory, spinning it’s damaged rotor faster as to compensate for the speeding descent. Sky held onto his whip like one would the reins of a horse, having sheathed the master sword in a desperate two-handed attempt to steer the now hylia serving machine away from the treeline.

An effort that was, in the end, only partially successful. The guardian’s meteoric drop had hovered precariously above the island jungle, the blades of it’s rotors shredding the stray branch of leaf that reached to it’s height. Inevitably though, it dropped lower and lower to the surface, brushing against increasingly denser and harder fauna.

The Guardian’s solution? Open fire on everything in it’s path. 

Sky recoiled, due both to the physics of being a crashtest dummy on a makeshift shiekah rodeo, and at hearing the buzzing, broken sound of the guardian’s main cannon recharging in full. A main cannon that, this time around, wielded the cosmic divine as it’s power source.

Blistering might spat from the unsteady machine, a singular line of searing light cleaving molten-hot mayhem through the forest; an erratic light show of fatal consequences. The pathway before Sky was little more than fuel for the newborn forest fire, the unintentional consequences of his gambit more than evident in the carnage.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel, however, as the beachside clearing of the island grew larger in view. The guardian barely a few feet above the earth, running over charred bark and flaming stumps like a bull in a china shop. Sky dug his foot into it’s metal, hoping to ride his rollercoaster to the end.

The island had other plans.

A boulder, to be more specific.

Hidden by foliage and dug into the sand, the several ton rock laid at the edge of the forest, and was unshaken by the goddess powered robot. The collision with it’s frontside  had been the final nail in the coffin for Sky’s ride--and the reason he was currently shaking sand out of his ears.

It’d launched him a dozen feet in the air, ragdolling across the beach like the other wreckage, though he was significantly less worse for wear. Unlike the other crashees, HE was still in one piece.

Sky continued rolling, his leather jacket and cap doing well to prevent the sand from completely flooding his clothes. It took five minutes, five minutes of tumbling limbs and groaning regret for the universe to take some sense of pity on him and stop his fall. 

Despite how loud his spine was screaming for him to sit down, Sky found that recovery was faster than he’d thought. Getting to his feet was a reward in itself, more than any punishment that his body tried tempering it with.

Sky looked down at himself, ruffled and disheveled, his legs and arms coated with blemishes and burns. His brother had once told him that scars were hallmarks of victory, if that were true, then Sky’s stunt had earned the hero rounds of roaring applause. It didn’t bother him, not really, himself was the last thing Sky was concerned about--didn’t even make the top five.

Getting a way off this rock was his main concern, maybe finding one of his brothers, either or at this point. That being said--with no ship, no radio, and being deserted on an island in the middle of nowhere; finding an escape would take some creativity.

A problem for another day, another night perhaps too. He’d just spent his working afternoon losing his job and making death for theirs, energized was not the word to describe himself after that.

Right now, he’d appreciate his survival for what it was; a victory.

And that was enough.

I made this due to the wonderful art(as seen above) my friend @ikaishere made of Ace Pilot Sky! Go check them out, they're wonderful!

[drippingheart]

PATHETIC. Weak, weak, everyone is dead because of me. When lashes marred with tears and dirt pried apart with difficulty, it was the face of Ieri Shōko which first filled with vision, and somehow that was more painful than if he was greeted with the path to the afterlife. The overwhelming ache in his heart had notified Getō Suguru that he was alive even before he reached consciousness, and having not heard the assassin's final words, he had hoped his circumstances would have been different. Why should I live when an innocent child and my best friend are dead.

There was a tension aging Shōko's face beyond her teenage years . . a pain which only worsened when the gazes of their eyes connected. Suguru had to dig his blunt fingernails into his palm to prevent eyes from unleashing a torrential rain of agony. She said it all without saying anything. He pushed forward with a body free of physical wounds yet heavily burdened with that of the soul, ignored his friend's shouts, and rushed out of the Tombs of the Star. The long trek outside the massive underground facility only punished his wounded heart further. SATORU, SATORU. He needed to see Satoru.

Don't look — yet he looked, only to find a puddle of blood and brain matter where Riko Amanai's body had once been. Blood burst from his bottom lip with the force in which teeth abused the meat' every and all tactic was employed to prevent the eruption of tears. He was shaking with tremendous loss and rage on the lift ride back to the surface of the school. Holding back his sorrow only made him feel worse, and his back was bowed over by the time the sun hit his face. Suguru was shaking and breathing so harshly consciousness was once again threatening to slip between his fingers. Just a little more.

A little more and then what? What would happen if Suguru actually saw his best friend's dead body. The thought petrified him, suddenly ceasing the quivering of body as though he had been doused in icy waters. It was so bright outside, and the sun's brilliance only served to make the scene of decimated ground and blood splatter all the more horrific. It was bound to happen. They were child soldiers trained to fight to the death; premature death was the only fate which awaited sorcerers. Yet . . yet . . he needed more time . . wanted more time. Suguru had experienced an all too long shitty life until he joined Tokyo's Jujutsu Technical school.

It wasn't fucking fair! He wanted more ridiculous sleep overs, competitive training sessions, dango fueled arcade trips — he needed more Gojō Satoru @limitlessscion in his life. When he finally saw the mess of carnage that became his greatest friend in his entire life, acidic stomach contents threatened to spill out of his body while his knees completely gave out. Warm air temperature made the pool of crimson so grotesquely sticky. Flesh flies and carrion beetles already began gathering, hungry for the taste of decay, and Suguru angrily summoned his weakest curses to deter the fiends. How dare they touch his blood, touch his body!

── ❛ Satoru . . ❜

Knees slipped against the massive amount of coagulating blood as hands reached for his friend's corpse with heart-wrenching desperation. Tremulous hands ghosted over Satoru's torso to his shoulders, where he then gathered the still warm body into his arms and onto his lap. The smell of death was absolutely horrible, yet not as horrid as his guilt. At the very least, Suguru could have protected Riko Amanai, could have killed the shameless assassin . . but he failed. PATHETIC. Onyx hair fell out of its bun and covered both of their faces like a mourning veil. Suguru held him close, so very close. What a worthless friend; incapable of avenging his friend's untimely death.

── ❛ I'm sorry. I'M SORRY. ❜

. . . and then he felt it — a pulse.

[vibratingskull]

My hand joined in prayer

Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Tag list

Tags : Religion, church, temple, Mass, community

FemaleReaderxThrawn

Nather brings you to a temple on Coruscant, hoping it would ease your sentiment of solitude. Unbeknownst to you, destiny is in motion.

You take a step back to have a good view.

You gulp.

The building is enormous.

In a pyramid form with steps, the building in what appears to be beige marble clashes with the rest of Coruscant. Sitting at the top of a tower of apartments and offices near Core Square, the construction of more than 21 000 meters square takes center stage of the neighborhood, less tall but more wide than the other buildings, the sun rises behind it and shines all its light on the smooth surface of the marble. Already a huge crowd is forming at its door. 

You tug your suit to smooth and flatten it. A hand appears on your backside, you turn your head to Nather who just parked the airspeeder. As always, a smile is flowing on his lips, with his hand he gestures to you all of the building. 

"Welcome, (y/n)!" 

Your gaze comes back on the impressive built. 

"What's this ?" You ask with a voice filled with curiosity.

"This is, I hope, the remedy to your loneliness! Come." He takes your hand and guides you toward a small group of people talking with energetic tones.

"Demat my friends!”

They all turn towards you with smiles on their faces. You can’t really say because they wore civil clothes but you think one of them is another governor. An old man in a grey tunic opens his mouth first.

