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cryptfile · 2 months ago

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Ꮺ˖˚₊ leeches, [ logan howlett x vampire!reader au ]

summary — logan howlett lacks of patience (and he can also be a nice little blood-bag while losing his temper). 8k+

warnings — 18+ mdni, fem!reader implied, blood kink (keep in mind you’re a vampire! not twilight but more of a true blood kind?) downright filth im sorry, dead dove do not eat, smoker!reader, endless tension, manhandling, praise kink, kind of porn without plot (LIES CAUSE IT HAS ONE THO??) my boy's into paaaaaain can't help it it's canon, age-gap at first (reader is her 20's but again, vampire), public sex (it just happened), daily reminder to wrap it before you tap it, p in v, choking, filthy mouth, pet names.

side notes — thought this could take place after days of the future past? au cause why nottttt ,,currently on ovulation season so bare with me,,, been a little mia cause i’m surviving aka going through the worst semester of my life at uni? internships are breaking my ass currently so well, here i am just existing, also, english’s not my first language and everyday i’m grateful for it, so any mistakes i’m not sorry in advance lol i’m also too lazy to correct once published,, feel free to send more logan requests since i've basically been a slut for him for a while now (i'm rotting in hell).

He could swear the mansion got ten degrees hotter when you came in.

It’s inevitable. It’s this thing you carry, the way you move — Graceful, elegant, almost compelling as the air fills the room. It’s not public knowledge that you’re not a mutant itself, yet you’re presented like one, like you have healing factors and age painfully slow, but human after all, a subtle lie, one that can harm no one.

It’s safe to say you catch his attention in the most annoying way: How couldn’t you? All you do is this weird seduction he’s appealed to, whether you’re conscious or not it’s just captivating, an invisible force that even when you ignore it is there, there waiting for the perfect moment to flood every time you happen to be in the same room.

Captivating. That’s the word.

The room becomes smaller after, the air grows thicker, and it’s almost like a ticking bomb, the way you wouldn’t even look at his face while he’s noticeable pinning after Jean Grey, the mystery that surrounds you and he cannot seem to resolve no matter how much time he puts into it.

It’s like he's the plague. You don’t really try to exchange more than just a few words, only when it's needed and you cannot avoid him any longer, and he didn’t say anything at first, keeping his distance too cause he don’t see how you’d become friends, cause after all, what he could have in common with a girl that doesn't surpass the twenty years?

But soon he's upset about it, even when he doesn't really say anything out loud, it's a spike he cannot reach under his skin. You seem to become friends with anyone but him, mutant kids in your history lessons, the rest of the team, even the damn mailman when he delivered a package — You'd say hello like it's a long time lover or so, greeting people like they mean the world to you.

He has students now that are asking for a transfer from his class to yours cause it seems you're fun to be around, more like he is, and he fucking hates it.

It's fair to say it's been getting into his mind lately. That thing you do with your hair, twisting it in your index finger on a lock as you speak, the subtle red glow in your eyes he always catches by mistake, not enough fast to stop looking at you, pretending he didn't even see in your direction at first.

Tension. Logan just happens to hate tension.

In fact. He's almost sure your problem is personal, that you might hate him enough to act like he didn't exist at all, enough to avoid him like he was not there.

That's why it's just so weird.

When he finds himself walking down the hallway to the kitchen and he smells this cherry-scented aroma that settles under his nostrils, he changes the direction he's walking to, to instead, follow the path to the person that was silently smoking outside. Hiding. Maybe, a student he'll have to scold like the old man he was turning into.

No smoking in the mansion!

However, as the night is just settling, he doesn't recognize a little mutant, but instead happens to recognize you in the middle of the gardens of the mansion, close to the maze; escaping the comfort of the inside to enjoy a self-rolled cherry tobacco he has smelled before in the air. He's a victim mostly, cause his legs move on it's own as his mouth go dry, approaching you in silence.

"What do you want?" you ask when he's halfway there. And your tone is just cold as ever, not an ounce of feeling as he contemplates your side profile, the way the tobacco sticks out of your parted lips, seated on a bench hidden between bushes and trees — "Is Scott bitching about the smell going into the mansion already?"

No. He's not. But he doesn't have enough reasons to explain exactly why he's outside if you asked, why, all of sudden, he followed the scent of cherry knowing it was you the only one who carried a colts package in the pocket of every single jacket you wore, constantly asking Storm if she could hold on to the bag of filters for you while you rolled in the worst moments.

It's distracting, to say the least.

"Yeah," he quickly says, lying cause in reality he hasn't seen the guy in the whole day, yet it sounds like something he would say. "Do you happen to have another one of those to share?"

You don't talk much, hand reaching his as you offered him from your tobacco without a single word, the same that was placed between your lips and now was on his in what seemed to be something more intimate than what he'd like to admit, the cherry taste filling his lungs as they weirdly enough, shared a cig.

"Aren't you too young to be smoking?"

You laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine cause he has never heard a sound quite like it, nothing that resembles that throaty, raspy sound that came out of your lips in amusement thanks to his words. He, out of all people, has never seen you like that — "And how old you think I am?"

He seems to think about it for a second, carefully picking his next words. Logan knows that women and their age are a tricky thing, you cannot say a number that's too compromising, nor act stupid and say something that's clearly not correct — "Not a day over twenty-two."

The answer pleases you, and he just knows he's wrong, but you don't seem bothered by it, instead, you nod pretending he's right, like he just got the answer right away.

He can see why everyone's switching classes now. Cheeky bastards.

"Twenty-two is not young at all, but i'm twenty-seven though," you say, and he scoffs at the statement, seeking for any change in your heartbeat, any sign of a lie. The strange thing happens when he cannot pick any heart at all, any sign of pulse.

"You are pretty young still," he says, against his age, you’re just starting out living—. "You don't look like you are twenty-seven at all."

"Cause I age slower than the rest," it's a practiced lie. One you know from repeating the same explanation over and over again, the priced answer of why you haven't changed a single bit in the past few years and made you a mutant — "I never looked my age."

Such a fucking liar. He doesn't need any heartbeats to confirm it cause deep down you are a terrible actress, he can see it so clear, how you're calculating every answer, thinking about the correct thing to say, the normal thing to say.

"Is that your thing?" he asks, playing pretend almost as bad as you do. Tilting his head to the side as he questions you — "Age slowly?"

"I have healing powers," you explain as he tossed you the joint once again. "My saliva kinds of help healing wounds. It's pretty boring."

"Boring" Logan repeats. The word itself sounds so damn fun in your lips it's contradicting. "That doesn’t sound really boring."

There's a moment of silence after that. Where you smoke in silence taking in the taste of the cherry, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that your lips also touched the side of the cigar he was smoking before, the plain lies you've been repeating over and over the last ten minutes.

It's almost infuriating. Makes his blood boil without question, he surely endures your treatment of silence, but being lied to? That's a whole different level.

“How old are you, kid?”

Your brows furrow in response, a clueless face. You are pulling out this show once again Logan don’t buy for a damn second. Something about the scrunch in your nose, the way you dismissed your own powers as if they weren’t enough. He knows it’s all a lie. He knows it even when he doesn’t really know you at all, when it’s the first time you’re truly speaking to him after your arrival to the mansion almost a year ago.

“How old you really are?”

You laugh at the question once again, and he just knows it, knows it when he sees you barely illuminated by the dim light of the moon, the act you always keep up, a web of tangled lies you have to be into— “Told you i'm twenty-seven already, didn't you hear?”

“Is it now?” he asks, amused by the sass, exhaling the smoke of the low-quality tobacco he doesn't understand why you're so invested in when passed it to him—. “Cause you don’t seem very convinced, it really sounds like bullshit to me.”

You're almost offended. By the look you give it's like the worst mistake he could ever make, yet you remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of an honest answer yet. Testing his patience like he did have one to begin with.

"Is that why I can’t hear your heartbeats, darlin'? Cause you age so slowly?”

The nickname scratches a part of your brain, and you hate him for it. The word rolls out of his tongue with an accent, smoking your cherry tobacco cause you happen to be nice.

“You can’t?” you’re good at faking it suddenly, at least, that's what he thinks when your brows furrow in alleged curiosity, stiffening your back, uncomfortable. “How weird.”

“Damn right it is” that's when you realize he knows you are lying. Even when you don’t talk much, even when you act all stiff and bothered when he’s close, he knows that you are fully invested in lying. In whatever twisted little lie you've planned, like it was your real life and not something you made up. “Are you going to tell me truth, then or do I have to find out? Does the professor know that you're lying?”

The smoke lingers in the air.

“How old are you?” he asks once again, demanding an honest answer this time — "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

You find his questions annoying, mostly cause he won't stop until he gets an answer, one that pleases him enough to leave you alone, the other part cause you happen to like the playful banter you two keep going, dangerously much. You don't hate attention it's clear, what you do hate it's the way he seemed to see pass the lie, to demand more even when he has no right to.

He enjoys being the one who's right though, Logan cannot help it. He's pleased to catch that look on your face who says everything but nothing at once, to have you where he wanted, almost at the edge of admitting a truth.

Is it payback because you've been stealing all of the little mutants from his class? He's jealous cause kids like being around you? It does not make much sense, but he is fully invested. Questioning all.

Even when you're outside, it seems like the air grows thicker. And Logan finds himself seeking for your breathing, cause he don't know nothing, nothing about you more than the fact you don't seem to have a heartbeat, or pulse and now, breathing.

“If you really are that eager to know, i'm a hundred and twenty-seven” the words float in the air for a while, and he's sure you're just messing with him, cause there's no way a pretty little face like yours had endured a century. “I've been alive for quite a while.”

He doesn't fully believe it first. Of course he doesn't. Logan's sure you're messing with him also, distracting him about your real age.