“Demat Arzel. What a beautiful day for a ceremony isn’t it ?”

"Indeed. Let's hope the future days will be as clement. Is the beleg officiate today?”

“Oh yes! He came back last week with news of others kenvreuriezh…”

You let them talk without understanding the jargon, you just nod silently with a polite smile, not daring to interrupt them. A woman between two ages looks at you up and down and takes the floor.

“Arzel, honey, who’s that pretty thing accompanying you?”

Your lips part at the demeaning compliment, taken aback you don’t know how to respond without missing a beat. Nather flies to your rescue, pushing you slightly forward in the circle of friends.

“This is my pearl. Everyone meets (y/n)!”

They all smile at you, nod, and exclaim some welcoming formula. The woman takes your hands in hers and squeezes them as a salutation.

"So it's her? Welcome my child." she pinches your cheek like she would a baby. 

"Tell me, what did he told you to convince you to come ?" 

You ostensibly massage your cheek, still with a polite smile. 

"Huh… He wanted to present to me his friends, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me, my child. We are all friends here, we use each other's nicknames!" You realize she didn't release your other hand, you squeeze it but she didn't take the hint. "We should find you a nickname!" Her eyes glow as she speaks. 

"That's a bit premature, no?" Nather interjects, his fan touches her hand and she finally releases yours, you quickly retract it. “This is her first time, you’re gonna scare her…”

“A nickname?” You ask. “What for?”

“Oh it’s just a silly little thing.” The woman says. “A way to strengthen ties between us. For example my nickname is Berc’hed, Nather is Arzel, this is Gleann.” She designates the old man in grey. “And you, my dear…” She takes your face between her two hands, making you look like a fish, you have to challenge all your patience to not pull them off. “You have a visage to be called Roween. Am I right?” She asks the rest of the circle. They all agree with enthusiasm.

This woman is really exhaustive, you decide. You can’t wait to be away from her, fortunately Nather seems to share your sentiment.

“Alright, that’s it. Enough!” She lets you go. “I had all the pains in the world to get her to accept and you’re gonna make her run away the first day…” He wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you away.

“Bye Roween! We will see each other next time!” They all cheer as you walk away, you wave at them with an embarrassed smile.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers in your ear. “They tend to be a little… enthusiast when I bring someone new .“

“I saw that.”

“Come, I have other people to greet. They are more calm, I promise.” As you walk you see him nod or wave to different people, he is visibly famous. And with great people too! Other governors, commandants, even an admiral. There are some connections to make, you think. 

You both pass the door of the building to enter a large room with tapestries, sculptures, high stained-glass, a large carpet running in the center of the room from the entrance to three large wooden doors, the hall is filled to the brim with people of different ages, from toddlers to senior. They are gathered as little cells, dispatched, the sound of their conversation resonating inside the room. 

"I have something to check up on, Can I leave you alone for two minutes? You are gonna be okay?”He asks, genuinely concerned.

It makes you laugh.

“Yes, I think I’ll survive.”

“Good.” He kisses your forehead and you lose him in the crowd.

You take this opportunity to observe your surroundings, clenching your purse. You notice there is a buffet, of an impressive size to sustain such a crowd, shelves with medals and cups, and different stalls. The crowd is diverse, human and aliens, of different standing and economic background alike are mixed in a bubbling melting pot. You head towards the information stand, decided to get some infos.

“Hi! Sorry to bother, but could you tell me… what this place is?” You ask the hostess standing behind a counter with different books for sale. You have to raise your voice to be heard. The human woman looks at you with a pearly white smile, in an impeccable uniform she slightly bows before you before answering.

“Welcome! You are at the temple of the Church of Unifying White Light. Also called Heaven Hall.” 

You blink.

A church? Nather didn’t cross you as particularly spiritual. And neither are you.

“A church?” You repeat. “And what do you believe in?” you ask cautiously.

“We believe in the reunification of all the races, miss.” She gives you a colorful flier. “We are a large organization that promotes different initiatives and philosophic principles, we preach acceptance and pray for a near unification of all the sisterly species under the same banner.” She gestures to the books for sale. “But you will find everything in the books of the beleg, all our beliefs and what we stand for.” She hands you one of them that you take and leaf through.

Well, to say it surprised you is an understatement. Rare are the movements of equality under the Empire, despite numerous protests and actions it doesn’t really move the global population. And the simple fact that this church can operate questions you on its ability to fight for equality, but it's better than nothing you think. You read here they are against slavery. Eli would have liked this church, you think. But you grow uneasy, you’ve never hated aliens, but you’ve never felt comfortable near them. It wasn’t always like that, before the incident you thought of everyone as your brother and sister but since then you grow wary of the other. Standing here makes you feel like a hypocrite. You hand her back the book but she refuses it without abandoning her smile.

“The first tome is free.” 

“But I don’t… I don’t think I-”

“You’re not a believer.” She cuts you with an accomplice wink. “But that can change. Stay for the mass, speak to the people, maybe you will see the light. And recognize your fellow beings as your siblings.” She gestures to the crowd of humans and aliens, mixed as one. “Maybe you are here for a reason, maybe it is time for you to do some soul searching and extend your hand to your next one.” She looks at you without judgment, confident. 

You look at them. Could you? After what happened, could you still believe in them? 

Thrawn’s face flashes in your mind. You believe in him, despite what happened. Could this happen? A world where you could be his sibling and walk with him, even from far away?

 You want to believe it. Even if the hope is thin, you wanna believe it is possible.

And Nather is a believer of that movement, so maybe you should look into it. 

You hold the book close to your heart with a newfound smile on your lips.

“I will try.”

“Wise decision.” She nods at you with a satisfied grin. “And as there is no better moment than the present to start changing, can I ask you for a generous donation for one of our causes ?”

 You’re taken aback by the sudden shift of subject.

“Huh, maybe. What are they?”

“We have different ones. There is one for the integration of the youth in our sponsored team sports or we have a program that finances the construction of schools in regions touched by the war.”

“Oh…The school one.” You decide. It will be your Good Action of the day.

You proceed to the exchange and she bows once again.

“Thanks miss, you are one step closer to the White Light.”

“Thank you. Say, I have a last question. What is it about those nicknames?”

“Once you are considered a real member of the church, you get a new name. See that as a baptism for your rebirth as a more enlightened person.”

You salute her and head towards the center of the room. You think you recognize someone.You approach the group and your instinct didn’t lie to you, there are officers of the Marine here. You recognize some. 

"... And he gave himself all the merit! I've never seen that !" Says the admiral Wiskovis.

"And who might you be to eavesdrop on others, little one?" Ask a ginger woman you don't recognize.

"I am (y/n) (y/l/n), I work in the Imperial Marine." You stammer.

"Oh really? What is your rank miss (y/l/n)?" 

"I'm a junior lieutenant." You announce with the ardor of youth. 

"Ha…" Says the admiral, already disinterested. He turns back to his group of friends "He executed this interrogation like a master, but still. Can we allow such behavior from low ranking officers?" 

"What are you talking about?" You demand, trying to create a connection. 

"We were talking about the new mascot of the marine, an alien straight up from wild space. You might have heard of him, he has a bad habit of shaking the established order.”

“I might have heard about him, yeah.” You pout.

Even when he’s not here, Thrawn makes everyone talk about him.

"Did you hear? Another person has been poisoned." Exposes a second woman with blue eyes. "The killer vanished without a trace. It's the third high ranking of the Empire to be killed like that after those two senators." She says with an air of conspiracy. 

"Bah. Another settling of score between them, it's commonplace among the politicians" Wiskovis laughs. 

"But it's a Major of the Imperial Army who died this time!" She counters. “Do you think it's connected to the robbery of slaves?”

You are losing interest in the conversation when something picks your attention.

A very specific shade of blue in the crowd.

Impossible. You think.

You go after it without thinking about it. You try and navigate your way among the sea of people, eyes fixed on the blue.

That beautiful blue.

You extend your hand and reach his shoulder.

And are met with green eyes.

Before you stand a Twi’lek with a surprised look on his face, with the exact same skin as Thrawn. You quickly retract your hand, all your senses alert.

“I’m sorry, I mistaked you for someone else.”

“No problem.” His eyes laugh “You’re new too?”

You frown then notice the first tome in his hands.

“No. I’m…” You silently berate yourself. You’ve just said you would make an effort. “Yes. It’s my first time.” You try to calm yourself down.

He nods with a shy smile.

“Me too. I wonder how it will be.”

“The prospectus said there will be a demonstration then a mass with the… Beleg?”

“You’re more informed than I am.” He extends his hand. “I’m Vez’lajui, but my friends call me just Vez.”

You hesitate a second but shake his hand with a smile you hope appears sincere.

“Pleased to meet you! I’m (y/n).”

 “Who did you mistake me for?”

“A… Friend. Yes. A friend.” He raises his eyebrow. “You have the same skin, so…”

He laughs looking at his hand.

“We indeed have a very specific shade of blue.” You nod. “ So, (y/n), what do you do in life?”

“I’m a lieutenant in the marine.”

His smile vanishes and he seems to move back.

“And you?” You try to hold him back “What do you do?”

“I’m an artist.”

“Really? My friend is a real aficionado of art!” He seems to relax a little. “What do you do?”

“I paint and sculpt. Your friend likes art?”

“Oh it’s more than just liking.” You grin. “It could be his religion.”

You both laugh, the atmosphere slowly alleviating.

Suddenly, the central doors open and the crowd starts moving inside. Away, you can see Nather waving at you, jumping on site to be seen above the moving wave of people. 

"Let's get inside !" You say joyfully to Vez.

He follows you through the crowd to Nather that seize your hand.

"Our seats are on the front row."

"Can Vez come sit with us ?" 

He looks at him up and down and shrugs his shoulders, guiding you inside the room. 

This new room is gigantic. With several floors and balconies, you estimate it can accommodate at least 100 000 people, and almost all the seats are taken. You’ve prepared yourself for cheap chairs and decolored walls but you're graced with padded armchairs and sculpted moldings on handrails and walls.  Even more tapestries are hung, in beautiful shades of red, gold and blue. A large scene with a podium has been built with a sculpture of the logo of the church hung over it in a golden material; heavy white curtains prevent the crowd from seeing what's behind the stage. Your breath is taken away. You didn’t expect such rich decor.

“Who finances the church?” You ask Nather as you take your seat. 

"The Empire would never finance a church with this ideology for now, so it runs on the donations of the parishioners and fundraising."

You whistle. It must have some generous crazy rich parishioners. 

"For now?" Inquiries Vez. 

"Well, we are working hard for it to come as soon as possible." Nather responds with a grin. 

The room goes dark as you sit down, and rhythmic music starts to rise. Everyone goes silent waiting for something to happen. The large doors open once again to let children in costumes appear, with sticks, balls and ribbons they set off on the alleys, throwing their instruments adroitly to execute a figure and catching them back without missing a beat. They walk down the aisle, human and non-human, with broad smiles and impeccable hairstyles. The audience applauds with tenderness in the eyes, forgiving the minute errors and failures of the children doing their best. Following them, teens and young adults execute pirouettes, spins, somersaults, moons and splits. 

“That’s one of the gym teams we sponsor!” Nather tells you over his shoulder. You don’t lose a crumb of the spectacle, cheering the little guys.

They traverse the hall to place themself before the scene, under the applause and the hurray they perform figures more and more spectacular in perfect synchrony, throwing each other more and more rapidly, building human pyramids higher and higher. At some point the crowd gasp as a little pantoran jump off the top of a seven meters pyramid, you grasp Nather’s arms, shocked. But she’s caught by her comrades without breaking a sweat and you can release a sigh of relief, a hand on your heart. It continues for five more minutes until it escalates to a grand finale. You applaud so much your palms burn. They bow to the audience before trotting towards the exit and the claps subside as the lights come back. 

“Well that was entertaining!" Vez exclaimes himself. 

You nod in agreement, it sure must change from those traditional sermons, way more dynamic. 

A middle-age man you assume to be the Beleg passes the white curtains on the stage, walking like he owns the place and the audience goes completely crazy. The crowd rose like one man, shouting to the point of losing its voice, chanting praises and hurrays, applauding like thunder, making the whole room tremble. The racket is deafening but you participate gleefully. 

The man wore a white and golden robe, of rich fabric and a ceremonial scarf with embroidery. With gray temples, he conducts himself haughtily. He walks with a tranquil pace, saluting the crowd like he would old acquaintances. The standing ovation continues as he walks from one side of the stage to the other, laughing as he plays with the public. He finally takes place behind the podium, inviting the public to calm down. 

"My friends! What a pleasure to see you all once again!" 

New ovation. You notice a scar running from his neck to his temples, you bend towards Nather.

“What happened to him?” You whisper.

“There has been a police raid at one of our last sessions, he refused to back down.”

"The Empire tried to take us down! But they can not defeat the truth!” He speaks with a clear and strong voice. “And the truth is : we are indissociable! United!” He welcomes the praises with open arms. “I didn’t waste my time being away, I traveled from many planets : Charros, Edusa, Sullust,… Spraying the good words of the White Light. And I command you to do the same, my friends, share the words, build bridges! Do not let people in ignorance. Every soul enlightened is a soul saved!”

A murmur of agreement spread through the audience, Nather slowly nods. Your gaze travels over the room observing the people's faces, their smile, their light applauds not to disturb the speech. 

"But before the sermon, it came to my attention that some of you brought newcomers with you and I would like to talk to them, know them a bit. See you, my young friend, what is your story?" He says designing Vez. 

A projector turns on and illuminates the Vez and a staff member’s hands him a micro. He stands up and takes a deep breath. 

"My story is quite common, bullying when I was young, little to no opportunity when I became an adult. I own a studio where I sculpt and paint, it has been sacked several times." You look up at him, feeling sorry and ashamed. "For a long time I only felt hatred, fear and anger, but it was burning me slowly, depriving him of who I really am. And recently someone extended their hand to me and showed me the way. I don't want to fear all the time, I don't want anger eating at me slowly and consuming who I really am, I want to believe in justice, so I decided to come here.”

You applaud with the audience, nodding approvingly as he sits back down. The beleg nods approvingly.

“And you, my child? What is your story?”

You slowly stop applauding as you realize the spotlight is on you, for all to see. Vez puts the mic in your hand and you turn towards Nather unknowing what to do, he simply gestures to you to get up and speak.

“I, huh-” You rose slowly from your seat “I don’t have anything to say.” You try.

“Come now.” He tempers. “We all have a story, that is why we are all here.”

“I…” You gulp. “I don’t know what to say…” You laugh nervously ”We herberged a young pantoran when I was a child, then…”

A memory flashes in your mind.

“Then…”

It imposes itself to you, replaying in your mind without your consent.

“Then I saw…”

Shut up.

“I saw…”

Shut the fuck up.

“I saw my cousin get shot… By a Togruta and a Twi’lek…” Your voice cracks at the end.