“And I supposed this do come from you slow aging powers” He tries to give you a point there, but it's difficult to be serious when you're just playing with him—. "How so?"

To be honest, you do have a little temper yourself, you've learned to stand up for yourself most of the time, so when you happen to notice he's teasing you, that he doesn't really believe you, you adopt this attitude of defense he notices as you shift over the wood you're seated in.

"No, it doesn't" you steal the joint from his hands to have a smoke yourself. "You really aren't as smart as I thought you were, huh?"

Do you happen to have a dead wish? His muscles tense beneath his shirt, and in contrast of his problem, you can hear it all. All the sounds his body makes when he's all bothered just by the beat of his heart, that annoying sound his bones make each time he moves.

"What are you?"

"That's it," the praising goes directly into his chest, the tone you use to tell him he's going in the right direction it feels just so right he forgets why he got mad in the first place—. "That's what you should be asking right there."

It's almost a shame having to admit he would also switch classes. That he would also go through all the paperwork himself without a second thought and that right there, is pathetic, but you're smiling at him as if you're encouraging the man to try harder, to find the answer himself, and fuck — He's old, too old, he's tired, he's in a bad mood as fucking usual, and he happens to dig a drink in the quiet of his own room, but he's pulled by something as equal as devastating as the gravity force, shoot towards you in pure need to have some answers even if he has to make you spit them.

"I find it strange, cause when you don't have a heartbeat, you aren't usually alive" Deep down he's fascinated, hazel eyes glues on your face trying to understand. He feels like he has it in the tip of his tongue waiting to leave his mouth as a catastrophic answer, but he doesn't find the right words.

"That's cause i'm not," you state it like it's something obvious. And just as he knows you're lying, this time, he knows you're telling the truth, blowing the smoke in his direction just to bother him — "Why do you think i'm teaching history after all huh?"

He hasn't seen it all, it seems.

Yeah.

He's losing it after that night.

It’s known that Logan has sleeping problems, but that night specifically he thinks about something else rather than what usually torments him, a truth he also has to keep a secret now that he's learned more about it.

See, Logan doesn't expect you to be really dead. Much less to hear what you are and have been hiding this whole time from the rest of the people in the mansion — He also learns that you feed on blood, that vampires are a common thing in the world and that he shouldn't, at least, be that surprised when he's a mutant in a world full of humans himself.

You are a folklore myth on small villages, stories in Rumania and horror character in films, so you don't blame him when as you spoke, he finally understands why you're so damn attractive, so damn seductive as you explained more about your way of living, some memories you've been keeping to yourself since being a vampire was so damn solitary, memories he listens to cause he knows what it's like, to be misunderstood, to be eternal, to be alone as well.

It makes the two of you grow closer by the next weeks. You now talked during broad daylight about random shit at first, about the war sometimes, about your condition as he refers to when people is around, eaves-dropping on what you two are talking so invested in. Friends.

Simple as that.

And it's safe to admit also that in the course of the next days, Logan Howlett is a fucking mess, and he knows it, but he won't do anything about it.

He won't flirt cause he knows you're a hell of a woman, in every good sense of the word, that he's way too damaged for a vampire even, for all kinds of people out there, and as much as he'd like to say anything, he values your attention, how you switched the attitude of acting like he didn't exist to be a friend, one that you came to share secrets with a cherry aroma glued in their skin.

It gets him insane, to the point he's no longer spending much time with Jean and people start to pick up on it as if he didn't have enough headaches already. He doesn't care. Shit you are not bothered by what people say, and to be honest, he cannot seem to care either.

At first, he's reluctant of keep on talking to you as normal as it is. He's not really invested in religious themes, but he sure admits you're a sin by all meanings, a religious experience of some kind if anyone asked him — He agrees with what he has heard also in the hallways. Innocent conversations of teens and their platonic crush on their teachers. You are pretty hot.

He's so interested in knowing more about you, about the nights you spend in Rumania, when you leave to Canada, the different lives you've lived across the years. He finds himself looking forward to share his stories too, weird enough, cause he's over two centuries himself and he just craves to talk about it with someone who also gets him in a deeper level, that weariness that fills your body when you age so long.

You got the best of immortality, and instead of feeling envious, Logan finds himself attracted to you so much like he's never been in his whole existence. Not at the point it happened with you at least.

By the end of the first month he knows your little treats. You use a lot of sunscreen, and avoid activities outside as much as you possibly can with those classic, tiny black sunglasses that hided you from the rays of the sun, always in the shadow so unapproachable; how you'd usually dismiss food offerings from anyone who's kind enough to even offer you something, and when you haven't fed well during the course of the week, you'd become the most maddening woman he'd ever met.

Maddening.

"What wrong with you, Leech?" Leech. You've been in such a bad mood lately that when he's seating next to you in another random smoking session outside, your fingers twitch, clearly pissed at the nickname after saying multiple times you don't like it.

"I'm not in the mood for plays now."

He can tell from before. When you talked to him that very morning and stared at the collar of his flannel for what it seemed a good, nice minute, he realizes the same moment that you were staring at that pulse point in his neck, where the flesh blood was pumping in his blood flow: You're hungry, as any living creature would be and at your own manner, in constant control as you fight the sense of hunger.

So instead, the mutant ask, like he always does when he’s curious about something that involves you:

"When did you last feed?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

That would explain it. You don't talk much about your meal plan, he knows the professor is in charge of all of that. You've told him about blood bags and hospitals, but he's not really aware of how constant you need to eat, how the blood supplies most of your energy, makes you stronger, gives you vitality, so Logan at first, don't really know what its like to not drink any blood in the course of two weeks.

"What happened with the blood bags from the Hospital?"

The mention of blood out loud seems to triggers you. A groan escaping your lips as you can swear you feel the taste in your mouth — "Don't know. Haven't seen a single one this week, Charles said something about next week, problems in the bank I guess."

You're clearly worked up. It's a new look he hasn't registered before, your hair is tangled in a less-composed look, and there's a slight shake in your hands as if you're going through withdrawal, deprived for what you needed the most.

"And animals?" he questions, trying to find a solution. “Can’t you eat a cat or something?”

"Like shit i'm going to feed from a fucking animal," you're almost immediately grossed out, scrunching your nose at the idea. "I can barely handle being so close to a damn human but animals? I'd rather fucking die this time for real, no waking up."

"That bad huh?" the mutant asks, taking a sip from the beer he sneaked outside, chucking lightly afterwards. "So you're a leech with elegant taste, huh? Of course you are."

"Clean blood is rare," you explain, rolling your eyes. It's inevitable. He knows you hate the nickname so much that he insists to keep on calling you that way just to get a reaction—. "Humans nowadays taste like dirt. They consume drugs among other substances, pills, food supplements, even damn vitamins, don’t get me started about blood diseases cause it gets me in a bad temper. Every single thing affects on your taste, even what you eat. It's all registered there. Clean, good blood is rare to find. Call me elegant, call me picky. It's a damn fact."

"And what about mutant blood?" he questions. And it seems like a mere phrase at first, one with no subtle tones, he’s usually curious about your nature so you don’t pay much attention as he spoke—. “You’re picky about mutants too?”

“No, i’ve never had a mutant before.” The truth is, you hate feeding from people, the act being something so intimate, so damn personal, you refrain yourself. Killing humans, picking a next victim to fed on, is considered now a treat you don't appreciate from your kind, making you steal from hospitals and any kind of blood bank before Charles offered you help. You haven't fed from a mutant, cause you avoided everyone equally, but you don't want to be rude about it. “You all smell different, but i’d be lying. Maybe yes, i’d be picky about it too, feeding is something intimate.”

It's an undeniable admission, and now that he's trying to be in your position, he would also be picky about someone's blood. Logan remains stoic cause he’s suddenly filled by the thought of something else, a glimpse of his own weird creativity he forces himself to push aside, to really suppress now that it's not the time or the moment.

“How do I smell?” It's too late to stop the words from coming out of his mouth when he asks her. And at first, is out of pure curiosity. He has never encountered a vampire in his life until you, let alone had someone talking about the subtle tastes of the blood being undead, so he doesn't want to let the opportunity slip — Of course he wants to know if an over two hundred mutant like himself would be as remotely good as a fresh, clean bag from the hospital.

"You stink like wet dog," he surely deserves it after all the times he’s been calling you a leech — "Like those cigars you tend to smoke, alcohol, and musk. It's similar as wood. That smell you got when you're in a forest and it's not raining but straight pouring."

"Is this a way of telling me i'd taste bad, peach?"

You make a mental note to let him know after you like peach way more than leech.

"If i'd found a human smelling like that, you won't be hearing from me anytime soon" you're just messing with him. A playful banter you enjoy more than ever, the distraction you needed to think in something else rather than the blood bags you craved so deeply — "Hell, i've would just walked the other way."

"So i'm taking you won't be feeding from me anytime soon."

It all takes a dark turn there. You're very aware of the tension the last month now that you talk to him in daily basis, but it’s just mere tension, nothing that ever goes beyond the limit. Logan has never said something to flirt with you despite the million chances he got, and he always remained like a friend, one that you enjoy spending time with now. Cannot be blamed when you're taken aback.

“Cat got your tongue, kiddo?” Man. You're about to whine about the name before you remember he is indeed, older than you are. Vampire or mutant.

"You want me to feed from you?"

He seems so willing when you ask. Even when you teased about his smell calling him a wet dog. He just seems so eager to let you just do it, try a mutant for the first time.

"Yeah," he dismisses it like it's not something so deep — "I doubt Charles is going to let you take a bite since you could clearly kill him, and I'm not sure the others would be pleased with the idea of you sinking your teeth in them, so yes. Me, leech."

Logan Howlett doesn't really smell bad. And you don't know why cause he has all the ingredients to fucking stink, yet, you'd call him interesting. That's what you thought when you find his pulse point again, the vein in his neck you looked earlier in the morning, thinking just as the same you were thinking now.