The room is dead silent, not ready for a bomb like that. You hear some gasps and a light murmur across the hall. Nather and Vez look at each other, disconcerted. Congrats, you idiot ! You’re frozen in place, incredulous that you actually said that out loud. The beleg keeps silent, looking at the floor for a split second before taking back the floor.

“This was very brave of you to say. Thank you for sharing.”

He continues to speak but you don’t hear him. Shaking all over, you give the mic to Nather , take your purse and run out the church.

Why did you say that?! You didn’t confront it for years and you drop that at a church meeting?! Trembling, you stop next to a bench, taking out tissues to dry your wet cheeks. You take deep breaths, trying to take back control when a feminine voice rises behind you. 

"(y/n)?" 

Surprised, you turn towards a young woman in clothes faded but still in good conditions. Dark rings under her eyes are the witnesses to her sleepless night. You've never seen her in your entire life. 

"You are with him, don't you?" 

"Huh ?" You sniff, not understanding a word being said. 

"Listen, I should not being here,I-" 

"Indeed, you should not be here." Nather appears next to you with an icy cold voice. 

She looks at him in shock, not expecting him. 

"Go away, Ashcorah. You've lost your privileges around here."

You watch the silent duel between the two without interfering. The gaze of the woman slides back to you, imploring. But you don't budge, still trembling. She finally steps back and runs away without any more words. Nather places himself in front of you and take your face between his hands, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. He looks at you longingly.

“Are you alright, my pearl?”

You nod slowly, sniffing away your tears. He pulls you into a hug, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, wetting the hem of his coat. You look in the direction of the departed woman. 

"Who was she ?" You manage to ask. 

He squeezes you. 

"Just someone who doesn't believe in our values anymore, we didn't have any other choice but to shun her when she decided to go vocal after our belief in equality."

You don't say a thing, fixated on her direction. 

She knew your name. 

“It was so brave of you to share your story!” He cradles you. “You know, we all have a story here, but we are here to grow. Together, hand in hand.” 

He parts and wipes a tear of your cheek.

“Will you think about it?” He whispers.

You nod once again, putting your head on his shoulder.

“I wanna go home” You sigh. 

_________________________

You stand before the door, apprehensive. You turn to admire the blue trees and their chanting birds. 

How many years since you came here ? 

You barely remember anything. 

The door opens behind you and you turn towards a woman of approximately 40 years. 

"Yes ?" She asks suspiciously. 

"Hello ! I'm (y/n)." You extend your hand to her with a polite smile. 

 She opens her eyes wide open like saucers and shuts the door right into your face. You stay speechless, not knowing what to do. You hear ruckus behind the door, like someone failing to speak with a low voice and another one surexcited. 

The door reopens to an old woman and the same woman. They look at you like they saw a ghost and you do not dare to move. 

“(Y/N)!��� Exclaims the old  woman, pulling you into a bear hug.

“Yes… that’s me.…” You manage to say, without being strangled.

“I’m your grandma!” She parts with you, holding your face. “Oh dear Maker, you’ve grown so much! But you surely don’t remember me, you were so young when I last saw you” 

You search in your memory, deep down, and vaguely remember an already old woman inviting you for an after-school snack on her lap when you were maybe three or four.

You smile.

“Yeah, I remember you.”

“Oh Maker. Look at you! You’re a full grown woman, now!” She gasps with emotion. “You must see your grandpa! He will be so happy to see you!” 

Without any warning she pulls inside the house. Damn! For a frail old woman she sure does have some strength! Your parents would choke if they knew who you were.

You arrive in a well lit room with an old armchair near a window, in it seats an old man, eyes lost in thoughts. He barely reacts to your arrival.

“He had an accident last year and has been let diminished since then.” Says your grandma with a pained expression. “But go see him, it can only do goods.”

You carefully approach, trying to catch his attention.

“Grandpa?” 

He doesn’t react, eyes lost fixed on the void of the window.

“Grandpa, it’s me.” You try, delicately taking his hand.

He slowly turns his head towards you, staring into your eyes without recollecting who you are. His eyes are void of anything. You barely know this man but it still pains you to see him reduced to this state. You turn towards your grandma with pleading eyes, she just gestures to you to try again. 

“I’m (y/n). Do you remember me?” You squeeze his hand.

To no avail.

You’re about to get back to your Grandma and your aunt when you see something clicks in his eyes. He slowly brushes your cheek with his hand. You see his eyes getting wet.

“Of course I remember you.” He simply says.

Your aunt gasps with relief as you put him into a hug, relieved to see him out of his coma state. You would lie if you said it didn’t pinch your heart. 

You appreciate having him in your arms before remembering why you were here for.

“Grandpa, I have a question.”

___________________________________________

“That’s all I could find.” You send.

“That is plenty, it will be useful to me. Thank you for your cooperation.” Thrawn replies.

“Take good care and make the most of those infos, I had to deceive my grandparents to get them.”

This time his response is slow to come.

“I am truly sorry to hear that. I will make the most of it, I promise.” 

You stare at his response, you feel guilty for having to mislead in such a way your own grandparents, all bandits they might have been in the past. You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a message in the loudspeaker of the Zephyr.

“Junior lieutenants (y/l/n) and Norcaus, you’re awaited on the bridge.” The message ends in statics.

You sigh. Another day, another crisis, you think. You take your cap and head towards the bridge, ready to hunt down pirates.

@Bluechiss, @justanothersadperson93, @al-astakbar

[hope-to-hell]

A fairytale in silver and glass: part five.

To the bone. Book quote from Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story. The cracks are beginning to show.

—-

He doesn’t ask if you miss your life before because stupid questions beget stupid answers. Truth be told, he rarely asks you anything at all. He watches, and sometimes he commands—

—and oh the steel in his voice when he caught you with your hand on the door to his study; all he had to say was no and it sent a violent shiver from your toes up through your shoulders; his eyes were heavy on you til you’d slunk out of sight, and your heart was pounding when you later lay in bed and slipped your hand beneath the covers—

—but most days there is little talk between you. He doesn’t ask and you don’t offer.

He leaves and as he does the air runs in eddies around him, pooling at his lips with words on the verge of being said. I will return, perhaps, or be good

(Be safe)

and though your supper is on the table every night there is still a gnawing hunger in your belly. You wake each dawn to neatly folded clothes, to breakfast on the side table, to wan light streaming in through the narrow window. Days pass in an endless patter of your bare feet on cold floors and the scent of brass that clings to your hand each time you try the door.

(I held the sun in my hands)

This is a sleepless night; days and nights scratch at one another til they’re hopelessly entangled. There is no feeling the breeze on your face, no deep inhale to draw the dawn into your lungs. The closest you can get is Adhemar’s greenhouse, but it is a sealed box that always seems to be surrounded by clouds and rain. The air within these walls is still and empty, and for a moment you cannot breathe.

(I clutched it to my chest)

The study door is ajar tonight.

(Really? You made it all the way here and didn’t notice? You, whose pulse quickens when shadows cross the hall beyond your door? Or were you hoping—)

Where do you go?

He doesn’t answer.

Night and day exchanged glances, and in the long slow blink between them he returned. His veins pulse close to the surface and their frantic tattoo can be nearly heard.

Golden light fans out through the open door; it’s a gentle glow that pushes back the visual static of the darkened hall. He is there and he is not; he holds a silver ring in his hand that he walks across his knuckles: back and forth, back and forth, until it disappears into his fist.

What do you miss the most? he doesn’t ask.

Sunlight. Pavement. Midnight conversations. Laughter over supper. Human touch. He doesn’t ask, and so you cannot answer. In the space between words unsaid he looks to you and sees beyond. The ring turns in his hand again and when it reappears it’s streaked with red.

Are you—

Leave it.

His voice is a tangle, burred and harsh and each word buries its hooks deep to leave threads of worry behind. He is not measured nor aloof; something in him teeters on the edge of anger. There is silver in his beard and in his hand; the light is golden on his skin and melts through him to his bones. Hie to your chamber. He is old now, ancient even, layer upon layer of tar and filth and recklessness, of moments that could have become his doom and his grace were he not held back by whatever it is that eats at him.

No. Are you hurt? Do you need— There is pain in him, some struggle that gnaws him from the inside. It flies in the face of your judgment and experience, but

(Who are you to kick at the pillars of the sky)

his fractured parts are visible at last and he cannot push them back inside himself.

Go. To. Your. Chamber. There it is: the fire, the crack in the earth, the stone dropping molten from his tongue. He stands upon the edge of reason and though he is all aflame there was still a tattered book waiting for you in the greenhouse. And still the words were smeared on the page when you read:

But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing.

And when he rises— when he is so close you can smell the rain and ozone still clinging to his curls— when the flecks of green in his eyes are so clear— when he rises, he is fighting back something

something

that you cannot name but can only feel.

Please, he says; the word lands silvery in your hand.

(Dust in an empty room, black powder, drifting smoke. Light and heat and all around is the crashing of a house as it falls to its knees. He is there and he is incandescent; if he takes another step he’ll burst and all the good, the bad— all the teeth and shadows and meadowgrass— will come pouring out.

Can a man change his stars?)

A man is a man is a man, but sometimes a man is a vessel of oil. Sometimes a man is a footprint in deep mud. Sometimes a man is a bloody hand. Sometimes a man is a single word held aloft by a fine thread. Adhemar curls himself around his please, around the smooth cool stone at his center. The thread vibrates. It sheds fragments of fiber that are incinerated by his writhing burning something. And it holds.

Go, he says again, and drops his gaze, although to do so grinds his teeth and makes his bones shiver in their sockets. To your chamber, he says, and what else can you do but obey?

[stellar-waves]

staring down the sun [33] *

⏯ chapter index

⚠ warnings: death, blood, injuries, canon-typical gun violence, ridiculous movie references

. . .

cross my heart and hope to...

. . .

He can taste the blood. But he doesn’t dare close his eyes. 

Hell, he’s been through worse. He glances over at his brother, noting the places his face has been cut and bruised and battered. Could be just another fucking bar fight…but it’s not. 

Another fist blows against Connor’s nose, and he can feel more blood trickle out of his nostril. The sting squeezes his eyes shut for a split second before looking back at the politician. Naturally, Connor can’t help but smile, nor the smart-ass comment that falls out of his mouth. “Ye know we can’t vote for ye, yeah?”

A slight chuckle escapes Hawkins as he wipes his hands with a handkerchief. Connor feels a weird sense of pride seeing MacManus blood staining the pristine piece of cloth. He attempts to shift in his confined seat, his wrists rubbing against the handcuffs chained to the metal chair. 

Hawkins crosses his arms and leans against his desk, a smug smile curling up his mouth. “You have two options. Join Obsidian and you can continue your vigilante lives ridding the world of evil. Or go back to prison.”

The boys look at each other with no visible reaction, and they can sense Hawkins growing impatient, but he manages to keep his mouth shut. Murphy shakes his head. “He means rid the world of anyone he thinks is a threat.” He looks at Hawkins, a reserved anger laced in his voice. “We know ye were just using us, and that ye framed us for Beck’s murder.”

Hawkins chuckles, keeping that suave, politician bravado on the surface. “You’re right. You two lads were a huge help in cleaning house these past several weeks. And that thing with Beck? I told your girl I can make it all go away…as long as you accept my offer.” 

Connor narrows his eyes, and Hawkins grins, turning on that stereotypical used-car salesman attitude as he continues to sell his offer to the boys. “See, you still get to kill the ‘bad guys,’ but you don’t get to be the heroes either. I do have an image to maintain, you know. And it can’t look like I’m involved, so…”

Murphy’s eyebrows press together. “So ye’ll keep saying we’re the bad guys.” 

“It will be the longest manhunt in history. The FBI will keep playing it off as, ‘Well, shit, these guys are good; we just can’t catch them!’ And when you’re done—maybe you feel like you can’t do it anymore because, let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger—you can go back into hiding and live out the rest of your saintly lives in retirement somewhere. I hear Ireland’s nice…”

Connor scoffs. “Yer lying.”

Hawkins just laughs. “I’m a politician. Of course, I’m lying, you son-of-a-bitch. Did you really think I’m going to just let you go? No, the FBI has to have their victory eventually.” He rubs his hands together and then holds them out, gesturing weighing the options. “So either you two leprechauns go back to prison now, or you continue your holy mission for a while, and then you go back to prison.” 

The suited man paces around the room, straightening his tie as he keeps talking. “Unless you join us, fully commit to our mission.”

“Yer nothing more than a suit wanting to control people,” Connor replies roughly.

The statement pushes a slight smile across Hawkins’ face. “That’s all anyone wants: control. The problem is that most people don’t know what to do with it once they have it.”

“So ye take it from them?” Murphy asks in a flat tone. 

“No, I help them. I know what’s best for them, what’s best for this country. Because I’m a patriot. Which is more than I can say for you two Micks.” 

Connor sees Murphy’s jaw clench in the corner of his eye, and without faltering, he calmly reminds his brother, “Filleann an feall ar an bhfeallaire.” 

“What did you just say?” Hawkins approaches them, and when Connor refuses to answer, another nasty punch flies across his face. “This is America. We speak English. Not that…whatever the fuck that was.” 

Spitting blood onto the floor, Connor steals a look at Murphy. It was a proverb in Irish that Ma would always say: What goes around comes around. And as the MacManus brothers stare into each other’s eyes, they hold onto faith that truth and justice will prevail here…even if they die trying. 

“We will control this country’s destiny. And if that means rewriting the story, bending the law to work in our favor, then so be it. If that means getting help from various crime syndicates, so be it…until we no longer need them.”

“Like Lombardo?”

“Exactly. And anyone who gets in our way will be punished, just like your cop friend Beck.”

“And those innocent people at Saint Agnes? Those girls?”

“Like I told your girl, they were a message.” The politician straightens his tie and smooths the front of his suit as he smiles that conniving smile. “Controlling the narrative...that’s what Obsidian does. We control America even when you can’t fucking see it.”

Connor and Murphy look at each other again, their famous MacManus smirks crawling up their faces as Hawkins grows agitated. 

“Hey, Connor?” Murphy’s voice sounds so innocent. “What was that one line from Batman Returns?” 

Connor acts like he’s really thinking, digging into his memory for the answer. Suddenly, he raises his eyebrows when it comes to him, so to speak. “Oh! Do ye mean, ‘I played this stinking city like a harp from hell’?” 

“Aye, that’s it!” Murphy smiles with bright eyes.

Hawkins glares at the brothers, their faces so incredibly cocky as they keep going on their bullshit. Connor’s smirk slides up his face more. “As ye know full well, we’ve got quite the cult following, so we’ve had some extra help—” 

“And my brother gets all the best ideas from movies—” Murphy adds proudly, for once.

“Not to mention we know how much politicians love to talk about themselves—”

“Saying a whole bunch-a bullshit to make themselves look good—”

“And yer girl, Natasha, is already talking to the feds, telling them all yer dirty little secrets.”