Of course you would feed from him. Is it a good thing to do? No, in any other circumstances you'd decline. He's your friend.

Now? You’re having a hard time.

"So I'm guessing that you're pleased with the idea, then," Real talk?, you just want to hear him say it. He doesn't talk much usually, but now that he's very vocal about what's on his mind, you have to take advantage of it—. "I'm not sure either. But I do think Storm may be interested too."

He seems content with the response, taking a long sip from his beer before adding — "Please, go and ask her so you're less annoying."

You're almost completely sure he doesn't find you annoying. You also don't care about Storm. And maybe he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not moving.

"You really want me to bite you?"

"I dunno now, princess" he looks at you pleased now cause he got you where he wanted to, cause he managed to awake all the interest now that you're looking at him "Are you going to pull a Dracula on me?"

"No, i'm not going to suck you dry if that's what you're asking."

Logan chuckles. He's a damn masochist. It's been like that as long as he can remember. It may have to be with his healing powers cause he likes it more than usual, but the idea gets to his head soon enough, all falling so damn fast: Your breathing would be against his neck and he'd take the bite like a damn champ.

"Yeah I can handle you," he says, aroused. "You're not gonna hurt me if you take some blood. I'll be fine and you won't be a pain in the ass."

He acts so gruff about it but you hear the sound of his heartbeat already high enough to wake the entire mansion, his labored breathing since he suggested the idea himself. He digs it, strange enough. Thrives on the idea.

He's a grown man already, and he can take a little leech like yourself.

It's clear you're hungry, cause it doesn't take much for you to accept, nodding like you're defeated, like you just lost the war entirely, cause there's no many options here to take and even if it were, you are now interested in have him more than any other blood bag. In fact. To hell with the hospital.

"Okay."

It's a simple answer, and it sure works with him as you get close to him, the bench you always used to sit now seeming so small as you look around confirming you guys really are alone—. "You won't tell anyone?"

It's something stupid to ask, cause after all that time he has never said anything, keeping your secrets as if they were his own, saving you from weird questions people get sometimes as they didn't know much about you. He's clearly not going to say nothing at all.

"Are you going to stop whining for a second and just eat darlin'? Cause I might change my mind here."

He's feeling overload soon after.

You don’t need a formal invitation to lean closer to his neck.

There's no way to describe it also cause he has never seen something like that, never felt a similar sensation more than when he's fucking, the cold touch of your fingers in his chest, taunting the vein in his neck without a previous warning before leaning in even closer than before—. "Stay still" you demand, face close against his bare skin, only one goal in mind. "Don't move for a minute. Just-"

You cannot finish the sentence, and Logan can experience the sporadic pain of the bite first hand when your teeth finally sink in his neck, piercing the flesh so easily as you let the blood fill your mouth. He grunts at the sharp pain, his face contracting momentarily before it's replaced by a nice wave of pleasure, one that hits him right in the guts as he grabs you by the nape of your neck, pushing you against him, almost demanding you to be closer, to keep on taking what you want, what you've been craving for two weeks.

When did he turned into this perverted sick? Getting off by something so primal as the fact you're feasting on him.

The feeling of your lips and the clear suck you gave when feeding are sending him into a spiral, and to be honest, he didn't expect to be so devastated by you, by the way your fingers stay against his chest to prevent him from moving, pinning the mutant between the wood bench and yourself so he won’t move, won’t do anything unless you want him to,pressing on the wound to draw more blood out.

"You heal so damn fast," you complain, looking at the traces of your bite with an unpleased face as they disappeared on his skin as fast as you created them.

"Then bite me again. I don't care."

You chuckle before leaning once again, and you can feel how the air grows hotter than how it was usually, the shift on his breathing as you bite him again, pressing on the wounds once again just to suck.

And you’re hungry, it’s the whole deal. His taste differs from what you believe at first, a huge change from what humans taste like, from what you’re used to deal with in hospitals. There’s a subtle taste of alcohol yes, but it mixes good with the sweet taste of honey, the weird taste you cannot put into words. It must be a mutant thing for sure cause it’s thicker than usual, a mix of flavors that explode in your tongue.

The headache you suffered from the whole week seems to dissapear as you drink in, feeding the monster you responded to in your stomach, demanding you to make him bleed more, to satisfy yourself until you can’t have any more.

Logan, on the other hand, is really fighting against his very own war.

You’re already close enough, but he just wants you damn closer, as much as he possibly can. It’s clear that well, it hurts slightly, but he has endured much worse, means nothing when it’s the pleasure that comes with it who strikes on his body, the light sucking, the idea you’re full of his blood, that you are not on trouble as you were before thanks to him. All because of him.

He's not used to acts on his impulses, but he does it anyway.

"C'mere" he says in a strangled voice, Logan's having no trouble moving you around, grabbing you by the hips to make you straddle him, keeping you glued to his neck as he doesn't want to disturb you—. "You really are a pretty leech, huh?”

You hum against his skin, pleased at the contact, and when he realizes you’re not complaining about his actions, he let his fingers grip your tights, keeping you against him.

You can hear him making this sound, quite like a moan but not exactly when you’re licking the holes you left in his skin, he does heal fast and don’t need any of your help when you’re done, but you coat his skin with your saliva anyway just to speed up the process, cause you want to do it, looking down to him after to check if he’s pale or nearly dead. You never really know.

And Logan himself is just fine cause his fingers gather the blood under your lip when he takes the sight of you sitting in his lap as the pearly white rays of moonlight makes your skin shine, and he pushes them inside your mouth so you don't waste any drop of what it can be considered food.

"So what's the final verdict?" he asks as his hands are now grabbing your tights, there's something so intimate about the moment, so personal, hot as he presses his fingers against the flesh of your muscles, he understand what you said before—. "Do I taste like utter shit?"

"Well, i’d need another taste to have my final decision" he laughs, and he don't really laugh often so the unexpected sound sends a shiver down your spine now that you’ve heard the sound quite a while now—. "Not much, just a little."

“Have you fill then, peach” He encourages you. “I want you full so you don’t whine the rest of the week.”

You don’t have any heartbeat, but if you did, it would be ragging in your ears at his words. At the warmth he’s spreading like a disease on her body that, despite being dead and cold, you can feel more than ever.

“I like peach,” you admit, this time pressing a soft kiss before directly hurt him—. “Leech is annoying.”

He’s going to say something, tease you about it maybe but he’s interrupted by the nice feeling of what he considers are your fangs tearing his skin apart, familiarity hitting him all sudden as he moans, a rough sound that comes from the deep of his throat, hands coming down to squeeze your ass, making you gasp against his neck when you experience the aching need physically forming in his pants.

“Still,” you say, concentrated on not allowing the wounds to close. But at the lack of complaints on what he's doing, Logan’s hands kept wandering around, making you move against his now clearly stiffed cock—. “Fuck’s sake I said still.”

“Stop being a damn brat. You can eat while I move you,” he grunts annoyed, shoving you against him, the friction of his jeans against the thin fabric of your shorts is enough to keep you quiet: Feeding from a stranger and feeding from a person you’re attracted to are two different things, especially in the position you find yourself in. “You don’t have to do anything. Quit whining about it.”

In response, your fingers press against the wound, not caring if it hurts or if it bothers him, but just enough to get him to bleed more and prevent the cut from closing, lapping at the blood that gathered over his collarbone, staining his white tank before you could even avoid it.

Your fingers grab the fabric just to pull it slightly down so it won't bother you, and the deep sound his chest make when he mocks about your desperation is stuck on your brain for the next couple of minutes, indulging in his taste, shutting up the rest of the world.

A moan comes out of your lips, muffling it against his skin. You're too zoomed out to hear it, but he's on a hell of a ride too, moaning as he demands more. It's been a while since the last time you did something like that, combine the pleasure of something as primal as eating with a mundane activity like sex, so you kind of forgot how good it felt, blaming yourself from depriving from something so needed.

"Do you always get this turned on when someone bites you?"

"No" Logan answers as you finish. He's rock hard beneath you, and he lets you know it when he's controlling the movement of your hips, working you against him at a slow pace—. "See, the woman i'm trying to seduce don't usually bite me, nor make me their main dinner plate."

You whine at the friction.

He looks down to the cause of all his damn problems just to notice his pants being damped with nothing but a physical form of need, soothing the uncomfortable fabric of his blue jeans — "So wet for me already, you’re making a damn mess, do you always get this turned on when feeding?"

Cheeky bastard.

He's using your own words against you, and you cannot be less bothered as you laugh softly, licking your lips only cause you know there's dried blood in them, drowned in his smell, the honey taste that lingered in your mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

At the sight, Logan's hand grabs your jaw in a rough movement, making you look at him before making you kiss him, deepening the contact as fast as you give him the chance. His tongue is soon invading your bucal cavity as he takes control of it, slow, intense and needy, as if he was holding on so much time before giving in to his own desires.

It is something like that.

You don't need to breathe in daily basis, but there's a burning sensation in your chest of wanting, of infinite lust you've been also experiencing by yourself.

The old mutant can taste his own blood in your mouth, a metallic taste as he keeps on kissing you until your lips are pink and puffed. He has thought so much about it that now that he has the opportunity, he devours as if he's a starved man having his first meal in what seems are ages.

"You didn't tell me if I tasted bad."

You think about it for a second.

"I'm afraid you're a rare breed cause it doesn't make any sense" You don't need any help now moving, cause you're rolling your hips on top of him at your own pace, allowing him to use his hands for something else—. “You have all the ingredients to taste like shit, but it's nothing but the contrary, even better than the fucking blood bags.”

“Sounds like your going to make me your meal plan, darlin. I’m here offering you a hand and you just take everything,” — “Such a greedy little vampire.”