“Ye know, just in case the signal didn’t come through.”

Hawkins stands there momentarily, and the boys know they’ve gotten under his skin just as planned. He suddenly slaps the agent standing next to him, yelling, “You didn’t think to check if they were fucking wired?” 

The agent holds his cheek, looking like a little kid desperate to get out of trouble. “That’s not their style! These guys aren’t fucking James Bond or anything—”

“Nope. We’re Irish,” Connor interrupts as he and Murphy shake their heads in sync.

“Aye, fuck that James Bond shit.”

Their cocky smiles quickly morph back into stoic stares as Hawkins pulls out his gun. But he points it at the agent, smiles, and then wiggles the gun around as he paces in front of the boys. “Impressive, I gotta say. Ballsy, too. Letting yourselves get captured, turning my girl against me, thinking all you need is my confession to take me down…” He stops and faces them, tapping the gun barrel in his palm. “There’s just one problem with your little plan. You forgot I still have your girl.” He leans down and gets right in Connor’s face, “And I know how you feel about her.” 

Connor swallows his residual fear and again narrows his eyes with that famous smirk. “My girl can take care of herself,” he states, his voice low and satisfied as he sees Elena quietly approach Hawkins with her gun raised.

“Oh, I know. She’s a feisty one,” Hawkins sneers, still looking at Connor but clearly sensing Elena’s presence. “Bet you have a hell of a time fucking her.” 

Connor can feel his fists tightening against the handcuffs as his rage bubbles up more, its metallic taste mixing with the blood from his lip. 

“Get away from him,” Elena orders cooly. “And drop your gun.”

Hawkins chuckles as he drops his gun and stands up straight. He slowly turns around with his hands raised slightly to Elena. “You can’t do anything to me, not with my men here.”

But the Obsidian agent pulls his gun and points it at Hawkins. The politician rolls his eyes and backs up to the wall, glaring at the Saints. “Like I said,” Connor starts, “we’ve got quite the cult following now.”

Elena holds steady as she approaches Hawkins more. 

Hawkins laughs that evil laugh and quickly grabs Elena and her gun, throwing her around and holding her against his chest as he presses the Glock to the pulse in her neck. The Obsidian agent keeps his gun pointed at him, Murphy shifts anxiously in his restraints, and Elena tries to pull Hawkins’ arm off of her. 

And Connor’s throat swells with that rage as his knuckles burn white against his clenched fists.

The arrogant politician transforms into the nefarious criminal he truly is as he orders the agent to drop his gun and promptly shoots the agent in the shoulder. He presses the gun back to Elena’s neck, the heat of the barrel forcing a short scream out of her mouth, the sound ripping into Connor’s heart. 

“I told her if you couldn’t play nice…” Hawkins tightens his grip on Elena as his voice continues to crescendo, “…if you decided to piss me off!” His eyes are dark and evil, and his mouth curls into a matching smile. “Change of plans, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you now.” 

Elena’s fearful eyes lock with Connor’s, and his entire world disintegrates around him. 

His stomach flips itself inside out as he watches Hawkins back out of the room with Elena at gunpoint. The edges of everything glow red as that deep, unforgiving rage explodes into every vein. 

He can’t hear anything, not even the sound of his own voice, as he pulls his wrists against the handcuffs. He’s utterly numb to the blood streaming over his skin and onto the floor.

As far as is needed.

And he fucking breaks the chains.

The metal clatters around his skinned wrists as he grabs his gun from Hawkins’ desk and takes off down the hall. Murphy’s distant voice faintly breaks through the fury in Connor’s head, assuring, “He can take care of it! Just let him go!”

The red glow of everything dissipates enough to force Connor to take a breath. He blinks quickly as he rounds the corner and yells at Hawkins. “This ends now!”

Hawkins turns and laughs, tightening his grip on Elena and pressing the gun harder against her skin. “Look at you trying to be the hero of the story!” 

“It’s over. Just let her go, and I’ll let ye live.”

The politician shakes his head, grinning. “Let me live, and everything you’ve stood for will have been a lie. Is that what you really want? Is that what your God wants?” 

Connor clenches his jaw, feeling his anger boil behind his eyes. 

“Or does your God want you to kill me?"

Connor’s eyes lock with Elena’s as everything they’ve become, everything they have to lose floods between them. And then there’s that look.

That look she held on him the last time he saw her in prison.

That look after she killed those men in her apartment.

That look when he kissed her for the first time.

That look as he told her, “Yer not alone anymore.”

That look when their souls connect.

He feels the slightest tug at the corners of his lips, a smile that keeps the faith as he lowers his gun. Elena’s features shift calmly, showing her trust in Connor as his voice sounds so sure and certain, “Destroy all that which is evil—”

“—so that which is good may flourish,” she finishes in virtuous solidarity. As Hawkins hesitates, Elena makes her move, grabbing the politician and throwing him backward into Murphy. She grabs the gun from Hawkins as Murphy wrestles him into a chokehold. He kicks him to his knees, holding his tie and pulling it taut while pressing his gun to the back of his head.

Hawkins laughs, his evil smile slick and undeterred. “No matter what you do, there will always be evil in the world.”

Connor’s gaze remains stoic as he approaches him. “Maybe. But I believe that good, decent people will keep fighting.” He slips his hand into his coat pocket, revealing two clean copper pennies and tossing them before Hawkins’ knees. “That…that ye cannot control.” 

As Hawkins’ face falls slightly, morphing into sheer hatred, Connor glances up to meet his brother’s narrowing, knowing eyes. That stubborn sense of MacManus justice and that stubborn sense of MacManus truth…a fucking dangerous yet righteous combination. The twins simultaneously take a deep breath, and Connor feels his doubt fade around him. 

He knows what he needs to do.

As far as is needed. 

The air falls silent as Hawkins falls dead at the feet of the Saints. Connor turns around, watching Elena slowly lower her gun. He looks back at the politician’s body, counting three shots to the back of his head instead of two. 

He feels her move closer to him oh so carefully, her eyes settling on his, almost warning him not to say a damn word. He knows. He knows what she did…why she did it. 

“It’s not your fault,” her voice quietly assures. 

Connor grazes his veritas finger across her forehead, tucking her hair behind her ear.  He presses his lips together, the desire to kiss her strong enough to break the universe. 

But the sounds of FBI agents storming into the building echo through the halls, pushing Connor and Murphy to run up the emergency exit staircase, with Elena following close behind. Despite saving the day and taking down Hawkins and Obsidian, the boys are still fugitives, wanted men in the eyes of the law. And they had promised each other that they wouldn’t go back to prison. The boys know they have to disappear…again.

They run out onto the roof, the brisk autumn chill hitting their faces hard. Elena yells their names, almost catching up to them before an FBI agent grabs her, holding her back as the twins climb onto the ledge. Strangely, the agents don’t say anything and maintain their distance from the brothers. Elena struggles against the man until Connor calmly calls out to her, the Irish word rolling off his tongue, “Gealbhan!”

Sparrow.

Her green eyes are wide and silently steady on him. With a deep breath, Connor tries to tell her everything without saying anything. Her mouth falls open, and her eyebrows press together with fear, but he subtly shakes his head, a small smile tugging his lips up as he holds her gaze. “Muinín dom.”

Connor and Murphy look at each other, and that stubborn MacManus sense of righteousness vibrates between them. They smile slightly, their voices syncing like always as they recite the family prayer. “In Nomine Patris, et Fili…” But in the moment usually reserved for cocking their guns, the brothers drop their weapons with one last look at the small cluster of people approaching them. They cross themselves, then finish their prayer with reverence. “Spiritus Sancti.” 

And with that, Connor and Murphy both jump off the building, crashing into the water below as darkness engulfs them. 

. . .

. . .

⏮ [32]

[34] ⏭

[jabberwondia]

jumping

For your one-year anniversary, you get one free wish from Azul.

Azul Ashengrotto x Gender Neutral Reader NOTES: Mild Azul backstory spoilers (from vignettes and Chapters 3/4), nothing too revealing. Despite the tags, this is rated Teen and Up, I swear. Mentions of deep water, tentacles, and sinking. Nothing scary, however.

For your one-year anniversary, you had been briefed in advance about the possibility of getting one wish granted – free of charge, bounding contracts or compulsory compensations. Of course, the only condition was that it was agreed upon by both parties, and that it was made within the realm of possibilities: that meant no wishing for it to rain a million Thaumarks out of the sky – though, at this point, you weren’t quite sure of what wasn’t possible in the world of Twisted Wonderland. You had one thing in mind though, and were quick to jump at the opportunity.

When you had told Azul Ashengrotto your wish, he had immediately recognized it as doable and plausible. He –also immediately– had refused profusely, glasses fogged up in disdain, muttering something under his breath and visibly shaken. Seeing his reaction, you had desisted, but the frown on your brow just wouldn’t go away. Seeing your reaction, he had calmed himself down and dared to ask:

“Is that really something you want so badly?”

Yes – as badly as to go wasting my one free wish with Azul Ashengrotto to make it come true, you assured.

“Fine,” he had conceded, lips tightly under control and not smiling one bit. “But I shall pick the place.”

‘The place’ was a rocky, tiny, inhabited island above the Coral Sea that took a whole ordeal to get to, partly because Azul’s flying was sub-par at best – and he had to manage with you clinging for your life on proverbial ‘back seat’ of the broom. While technically an islet, it seemed more like a series of cliffs speckled with vegetation – waves bursting with high energy chipped away at the rocks, and you knew that if you happened to fall not even Azul could ever hope to retrieve you. However, a concave space between the cliffs created some sort of a bay towards the inside of the island, serving as a breakwater for the crashing waves. As you flied alongside its curve, the ocean got progressively calmer, until you both reached a crevice, an opening in the sediment walls. Within was a cave that was just barely underground enough to be shielded from the sun, but not so far away from the opening so as to be completely in the dark.

It was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. Like a miniature amphitheater of limestone, the carved grotto had layers of rock slowly descending into a pool of blue waters, walls lined with moss and ceiling low, allowing you to sit upright, stretch your arms and be able to touch it. Azul steadied the broom before helping you down, and as the water rolled softly and calmly on the shallow stone steps, possibly moved by the ocean forces way down below, he instructs you to take a seat, and be careful. Dark turquoise in color, beyond the rocks it was unspeakably deep, and he wouldn’t want you falling in. The stone walls naturally merged into two steps: one above the water, and the other just barely covered by it but still close to the surface; so, you sat on the first one, with your feet towards the second.

“There’s an underwater tunnel that goes into the Coral Sea,” Azul says, his voice echoing throughout. The lack of available seating space in the rock formations meant he was flush beside you – not that after a year of dating you weren’t used to his presence, but it still made you feel some kind of way. “I used to come here to think.”

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp, wincing a bit at the cold water flooded your aquatic sandals. Azul had insisted you wear those, plus a short wetsuit, knee pads and shoulder pads. You wondered if all the equipment would not make you sink faster, but safety first, your boyfriend had said.

“Hmm,” Azul hums, deep in thought, before swiftly whiplashing back to his normal self. “Well, we’re not here to do sightseeing, are we.”

His slender, pale fingers fondled with the potion vial hanging from his neck: the answer to his rhetorical question.

“I’ll have to undress,” he adds. “Turn around, please.”

“After all this time?” you laugh dryly, but the mood was not light enough to joke, so you comply.

Even covering your eyes and twisting away from the merman and towards the cave walls, you can still feel Azul’s wetsuit sliding off his shoulder, the damp rubber grazing the side of your back; the clasp of the knee and shoulder pads coming off, his eyeglasses now resting on top of his discarded swimwear, and then a jump – a muted, soft splash.

“Tell me when,” you call, your breath revealing how nervous you were, shaking with expectation and excitement. You had imagined the transformation to make some sort of noise, yet it was unbearably still inside the grotto. The muffled sounds of the crashing waves outside, plus the soft trickle of a leak falling from the ceiling were the only things you could focus on. The stillness between you was so, that if it weren’t for your trust in Azul, you would have thought he ditched you inside the cave as some elaborate mean joke. Thankfully, he was nothing like his moray eel peers – at least not in this sense.

“Done?”

“Not yet,” he replies, hurriedly. “Sorry, Y/N. Give me some time.”

You twist your body to the direction where his voice is coming from, your own hands still veiling your eyes shut.

“It’s okay. As long as you need.”

A loud sigh followed. You felt a pair of hands now grasp at the lower step, where your feet rested, splatting water droplets as they tried to achieve balance. Azul steadied himself, bringing half his body up with the strength of his human shoulders, purposefully keeping the rest beneath the surface.

“Ready. You can open your eyes, now.”

A hauntingly shimmery shade of gray, the pale skin of his face almost seemed to match the color of his eyes – of course, you’d seen his eyes without glasses before, multiple times, but something about the way they reflected the scarce light was different now. Around his neck, and all the way through his arms and torso, the texture of said skin turned distinctly non-human; spotted, gleaming like a black opal, changing colors slowly from midnight blue to mossy brown to nightfall purple, mimicking the stone steps, in a way that would make him eerily disappear into the environment if it weren’t for his familiar face, looking straight at you. Something was swirling deep within the water, and you imagined that to be his tentacles; but as expected, he would not show them – not just yet. For your wish had been to see his true form, and you hadn’t specified if all or just half of it.

“Wow.”

“That’s it?”

You gulp before trying to articulate your thoughts again. “You’re so... beautiful.”

“That seems to be your catchphrase today,” Azul snaps back. You don’t blame him for being defensive – after all, you know he feels at his weakest right now, and this is something that not many humans have ever seen before: only a handful few academic personnel in both the Coral Sea human-training boot camp and in Night Raven College, and only for medical reasons that couldn’t be avoided.

“But you are”, you insist. Every human child has at some point dreamed of meeting merfolk, heavily influenced by bedtime stories, in which even the most fearsome sirens were mystical creatures with hauntingly loving voices and glittering scales of lavender. Maybe that is clouding your judgment, or maybe your love is – for this hardworking, albeit finnicky and distrusting boy who you were lucky enough to spend your happiest times with.

“Sweet-talking won’t get you anywhere,” Azul warns, as he is an expert on the subject. “But coming from you, I’ll take the compliment.”

He is about to suggest transforming back, but you spoke before he could.

“Can I touch you?”

“Uh...” Azul stutters, and he might have blushed if he had been in his human form, but as a deep-dwelling merman, the pigmentation of his cheeks only served for camouflage, and nothing more; its default setting being ash grey. “I doubt it’s anything special, but sure, go ahead.”

You descend to the final step of the stone stairs, before the blue abyss that Azul is floating in, so that water comes up to your hipbones – you don’t mind, as long as you can scooch on closer to him, caressing his shoulders and feeling the slimy, slippery texture of his pores. Every inch of his skin seems to have a mind of his own, contracting and expanding ever so slightly at your touch, changing colors as if involuntarily. To the side of his arms, a few small barnacles are growing – you remember he once told you they were like warts on humans, but because they all slept in seashell beds, every merfolk was bound to have a few here and there (and barnacles were a pain to remove successfully).