He doesn't seem to care though, same as before he's nothing but willing to let you take everything as much as he tries to bark about it. He's more worried about his hands now that they're sliding down your oversized shirt, tracing patterns over your stomach, his touch so hot against your usually cold temperature.

"Logan," you whine,— "Someone can see us out here."

"Now you care about that?" his hazel eyes are a shade darker when he speaks. "After you're nice and full of my blood?"

His hands are big enough to take your whole cunt, allowing his digits to roam over the fabric of your underwear, almost thanking you for using those loosened pajama shorts he has seen before that very night as he just takes the fabric and pull it to the side.

"Nobody is going to see us. It's late and everyone's sleeping, leech" he teases you, and you cannot bring yourself to care about the nickname at the feeling of his hand taunting you from over the fabric—. "If you can bite me here outside, you might as well take my cock here too."

You cannot battle against that. You're deep in whatever spell he puts you into, giving in to the attraction and the tension that now needs to be taken care of. Logan's fingers touch you in nothing but experience, cause he knows how to please after so much time alive, how much pressure he needs to apply to leave you plain dumb, pliable for him.

"D'you think I need to stretch you out before fucking you?" he asks against your neck after leaving a reasonable-sized hickey in the zone, he likes the idea of people finding out about what you've been doing with him the next morning. "Or you're a big girl and can take me all by yourself?"

He'd like to take your time with you. Thoroughly enjoy you as much as he wants to, let everyone know you're his now, that you're shuddering thanks to him only, but he's too needy for that, too deprived of you to take his time.

"I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours and talk to me," he demands, coming up to look at your face while torturing you, his index and middle finger rubbing your clit from over the underwear—. "I'm not properly touching you yet and you're losing it already, peach. C'mon, you can talk to me still."

"I can take you," you say in a strangled voice. "Please Logan, please."

It's the plea of your tone that gets him, the soft begging of an ache he can only soothe, your face while you ask for more, not aware of anything else but him.

"Please what?"

"Please just fuck me already," you ask in frustration—. "I just need you to fill me up for a damn while."

You are starting to love the sound of his laugh. The deep sound he makes when he’s really enjoying something, his voice in damn general.

"Be a good little vampire" He says in a gentle tone. Logan’s trying to be kind even when his touch is so rough. "Unbuckle my pants and take my cock out. My hands are busy now, and you can do it yourself."

He is busy indeed. Toying with your underwear being the only thing that’s keeping him from the direct contact, pushing the fabric against your hole as it works as a barrier, preventing his digits to fuck you as he’d like to. He’s busy keeping you in place, preventing you from downright melt as your hands came up to unbuckle his belt first, the sound of the metal as it moves filling the air for a couple of seconds before you put all your attention in the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with the force you’re using.

“Yeah baby,” he praises—. “You’re doing so good, keep going.”

When you pull the fabric of his briefs down, he’s already leaking for you, pink head, slightly curved to the side, moaning, erratically how much he needs your hands on him, how you're wet and ready for his cock. You close your fist around him, stroking slowly as your hips lift up enough to position yourself on top of him.

He’s big. Damn fucking right he is, you’d expected it from before cause sometimes you swear you can see his full length in his jeans, but taking him in your hand is a struggle but itself.

“Are you going to take me yourself or do you need my help? I know you can.”

Despite his words, he does help. Grabbing the black fabric of your underwear to finally make it to the side, the tip of his dick pushing against your clit before he's the one to place it in your leaky hole, forcing himself slowly, giving you time to take him in, inch by inch.

“Good girl," he says, head rolling backwards for a brief moment as he experiences the warm sensation of your walls surrounding him, clenching against his cock as he keeps one hand on your hip, helping you as you lower yourself over him. "Let me look at you.”

His fingers grab your jaw, squeezing you as he makes you look back at him, pushing you once again as you holded a loud moan. He's stretching you at his need.

"One more time," he begs. "One more time and you got it, peach. You're almost there."

Jesus fuck. You can feel yourself getting dizzy. You've drank a lot of blood and you're now overwhelmed by this intense pleasure that formed in your lower stomach, gathering there and waiting for the perfect moment to explode—. "Fuck I-"

Logan's pampering you with kisses as a mere distraction, his lips travelling through your neck to your collarbone before you're finally seated on top of him, a muffled moan you need to shut filling the calm of the night.

"Fuck you're tight," he exhales, and he's lost in the sensation, the way your velvety walls welcome him inside. He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust, to make you the one who starts moving on top of him.

You can see his veins popping up. All over his chest and coming down to his shoulders and his arms, and god gracious — He smells so fucking good you’re tempted to ask if you can have a bite again.

The moment feels longer than usual, the seconds pass slowly as you stay there. Logan’s hands are just touching your skin from under your oversized t-shirt, taking in the low moans you gave him, the almost perceptible whispers as you get used to him, to his size.

He likes the intimacy of it, the bliss. Man you look so pretty in his lap when the light of the moon is stripping you all to his eyes, even if you’re fully dressed an he’s seated in a damn bench, he cannot enjoy it more, pulling you in for a needy kiss, one that is rougher than the first one and leads you to move inevitably.

His cock pushes past that nice spot inside, and the friction is enough to make you move again, rocking your hips at a slow pace for a few seconds. The sound of your moans is silenced by his demanding kisses, and now that he knows you can handle him, his grip on your hips turn more firm now, squeezing the skin there so he can control your speed, the rythm of your movements now faster than before.

“Shh, don’t whine” what he lacks of vocal usually, he pours it all in just fucking, talking you through it when he feels you’re being too loud—. “Do you want to wake the others? We can’t have them seeing you like this, all fed up and cock-drunk.”

“Let me bite you again,” you ask soon enough. And it takes a lot to do it, cause you’re doing it out of pure greed, cause you can’t have enough.

“Take whatever you want, leech, just don’t make me faint” he jokes, his panted breathing betraying him as he moans, incredibly interested in the idea—. “Want to be conscious when you cum all over my dick.”

Logan’s sure your eyes glisten in a red color as you lean over his neck. And this time is less affectionate, much less gentle as you finally bite him again, teeth piercing the flesh so easily his hips jolts against you in response of the sharp pain your fangs create, the warm sensation of his blood in contrast of your cold touch, tongue-licking all you get from him.

And fuck it feels good.

He shrudders beneath you, shaking his head just slightly at reflex of pain before continue working his way with you, placing his hand between your tights as he lets his fingers rub on your sensitive clit, just enough to make you bite on his neck harder, the lewd sounds of your cunt taking him between holded moans as you suck on his neck.

“That’s it taking me so good,” He praises — “You like that, princess? Like how you’re full of me?”

You hum against his skin. The blood coates your chin as it goes down through his chest, staining his white tank for a couple of seconds before the holes your teeth made finally closes on their own.

It’s pure ecstasy. He can feel it when you clenching around his cock, cheeks red from his blood going now through your system, his vitality, his energy.

You can feel him fucking everywhere. So when you kiss him it’s all teeth, bite and his blood.

The pleasure’s taking control of you now, and Logan’s dizzy from the blood loss, his body covered now in sweat as his words slur together, not threading any coherent thought.

“That’s it,” he says, making you bounce of his cock. “Gonna’ have you in my room then, all spread out f’me.”

His hand wrap around your neck tightly, keeping the direct contact as he chokes you. Shit. You don’t need to say a word. Logan already got you.

“James-” he’s too deep to question why you’re using that name with him. How you facade is crushing down now as you let go.

When your body trembles on top of him he’s already cumming too, the squeeze on his cock sufficent to fuck him up personally, his bruising grip on your hips shoving you as deep as he possibly can as his release hits him like a brick falling from the damn sky.

He lets you work for it, ride each second of your high, milk him dry as a white circle of his own cum mixed with your juices coated the base of his cock, his underwear now slick with your orgasm.

He’s struggling to breathe, to properly say something as you’re finally coming down from your peak, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Did you called me James?” he questions, and you’re a damn bad liar, cause he knows imediately you’re hidding something cause of the look on your face—. “Do we know each other? From before.”

You don’t know how to respond at first, at least, cause you cannot lie in a position like that now.

“Well uh. It’s quite a long story here.”

Before you can continue he gets up, making you wrap your legs around his hips before stsrting to walk to the mansion.

“Logan-” you say in a strangled moan yourself, still sensitive as he’s balls-deep inside you.

“It will be less than two minutes, leech” he responds gruffily,— “Need to get you into my room so I can enjoy you the rest of the night, and you can tell me all of it.”

He don’t care if he’s bloody or a damn mess as he squeezes your ass climbing up the stairs, much less if anyone see the two of you in that state.

“I want to hear all the details, Cause I have a weird feeling that this has happened before.”

You cannot find a reasonable excuse to say no as the man’s already reaching the second floor.

Logan’s fucked after that night. When he learned about all that you were before, weirdly connected to you through the decades.

It must be the bite isn’t? Shit. He’s more in sync than ever now that you’ve been feeding from him a lot the last few weeks.

Ah. You fucking leech.

my masterlist

#wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlet smut #logan x reader #logan xmen #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett #jimmy howlett #xmen smut #cryptfile // x-men #minors dni #minors do not interact #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett x vampire!reader #deadpool 3 #xmen days of future past #deadpool and wolverine

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maxdibert · 23 days ago

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Alright, let’s dive into the dumpster fire that the Marauders fandom has become last years and threw any sense of canon or character integrity out the window. Because let’s be real, the way this fandom has twisted the characters of the Marauders and the Death Eaters, all while turning Severus Snape into some one-note “creepy stalker,” is embarrassing. The fandom seems obsessed with scrubbing characters clean, romanticizing abusers, inventing tragic backstories for literal sociopaths, and piling up headcanons that turn a few lines in canon into fully fleshed-out, fanon-only OCs. And somehow, the only character who gets relentlessly dragged and demonized is Severus Snape—a character who has actual complexity and trauma. It’s hypocritical, classist, and downright gross.

Let’s start with Severus. Canon Snape is a guy who came from nothing: poor background, abusive father, dead-end town. He didn’t fit into the wizarding world, was relentlessly bullied by privileged Marauders, and still somehow managed to survive and make something of himself. But instead of acknowledging any of that, the fandom loves to reduce him to this “creepy obsessive” stereotype. People act like he spent every waking moment pining for Lily and never did anything else, as if that’s all his character is. Never mind the fact that he was actively trying to get out of a miserable life, or that he was, you know, bullied on a daily basis by James and Sirius, who had wealth, status, and freedom to do whatever they wanted. Nope, to the Marauders fandom, Snape is just the “weird stalker”—because acknowledging his struggles would mean admitting that their golden boys were actually kind of awful.

Meanwhile, the same people are out here bending over backward to make people like Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, and Regulus Black look like misunderstood anti-heroes. Let’s be clear: in canon, Barty Crouch Jr. was a straight-up torturer, Evan Rosier died laughing as he fought Aurors, and Regulus was a kid raised with a silver spoon who only started doubting Voldemort when he realized he’d been signed up as snake chow. But no, fanon has turned these guys into “tragic, complex Slytherins” who were “just trying to survive.” It’s like they’re desperate for some tortured prince narrative, so they invent personalities out of thin air to give us this dreamy aesthetic of sad, beautiful Death Eaters who “didn’t really want to be evil.” Apparently, actually following the text is too much to ask when you’ve got fanon fantasies to uphold.

Regulus Black, in particular, has become this absurd fanon martyr. In canon, Regulus was a kid indoctrinated into pureblood ideology, who joined the Death Eaters without much hesitation. Maybe he had a change of heart eventually, but it wasn’t out of some grand moral revelation; he just realized Voldemort’s loyalty was to himself alone. Yet, according to the current fandom, Regulus is some misunderstood hero who was only “pretending” to go along with Voldemort and was “forced” into his choices. They’ve built this tragic romance around a character who, in the actual books, doesn’t have even half this depth. This Regulus in fanon is practically an OC at this point, and people cling to this made-up version of him so hard that they’ll defend it like it’s canon. It’s hilarious, and it’s also just plain wrong.

And let’s talk about the Marauders themselves. In canon, James and Sirius were rich, spoiled brats who spent their school years bullying anyone who didn’t fit into their world. They were kids with every privilege, and they used it to torment people like Snape, who had nothing. But the Marauders’ fandom has turned them into these fluffy, “good-hearted” rebels who just made “a few mistakes.” I’m sorry, but nearly killing someone as a “prank” is a bit more than a mistake. Yet people will ignore that or wave it away as “boys will be boys” just to keep up the illusion that James and Sirius were lovable scamps. It’s maddening—and it’s also classist as hell. They erase all the ugly realities of the Marauders’ behavior and then turn around and judge Snape for being “obsessive” and “weird” when he was just trying to survive in a world stacked against him.

The classism in this fandom is so blatant it’s laughable. Snape is written off as creepy and unworthy of sympathy because he didn’t have a cushy upbringing or the social standing to make him likable. Meanwhile, characters like Barty and Regulus, who came from wealthy pureblood families, get excused and romanticized to no end. It’s like the fandom is saying, “Well, Snape deserved it because he was poor and awkward, but the rich kids? They’re just misunderstood.” It’s the kind of privilege blindness that makes you wonder if people actually read the books or if they’re just projecting their own biases onto the characters.

And let’s not forget the army of new OCs the Marauders fandom has invented just to justify this headcanon universe (Mary, Marlene, Dorcas, that that Pandora no one knows why suddenly appears here lol) You’ve got random “best friends” for Sirius, unnamed Slytherins who magically have no ties to pureblood supremacy, and love interests for Regulus who supposedly saw the “real” him. All these characters are based on nothing more than a few throwaway lines, yet people have fleshed them out to a level that they’re practically new characters in the universe. It’s like they need this entourage of made-up people to back up their version of the Marauders and Death Eaters because, without them, their headcanons would fall apart. And all of this, while they keep painting Snape as this creepy loner with no real friends or worth. The hypocrisy is unreal.

At the end of the day, the Marauders fandom has taken a bunch of characters with clear flaws and complexities and rewritten them into these sanitized, tortured souls while dumping all their scorn onto Snape. They’ll go out of their way to redeem a literal torturer like Barty Crouch Jr. or turn Regulus into some tragic hero, but they can’t bring themselves to even consider Snape’s trauma or the systematic abuse he endured. It’s all about maintaining this fantasy where their favorite characters are perfect and untouchable, even if it means twisting canon and ignoring the ugly truths about class, privilege, and abuse that is reflected into the story. And that, honestly, just makes the fandom look shallow, hypocritical, and completely disconnected from the reality.

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hyperactivewhore · 5 months ago

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How do you think Klaus’s and Hope’s relationship would be like if he was still alive?

I know that when he died, they had a good relationship - but to me, after everything Hope had went through, I don’t find that really realistic. Honestly, if he had survived, I think Hope would be pretty resentful towards him. He did abandon her for years (he could’ve called, texted, or something but he chose to let Hope believe that he didn’t love her). He put her at risk multiple times so he could see his brother while pretending Hope doesn’t exist and ignoring all her calls. He flirted with Caroline while Hayley was in danger. He made Hope believe that Hayley’s death was all Elijah’s fault.

And I’m not trying to deny that growth Klaus had throughout the series. I do think he has changed in some ways. But at the end of the day, he’s still Klaus. He’s still controlling, possessive, and manipulative. He still harbors this secret desire to be the loved the most by everyone around him. He was threatened every time Rebekah dated someone he didn’t seem ‘worthy’. He greatly disliked the fact that Elijah chose to erase his memory and shacked up with some Nazis (mostly because Elijah erased HIM and didn’t love him anymore). He absolutely hated that Marcel fell in love with Rebekah (not because of any normal reasons like Rebekah is his aunt and literally watched him grow up - but because he didn’t love Klaus the most anymore).

I can see him being possessive and monopolizing all of Hope’s time/attention to make up for the years he lost and because he wants her to love him more than anyone else. Which is why I disagree when people say that he would love Lizzie/Josie/Landon/ or any of Hope’s potential love interests. He wouldn’t outright kill them like he he did with Rebekah’s lovers (as I said, he did grow throughout the series), but he definitely wouldn’t embrace them into the family with open arms. At best, he would be standoffish. At worst, he would be one of those annoying creepy parents that tell their child’s boyfriend/girlfriend “I’m the number one person in their life. I loved them first.”

Honestly I’m trying to think of a time when Klaus actually accepted one of his siblings love interests into the family. Marcel and Hayley don’t count. He literally adopted Marcel as a son. He raised Marcel and brought him into the family before Marcel and Rebekah got into their sick little relationship. He first accepted Hayley (not because of Elijah) but because she was the mother of his child and then because he actually grew to like her. But other than Marcel and Hayley, I don’t think he was ever really that welcoming to any of his siblings’ girlfriends/boyfriends. Maybe Keelin? But did Keelin and Klaus even talk?

So, yeah, Klaus wouldn’t disapprove of Hope’s relationships whether it romantic or platonic. But I don’t think he would encourage it or embrace any of Hope’s friends as family. I do think he would fuss and throw a tantrum if Hope prioritized any of her relationships over him. Wasn’t he jealous of the mere idea of Hope liking Elijah (someone he loves and obviously views a family)?

Honestly, if he was still alive, I don’t think Hope and Klaus would have a good relationship. With her resentment towards him for the years of abandonment and his role in the death of her mother, Hope would probably prioritize her friends/school over her relationship with her dad. And I think Klaus, with his jealousy and controlling tendencies, would have a major issue with Hope prioritizing anything else over him.

If the show had good writing Hope would absolutely resent him at first.

I think a good part of why Hope forgave him in canon in season five was because she was gonna die at first, and then he was the one who would die and she was grieving enough, she had already lost her mother a week ago and I dont think she wanted her father to die having a bad relationship with her. She was in pain, she was vulnerable and she knew she was never gonna see her father again, so she chose to let go from all their issues and just spend their last days together.

But it's just so bad developed. I believe Hope resented Elijah not just because of his "part" in her mother's death, but because of how much Klaus loved him as well. Hope was begging for the attention that Elijah didn't want and yet received every single day just by existing, and even her mother was clearly still hung up on him. How would that make a little girl feel? Imagine you grow up hearing stories about your loving uncle, who continously prioritizes family, only for him to turn around, force himself to forget all of you, leave your mother and your father unable to fully move on with their lives and the moment you finally see him again after almost a decade, he hasn't only "killed" your mother, now he's gonna take your only living parent - the one who had no problem ignoring your existence because he was too busy staring at his brother playing the piano - with him as well.

Hope knew Hayley was still in love with Elijah even years after their breakup, her mother basically asked her in the afterlife to tell her uncle she still loved him, her own father endangered everyone in New Orleans, including herself and her kidnapped mother, just because Elijah broke his heart: he did not care he was driving both of them closer to their deaths, his brother had hurt him and he needed to make everyone around him pay, his own daughter included.

In my opinion, Klaus’s priorities have always been very obvious:

Klaus himself

Elijah/Hope

Whatever love interest he feels like entertaining at the moment/Rebekah

His other siblings/Marcel = Hayley, in case he's seeing them as family at the moment

And yes, in that order. Klaus didn't know how to parent his child now that Hayley was gone and Elijah dying no matter what, and most importantly, he didn't want to. He only knew what Hope meant to him, not who she was (which, personally, infuriates me. If you're gonna create a show centered around a magical baby who shouldn't even exist in the first place and the insane maniac who happens to be her father, at least make her father get to raise her).