Azul waits in silence, a bit self-conscious, but still fixed on your face. He cannot believe you would honestly look at a creature like him in such adoration.

“Sorry. Are you feeling alright?” you ask, realizing that your natural curiosity might be making your boyfriend uncomfortable. Well, he was prepared for this much, at least.

“Yes,” he declares. “It’s not your fault. I just – I’d rather been born human, that’s all.”

There is nothing ‘that’s all’ about that statement – it’s a very deep and heavy thing to say, making your frown burrow in worry.

“Don’t make that face. I get to be human most of the time, after all. And on a government aid, no less,” he reassures. His stories about how we underwent human training to be able to walk, run, adjust to hotter temperatures and eat warm foods had always fascinated you.

“What was the thing you looked forward to the most?” you ask. “About turning human.”

Azul gives it a good thought. He’s starting to relax bit by bit, as his hue sets on purple, not trying to melt into the foliage anymore. You’re taken aback by the cold burn of his sudden touch, as his hands lazily graze your calves beneath the water. His tentacles are still nowhere to be seen, though. His temple rests on the kneepads he had insisted you wore, and though lightly, you can feel his lips hovering just below your knees.

He finally settles on his answer. “Jumping.”

“That’s... unexpected,” you blurt out honestly, because you can’t imagine how the same Azul who very profusely hates exercise could come up with that response.

“Hmm,” he hums once more, adjusting his weight up, arms crossed on top of your legs, his breath now so close to your thighs, you can actually feel it. He could very much switch to gill breathing at this point, but he’d rather make you feel his warmth. “Maybe saying I wanted to experience ‘gravity’ is more accurate.”

“I see. Did it hurt? U-uh, walking.”

“By the Sea Witch’s benevolence, when the mermaid princess of old finally turned human,” his voice turns darker, still embellished in his notorious sticky sweetness. For an otherwise introverted type, Azul is an amazing talker, and even better storyteller. “Some accounts say that walking felt like a thousand needles piercing her feet at every step.”

“Oh no,” you exclaim.

“An exaggeration, for sure. The only pains I ever felt were – what do you call them? Growing pains? In my kneecaps and elbows. Curious thing, indeed.”

You let out all the air you’d been holding in anticipation.

“You had me scared there for a second!” you scold him, and Azul smiles and shrugs. Absent-mindedly, you squeeze at the muscles tensing in his shoulders. “Ah, then I guess that means your human form matures with your age. That’s interesting.”

“Fortunately, our lifespans are pretty much the same.”

“It must have been so weird,” you continue, as intimate talks like these were rare, what with Azul always busying himself with his various, uh... businesses. “Growing bones and stuff, right? A–are you... you don’t have any now, do you?”

“My human half does,” he says, tilting his head so his eyes meet yours. “Oh, I know that look. You want to see the rest, don’t you?”

Foolish of you, thinking you could get past his wit. “Uh...”

“Not included in the bargain this time,” Azul says. “Though I might... comply, for a small fee.”

“–oof. Knowing you, no thanks. I’ll pass.”

“You wound me, Y/N. You’re not suggesting I’d ever demand collateral from you, are you?”

“As if you haven't before!” you exclaim, not that he needed any reminder of the Mostro Lounge anemone incident.

“Ah, ha, right,” he chuckles wryly.

Azul turns pensive again. He’s got both hands on your legs now, and you wonder if there is an unconscious longing for feeling his own now that he’s in his primordial, cephalopod form. Not speaking a word, he clicks your protective kneepads to remove them, lips ghosting from your thighs to your knees, making you squeak in surprise; he then rests his head in between, and you come to the realization he’s been trying to distract you from feeling the grasp of two tentacles on your ankles.

“Ah –”

“Don’t say it. I know. It’s disgusting.”

That’s a very far cry from your choice of words. It felt novel, and it tickled a bit, feeling the tiny suction cups nibble at your skin, but it wasn’t unpleasant at all.

“I like it. I like all of you.”

A pause. Biting your lip at your embarrassing confession, the cold humidity of the cave is starting to get to you, unwillingly giving you goosebumps.

“Can you show me?”

“No.”

“Aw. Well, okay.”

“Giving up so quickly, are you?”

“Azul!” you let out an exasperated sigh. “Which is it? Do you want to show me or don’t you?”

It feels like a rite of passage at this point. If he passed this opportunity to show all of himself to his lover, no such chance would come by twice. It has been a literal odyssey just getting to the cove, and to be precise – he did want to show you. He was just afraid.

“Your legs,” he says, lips pressed to them as he speaks, further sending shivers down your spine. “What marvelous things. The veins, the moles, the stretch marks,” his hands are human, but in this form, feel scaley and rough against your supple skin; his blackened nails growing out like claws, yet, by the boy’s own gentleness and self-control, managing to not scratch you. “Compared to this, I...”

I’m a monster, he wants to cry out, but he’s no longer into self-pity. And you know that’s not his final say in the matter, so you decide to wait.

They come crawling from the sides. Aside from the two tugging at your feet, two more envelop your waist – although the thick fabric of the wetsuit refrains you from feeling the raw touch, you can still feel the pressure from the suctioning, this time amply stronger. The closer they get to his lower body, the bigger the muscle membranes get, and thus their vacuum force much fiercer. He feels heavy enough, easily able to pull you down to the depths if he wanted to – in fact, you too have a potion hanging down your neck, which Azul had made and given to you personally, A water-breathing potion, in the very odd case you needed it, if his instincts gave in and lost control, or if a tide took you and you got separated. But he loves you too much to let such things happen, so it sits there unused, dangling idlily as you take the whole situation in, feeling your chest get tighter.

Azul reinforces his tentacle grip once more. With his human arms, he cradles your knees and nuzzles his head on your lap, closing his eyes. While your left is being used to stable yourself and sit upright, your free hand now moves to the back of his head, caressing his wet and curly hair gently. As his several arms embrace you, you are lost in thought. In a good way, his scent is like the sea. Not a summery day on the beach, but more like the skies before a storm – salty air, a sharp freshness rolling with the rainclouds. His choice of setting, this dark cave that would catch the remnants of sunshine in its underground pool, a lightshow of turquoise refracting off the surface; it was far away from his usual date spots, smart and cost effective, but it was him through-and-through.

“Well, what do you know,” Azul muses, and each word itches against your skin. “I’m weightless in the water, but my stomach feels like I just jumped from a trampoline and am free-falling into a bottomless pool.”

“That doesn’t sound too enjoyable.”

“No, don’t get me wrong. It is. I’m glad I got to show you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For granting my wish.”

“Aren’t I compassionate?” his modest laughter makes him softly sway in the water. While he had promised the whole ordeal to be free of charge, you were sure he’d find a way to get back at you later.

“By the way, Azul,” you call, suddenly remembering why you were there in the first place. “You still haven’t told me what your anniversary wish will be.”

“That’s strange,” the once-greedy boy says, lips still flushed against your legs, pressing one more kiss on each inner thigh. “I can’t seem to think of anything.”

"to kiss you"

A series of one-shots and drabbles featuring the Twisted Wonderland boys, kisses, and a specific body part.

Part 1: Azul Ashengrotto x Gender Neutral Reader, legs. [you're here]

Part 2: Malleus Draconia x Gender Neutral Reader, lips.