The Originals being centered around Hope was, in my opinion, a big mistake. Her existence wasn't a problem for me (if anything, I would make her first appearance later in the show, season three/four, perhaps), but for a show called The Originals, the Mikaelson sure don't appear a lot. I think that's the biggest problem people have with the show, not the Mikaelson being out of character, which is ironic, in my opinion, considering only klaroline and kalijah stans seem to believe that.

In the universe's canon, I just can't see Hope having a stable relationship with any of her paternal family, her father included, had he lived. I'm not saying they would've been constantly fighting, but I do think it would be a constant fragile line in their relationship where Hope would just try to ignore how much he hurt her during her early life, only for them to get into a fight about it, and then go back to ignore it. If Hayley had lived or been resurrected, I see Klaus and Hope's relationship being kinda the same as what I stated, perhaps slightly more sour, perhaps not, because I certainly see Hayley being mad at Klaus for being so careless with her life.

I personally believe Hayley and Cami wouldn't have allowed anything of what happened to the family in season five, Elijah and Klaus practically switched personalities, all the klayley and klaroline moments were so obviously meant for Camille and her relationship with Klaus, Caroline was absolutely out of character, and everything was very rushed and poorly developed.

Thanks for the ask!

#hope mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #hayley marshall #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #camille o'connell #caroline forbes #klope #haylijah #klamille #the originals #the vampire diaries #legacies #tvd #to #tvdu

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enigmaticexplorer · 8 months ago

Text

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XIII

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 6.2K

6 Yelona

Attraction wasn’t something Kazi experienced from physical appearance.

Obviously, she appreciated the physicality of certain men—the proportions of their body, certain features, healthy fat distribution. She knew physically attractive men existed.

However, true attraction, for her, followed a set of steps.

The first step: respect. Even the most physically attractive man lost all appeal if he was neither respectful nor respectable. A man who proved himself worthy of her respect—who demonstrated integrity, honesty, reliability—was a man she could then trust.

Thus, the second step.

It was trust that quieted the logical part of her brain and allowed her to access the emotional side. Only then could she determine a man’s attractiveness.

As was her current dilemma.

Frozen between the partition of the living area and the sunroom, Kazi blinked at the sight before her. Specifically the half-naked man in her kitchen.

Damp from her shortened swim—menstrual cramps forced her to quit the lake early—she didn’t know what to do.

In the kitchen, Wolffe was preparing the lumina berries. The same berries she had prepared for months before he decided to intercede. They hadn’t discussed it. Each morning, when she retrieved the individual bowls of sliced and chunked berries, she didn’t question their prepared state and Wolffe pretended nothing was amiss.

Something about the situation felt significant. So Kazi ignored it.

Except she couldn’t ignore it in this moment. Because her damn cramps had deviated her from her meticulously-structured routine.

Now she not only had confirmation Wolffe was the perpetrator of the prepared berries, but she also learned something new: He worked in the kitchen shirtless.

His physical state was hardly a problem. The main level was a shared space, and he clearly had his own morning routine separate from their brief overlap. He was allowed to exist in the kitchen in whatever physical capacity he felt comfortable.

But she hadn’t expected him to be shirtless.

Consternation twisted alongside her worsening cramps.

Maybe she should wait on the back porch for twenty minutes and then return when she was expected. They could continue to pretend that he didn’t prepare the berries—

“Ennari?”

Fuck.

Pretending she hadn’t stood beneath the partition for minutes debating whether or not she should hide outside, Kazi approached the kitchen. Wolffe observed her through narrowed eyes, arms folded across his chest. The moment she reached the bar—their positions switched from their usual routine—he glanced at the chrono on the wall. His shoulders stiffened slightly.

“I couldn’t swim any longer,” Kazi said. Her tone carried an apologetic note and she nearly rolled her eyes. They were adults; they could discuss the berry situation maturely.

Beneath the intensity of his gaze, her face felt warm. Too warm.

She decided she didn’t want to discuss the berry situation.

“I think I’m going to go into work earlier.” She played with the tucked flap of her towel. “I’ll take off early so Neyti can see the beginning of the Festival. Fehr said it’s something kids like.”

Wolffe leaned against the counter, the move unhurried and just as effortless as his appearance. Her eyes flitted down his body in a quick assessment.

“Do you want me to take Neyti to school?”

Healthy fat padded his stomach muscles. Dark hair trailed from his lower stomach to his gray sweats. Lines cut into his hips.

“Ennari.”

“You want to take Neyti to school?” she said slowly.

The corner of his lip twitched. “That’s what I said.”

She frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“You said you’re going into work early.” An arrogant smirk curved his mouth. Amusement lit his features. “Are you feeling alright? Temperature too warm?”

Throwing him a bland look, she nodded at the berries. “Why do you prepare those every morning?”

Former amusement darkened into discomfort. A muscle flexed in his jaw and Wolffe stilled, a subtle warning in his face.

“I’m more than capable of preparing breakfast for Neyti and myself,” she added.

A taunt underscored her blasé tone, and Wolffe breathed a low chuckle. He ran his tongue along his teeth, regarding her with a calculated look that made her blood heat.

“Answer my question,” he finally said. “Do you want me to take Neyti to school?”

She rubbed her arm. “If you don’t mind—”

“I don’t.”

“Thank you.” She tilted her head to the side, quirking an eyebrow. “Now answer my question.”

“No.” Wolffe turned away, retrieving the knife he had set aside, and concentrated on the lumina berries.

Kazi glowered at the sculpted planes of his back.

Muscles lined his shoulders and arms. Muscles that spoke to years of arduous training. His back was a map of physical adeptness sketched with an array of white and faded scars. Black ink encircled his left arm from wrist to shoulder, its design purposeful.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Maybe I should make your caf and see how you like my interference—”

“Drop it.”

Wolffe scowled at her over his shoulder. The muscles along his body were tensed, and he exhaled a harsh breath, setting aside the knife and closing the space between them. He stopped before her.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. Droplets of water fell from her hair and shivered down her overheated skin.

Lowering his face to hers, Wolffe calmly, quietly said, “You’re not ready for that conversation.”

With that, he sidestepped her and approached the bookcase.

Bewildered, she stared at his retreating body. “What does that even mean?” He ignored her and she scoffed. “You can’t just leave in the middle of a conversation—”

The white, peeling bookcase snapped back in place. Her dragon figurine, its scales blacker than a stormy night, regarded her, its maw parted in a teasing grin, like it shared in a secret she didn’t yet know.

Early evening sunlight emphasized the charcoal lines of Neyti’s sketch.

The scratching noise of the little girl’s stylus filled the silence of the main level. Wiping down the kitchen’s counters—a last-minute decision to try and calm her nerves concerning the upcoming Festival—Kazi washed her hands and then leaned against the counter.

From her vantage point, she watched Neyti sketch. Her tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she corrected the finer details of a young boy’s face.

Who the boy was, Kazi didn’t know. Though she had a sneaking suspicion based on the scar on his chin.

Her gaze slid to the kitchen windows. Outside, a downed tree rested along the jungle’s border. Fox had spent the entire afternoon felling the tree and then lugging it back to the house. Its purpose eluded Kazi, and he refused to answer her questions, but he seemed to have found a new project outside of his usual carvings.

A glance at the chrono confirmed it was still too early to leave for the Festival. Half an hour remained.

Originally, Kazi wanted to avoid the Festival’s festivities and locals. Years had passed since she last attended a holiday celebration and she wasn’t keen to begin anew. Large crowds, drunk people, tight spaces. It lacked appeal.

But a majority of the locals would attend, including Neyti’s classmates, and Kazi wanted Neyti to experience something outside the mundane of everyday life. Even if these festivities differed from Ceaian tradition.

Still, she found herself rubbing her clammy palms together to stifle her apprehension. This was an opportunity to socialize. To interact with Neyti’s classmates’ parents and make a good impression, an impression that would reflect positively on Neyti.

The simple dress she wore—cream colored and decorated with abstract floral designs—was light and airy, its style recommended by Fehr to “blend in” with the locals. The thin material hugged her waist, falling to her upper thigh. She hadn’t worn a dress in a long time, and she had forgotten how much she liked them.

Then again, her first partner loved when she wore dresses. She was a body to be perceived. A younger body. A younger body for the male nearly two decades her senior to look at and touch and fuck—

Stiffening, Kazi glanced at the chrono again. They still had twenty-seven minutes until they needed to leave.

Running her hands down her dress, she decided its straps were too uneven. The left side was too tight. She untied the thin strings of her strap and readjusted.

The positioning was awkward, the readjustment difficult, and sweat started to slick her spine. Frustration clenched her jaw. She blew a loose strand of hair from her face. A finishing bow completed the knot.

The damned strings remained uneven. She tried again.

Her appearance tonight mattered—professional yet friendly, more easy-going than aloof. She needed to be composed, a good listener with witty remarks. She needed to be warm and approachable. She needed to be perfect. And she should eat before so no one saw her—

The bookcase swung open.

Tensed and flustered, Kazi regarded Wolffe as he emerged from the steep stairs. Water shimmered in his dark curls and his face looked dewy, freshly moisturized from a shower. He wore his usual attire, and a dark gray poncho rested in the crook of his elbow.

Pausing her failed attempts, she glanced at his poncho. “Are you joining us?”

“Fox is paranoid with safety concerns.” Wolffe rolled his eyes. Kazi pursed her lips to smother her amusement, deciding against mentioning his blatant hypocrisy. “Cody and I agree he’s being unreasonable. We’re all going.”

“Oh.” A hint of relief quieted her former nerves. She looked him over. “Have you ever been to a Harvest Festival? Or any holiday celebration, for that matter?”

The corner of his lip quirked. “Never.”

Trying to casually correct her dress’ strings, she asked, “What holidays do you celebrate?”

“Dunno. It’s never crossed my mind before.”

The barest perceptible amusement dried his words. He took a step closer.

“By the way,” she said conversationally, hoping he didn’t notice her inability to fix her dress. “I stopped by the Marketplace and picked up a seedling fertilizer.”

Another step closer and Wolffe frowned. “Seedling fertilizer?”

“For your garden.” His confused silence demanded an answer and she shrugged. “I noticed some of your plants have dry patches so I asked one of the parents at Neyti’s school for advice. He’s a farmer, and he told me the problem most likely derives from the intensity of the sun’s rays. So he recommended this fertilizer. Like sunscreen, but for plants.”

Sometime from when she first started speaking to now, Wolffe had closed the distance between them. He stood as close as he had that morning. Close enough individual water droplets in his curls caught her attention.

Bemusement scrunched his features. “You got fertilizer for my garden?”

It was her turn to frown. “Yes?”

“I’m surprised you thought of me.” The confession was quiet, carrying an undertone of surprise and something softer. Wolffe searched her face and then dipped his chin to her shoulder. “May I?”

The rasp in his voice slid down her spine like a rough caress. Her nod derived mostly from shock at his offer rather than actual acceptance, and though they already stood so close, Wolffe closed the little distance remaining.

Warm knuckles grazed the top of her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat and she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to keep still.

Wolffe looped the strings of her dress in a methodical approach. His movements were unhurried, intentionally slow, as if he were uncomfortable tying the strings. But she had seen him work in his garden, seen him slice the lumina berries, seen him fix things that required a careful, practiced touch. His fingers were deft in their capabilities, and he was more than capable in tying her dress.

Each skim of a knuckle to her bare shoulder heated her blood. She fought the urge to shiver.

“I can’t believe you’ve never celebrated any holidays,” she murmured.

His fingers stilled for a moment and then resumed. “We didn’t have that sort of luxury.”

Tensing at the curtness in his tone, she flattened her palm to the counter, soaking in its coolness. Wolffe sighed, his exhale somewhat annoyed. A slow, controlled caress of his hand brushed along her shoulder and behind her neck, as if he were trying to smooth away her tension.

Her fingers curled into the chilled counter.

“Holidays were meaningful to my family and me,” she said, watching the evening sunlight flit across the walls. “They’re some of my best memories with my parents. I can’t imagine growing up without them.”

“I didn’t have much of a childhood.”

“No, I guess you didn’t.”

A gentle tug and the white strings were tied, completed in a tiny bow matching the other. Prepared to thank him, Kazi turned around but her words faltered.

Their chests were brushing. The heat of his body sunk into hers. She could see a faded scar indented into the dark skin above his lip. The top clasps of his button-down work shirt were unfastened, and she thought back to that morning. Thought about the muscles toning healthy fat and the trail of dark hair down his stomach.

A fleeting desire encouraged her to press her hand to his chest. To feel the beat of his heart and the heat of his skin.

Ignoring the thought, she angled her head back to meet his gaze.

Thick lashes framed his eyes and he blinked at her, unrushed yet assessing. His gaze dipped from hers to her shoulder, hesitation lined his features, and she understood why a second later when he tentatively flattened his hand to her shoulder, his thumb circling her skin in an agonizingly slow caress. He studied her in a private, intimate manner.

Disquiet ghosted down her spine and she swallowed.

A piece of her wanted him to touch her more. To slip her dress’s straps from her shoulders and touch the bare skin it revealed.

A piece of her wanted him to lower his calloused hand to her breast and feel her. To slide his hands down her spine and hold her close, hold her tight enough she couldn’t run.

But another piece of her feared those wants.

Touching turned into nakedness, turned into sex, and sex hurt.

And even though it had been five years, she remembered the pain. She remembered her stupid hope it would feel better the more she did it, and the resigned agony when it didn’t.

She was scared to be intimate with another man, and she was even more scared of disappointing someone she wanted to be with.

It was all so stupid to consider, anyway.

There was nothing between her and Wolffe. She was overreacting. Creating a false narrative because she hadn’t felt a man’s touch like this before.

Wolffe brushed his thumb along her shoulder to her collarbone. His eyes shifted from hers, to her lips, and back.

All she could remember was the pain. The way her body never adjusted and the shame she endured knowing something was wrong with her—

“Neyti!”

Her exclamation earned a nonplussed jerk from Wolffe. Disregarding the confusion on his face and the silent question in the narrowing of his eyes, Kazi stepped away from his touch. From him. His fingers twitched once but he immediately released her. He backed away to the opposite counter, his expression guarded, and crossed his arms.

Kazi looked toward the table, to the little girl. To her salvation. Neyti stared curiously at her, and she mustered a tight smile.

“Do you want to get your gifts?”

A toothless yet excited grin lit Neyti’s face and she closed her sketchbook, hurrying toward the garage. Reemerging with a meshed bag, she cautiously approached Wolffe. He cocked his head to the side. A tiny hand disappeared into the bag and returned with a pale orange, tear-drop shaped fruit.

Wolffe considered the outstretched fruit. Hesitation lined his features but soon softened, and to Kazi’s surprise, he knelt before Neyti, the height difference between him and the little girl humorously noticeable.

With a small smile, he accepted the fruit, murmuring a quiet “Thank you.”

Bashfully, Neyti hid her face in her shoulder and retreated to Kazi’s side.

“It was Neyti’s idea,” Kazi said, running a hand through Neyti’s hair. Wolffe returned to his full height, peeling the fruit. He regarded her with a careful expression, and she tried not to blush. “It is tradition, after all.”

Either oblivious to the lie or uncaring of it, Neyti hefted the bag higher. Kazi released a mirthful chuckle and gestured for Neyti to lead the way outside. She pretended she didn’t see the knowing look Wolffe levelled on her—the look that clearly said It wasn’t the kid’s idea.

Outside, Kazi oversaw Neyti gift Fox, Cody, and Nova a citrus-star. Their confusion led to her retelling the tradition, and each of them shared a piece of their citrus-star with Neyti who dutifully ate her share.

The sun continued its downward arc, settling behind the jungle’s rolling hills, the sky a burnished copper.

Aware of the waning time, Kazi ushered everyone back inside. Neyti returned to her sketch while the men prepared for the Festival.

The brief lull gave Kazi the opportunity to check on Daria, her sister suffering a migraine. A symptom Healer Natasha claimed was normal for this stage. Still, she worried Daria’s lack of proper medication the last few months had accelerated her disease past a point of medicinal control.

Closed shades darkened Daria’s room. A handful of seconds passed as Kazi grew accustomed to the darkness, discerning her sister from the lump of bed sheets and quilt.

“Do you need any pain relief?” she asked softly, stepping next to the bed.

Lying on her side, staring vacantly at the opposite wall, Daria shook her head.

Kazi scanned her sister’s room, noting the new succulent she had gifted Daria. The plant was a random purchase from the Marketplace last week when she bought the citrus-stars.

A blue stem with a handful of dark purple blossoms, the tiny plant provided a splash of color among the dominantly green succulents. She was surprised her sister had grouped the new succulent with the others. Daria preferred aesthetic organization and the succulent’s random coloration disrupted the cohesiveness of the grouped plants.

Awkwardly fiddling with a braid, Kazi offered Daria the final citrus-star from the bunch. “I know it’s not Ceaia’s harvest time, but I thought we could celebrate.”

Silence succeeded her offer, fermenting like an unwanted stench. She searched her sister’s face—for a twinge of acknowledgement or kindness or ephemeral interest—but Daria remained unmoving, apathetically disinterested.

“I can peel it,” Kazi said, “and we could share it.”

Finally, Daria shifted her attention from the blank wall to the citrus-star. For a stilted moment, she observed the fruit. Her upper lip curled and she turned away, pulling the thick quilt around her shoulders. “I’m not interested in meaningless gifts.”

Dropping her hand to her side, Kazi accepted the dismissal with a resigned nod.

It was a pathetic attempt on her part, anyway.

Eight bonfires blazed among the ferny clearing of Hollow’s Town’s park. The night sky was clear and stars shimmered their mirth alongside the floating lights strung along and between thick trees.

People milled about, laughter a harmony to the twangy music of the band.

A maypole adorned with bioluminescent silver flowers and strung with streamers of dark green and blue stood as a focal point. The sprouted flowers revealed a honeyed center. Their color and unique petals drew Neyti to them like a bee to pollen.

Glasses of ale—a staple from the local brewery—were passed among patrons. Tables boasted various competitions: the largest vegetable, the best-tasting fruit, the most unique crossbreed, the best presentation.

Carnival games—droid darts, planetary ring toss, vibroblade throws—garnered the attention of younglings and competitive adults alike.

Near an outer bonfire, Kazi smothered her amusement as she watched Cody and Fox compete at a vibroblade throw game. Nova watched from the side, waiting to play whoever won. According to Wolffe, he was the best at handling blades.

Though Nova appeared at ease, his eyes darted across the park, a hand casually resting against the blaster strapped to his thigh and hidden beneath his poncho. The other men each carried as well. And while their moods were sportive, their vigilance was unwavering.

Sipping from her glass of ale, Kazi wrinkled her nose. Wolffe snorted and she scowled at him.

“I don’t understand why you bother with it if you don’t like it,” he said, drinking from his own glass. He seemed to like the ale, judging by the fact this was his fourth glass.

“It’s not bad,” she said.

Wolffe’s unimpressed look called her bluff.

The truth: One of Neyti’s classmate’s mother offered her the glass. Wanting to appear friendly and personable, Kazi accepted the drink and then joined the woman, whose name evaded her, and a few others in conversation.

The parents were either self-centered about their younglings, or disappointed, reverting to patronizing jokes to hide their own frustrations. Slow sips of her ale resulted in her downing half the glass by the time she caught sight of Wolffe and excused herself from the group.

A quick scan of the field revealed Neyti playing a hopping game with one of her classmates. Based on her concentration, she had no plans to lose.

“Cody mentioned you might not join the upcoming mission,” Kazi said, returning her attention to Wolffe.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m considering it.”

His guarded demeanor told her he wouldn’t answer more questions about it, so she switched topics.

“I have time off from work in three days.” Pretending to study the amber ale in her glass, she slid a sidelong glance in his direction. “I was planning on taking Neyti hiking. If you don’t go on the mission, you could join us.”

Originally, she wasn’t going to invite him. There was a line she didn’t want to cross, a professional boundary, and, if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t want to endure his possible rejection. But a part of her was hoping he wouldn’t mind spending time outside the house with her and Neyti.

Wolffe blinked his surprise. Kazi steadied herself for the rejection—

“I’ll be there.”

Shock coursed through her veins, but she kept her features neutral, instead, smiling smally and nodding her acknowledgement. A service droid passed by and she set aside her half-finished drink, Wolffe doing the same. She glanced at Cody and Nova who were taking turns at the vibroblades.

“You didn’t want to compete against them?” she asked. “Too afraid you’d lose?”

A slow smirk spread across his face. “I know how to play to my strengths. And I don’t lose, Ennari.”

For some reason, his words sounded like a warning and she searched his face for the answer to a question she didn’t yet know. His gaze burned hot against hers. Hotter than the nearby bonfire; hotter than the ale she had managed to keep down.

She wanted to look away; she wanted to step into him; she wanted to change the subject; she wanted to lift her hand to his face and trace his rounded jawline; she wanted to run.

Too many conflicting thoughts and emotions fought within her. She didn’t know which to heed.

To her relief and disappointment, Wolffe broke their stare, reaching into a pocket of his trousers. He retrieved a small, dark brown packet. Hesitation squared his shoulders and he cleared his throat, extending the packet to her.

“They’re seeds,” he said.

“Seeds?” He nodded as she appraised the packet. “For what?”

“You said it’s tradition.” He looked mildly embarrassed, awkward. With another clearing of his throat, he reached for her hand. “They’re for you.”

She jerked her hand away, shaking her head. “But I didn’t get you anything.”

Wolffe frowned. “I don’t care—”

“I don’t want them.” Her words came out antagonistic and rude. She winced.

The packet of seeds breached the space between them. Wolffe narrowed his eyes and she looked away.

It was thoughtful. Too thoughtful. If she had known he was getting her something she would have prepared. She would have bought him something.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she repeated, rubbing her chest to quiet her unease. “I’m sorry.”

“I have a hard time believing Neyti was that thoughtful with her gift.” Wolffe scoffed, a hard edge to his voice.

Tension pinched her skin and Kazi shook her head, trying to think. Trying to rein her growing emotions.

The smoke from the bonfire was too suffocating.

Harsh laughter and squeals of younglings pounded inside her head.

She rubbed her hands together, hugging her arms to her stomach.

She stared at the packet of seeds. Her muscles were too cramped. Too tight.

Huffing an unamused breath, Wolffe reached for her hand again, and when she tried to pull away, he gripped her tighter, placing the packet of seeds in her palm.

“I got this without the intention of receiving a gift in return,” he said, curling her fingers around the packet. “They cost me nothing.”

“It’s the thought behind the gift,” she murmured. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, swift and light, before he released her. She swallowed. “Thank you.”

He gave a short nod.

She lifted the packet to the fire, trying to see inside. “Are they seeds for a vegetable or fruit?”

“Plant them and you’ll find out.”

Pocketing the seeds, she tried to read his expression. His disgruntled scowl told her he hadn’t expected her reaction, and he was annoyed. Or disappointed. Probably both.

Chagrined, she dropped her gaze to the crackling logs of the fire. The snaps of the burning logs sounded like chattering skeletons teasing her. They told her what she already knew: She had overreacted.

It wasn’t a surprise. She tended to overreact when she believed she wasn’t doing enough—being enough.

But gift-giving on Ceaia—between a non-related male and female—was considered a mark of courtship. Usually, the gift presented was a collection of three flowers, each representing a distinguishing personality trait.

The custom was old but Kazi had found it somewhat endearing. One of the few customs she appreciated.

“Thank you,” she repeated. Her eyes remained on his, and she hoped he could at least hear the sincerity in her voice—the vulnerability and gratitude.

He stepped closer. “I have a packet—”

“Kazi?”

The male voice startled her enough she flinched, spinning around to face the person. An orange glow from the bonfire’s flames licked at the approaching male. A few confident strides closer and she made out light brown hair, darker skin, and an impeccably tailored suit.

The name popped into her head. “Jason.”

Jason smiled. “You remembered.”

It wasn’t an impressive feat.

From the networking events, balls, and cocktail parties her mother forced her and Daria to attend, Kazi was accustomed to memorizing names, businesses, and every bit of gossip she overheard. Her mind contained a bookshelf of categorized, useless facts concerning certain individuals. It didn’t matter how many years passed, she remembered the most minute details.

And it was one of the reasons she excelled at analytics.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” she said, considering Jason warily.

“It’s hard to forget someone like you.”

The muted scoff from behind reminded her of their audience and she forced a tight smile. Jason’s gaze remained on her face, not even bothering with Wolffe.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you. To apologize.” Jason took a step closer, a grimace on his face. “It was my understanding you had agreed to our dinner. It wasn’t my intention to blindside you.”

Wincing at the memory, Kazi clasped her hands behind her back. Her fingers brushed against a pair of trousers and her cheeks warmed.

“I was caught off-guard,” she said. Keenly aware of the quiet man to her back and the one who stood a bit too close in front, she released an awkward laugh. “Well, it was nice to see you—”

“I was wondering…” Jason tossed her a sheepish grin. “Would you be interested in stepping away and getting a drink?”

Either Jason lacked basic observational skills or he was self-assured enough he didn’t care about Wolffe’s presence.

Softening her smile, she started to shake her head. “Thank you, but—”

“I don’t want to be too forward,” Jason interrupted, “but I was interested by you at dinner. I would like to start over.”

“Oh?” Kazi breathed a dismayed chuckle. “I thought I was antagonistic and rude.”

He laughed. “You were quiet, but I didn’t take it to be antagonistic.”

Polite earnestness crinkled his eyes and she internally grimaced. The need for distance encouraged her to step back, to allow some breathing room between her and Jason’s advances. She backed into something hard.

Wolffe didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch at the connection between their bodies.

To her utter perplexity, he pressed closer, the heat of his chest palpable through her loose sweater. A graze of his fingers on her elbow seemed his attempt to remind her he was there.

Her movement finally drew Jason’s attention to Wolffe. Lacking suspicion or annoyance, Jason scanned Wolffe with an air of indifference.

Kazi had seen those looks at the few marriage balls she attended. A perusal of one suitor to determine if another suitor was a threat or could be turned into an ally. A perusal to assess the situation and determine if a woman could be convinced away from the suitor currently courting her.

Obviously, the comparison was an exaggeration since Wolffe wasn’t courting her. But Jason didn’t know that.

Straightening, Kazi inclined her head to Jason.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in exploring anything at this time.” Her tone remained kind, practiced. “I have duties that require my attention and I don’t have the time or the capacity to pursue something.”

Though somewhat crestfallen, Jason accepted her rejection with an air of grace. His smile, while disappointed, was understanding.

“Raising a youngling does require time and attention,” he said. His gaze shifted between her and Wolffe. “I wish you both the best of luck.”

“Oh—no.” Kazi moved away from Wolffe. Her laugh was strained as she looked between a wary Wolffe and a confused Jason. “We’re not—no. It’s just my sister, Neyti, and me.”

Jason blinked his surprise. “Apologies, I must have misunderstood.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It was nice seeing you.”

As soon as the night’s shadows engulfed Jason, Kazi released a shaky breath.

The air between her and Wolffe thickened with an awkwardness heated by the nearest bonfire. A lick of sweat dribbled down her spine and she lifted her hair off her neck in an attempt to cool her body.

Beneath the orange light of the bonfire, she regarded Wolffe. His brows were drawn together in calculation, and his mouth was downturned in disapproval. Or maybe it was doubt.

A pop from the bonfire jumped her heart and she released her hair, rubbing her hands together. An odd amount of tension was pulling taut in her shoulders, knotting in her stomach. She needed to move. To do something to escape the awkward development—

“Is that a common occurrence?”

The gruff question yanked her from her thoughts and she frowned. “What?”

“Arranged marriage dates.” Wolffe sounded offended by the words.

“No. Not for me, at least.” The hard look in his face demanded further explanation and she sighed. “It’s tradition on Ceaia and some other planets in the Outer Rim. It’s not as common out here as it is in the Inner Rim.”

At a table nearby, she caught sight of his brothers. Hoods covered their faces as they listened to a handful of drunks slurring stories of exaggerated adventures. A hasty survey of the clearing located Neyti. The little girl stood beside the maypole, playing a bag-toss game with a boy her age.

“Some people don’t know any better,” she said, nudging a few pieces of ash that had landed at her feet. “When you’re raised that way from birth, it seems normal and acceptable. But I didn’t grow up that way. At least, not initially. When my father died, my mother forced Daria and me into that lifestyle, but I never liked it.”

“Your sister subscribes to it.”

Kazi scoffed. “My mother’s doing. Daria was so young when our father died and she was always closer to our mother. She didn’t know any better. But I struggled. The thought of an arranged marriage scared me. I wanted something—”

She cut off, biting the inside of her cheek. Her aspirations in a partner weren’t his business.

“You wanted something real,” Wolffe continued for her. And though he said it like a statement, it was underscored by a question. Curiosity.

“Customary courtship determines if people are compatible for marriage,” she said. “And while I agree it’s necessary to determine if you and your partner are compatible in life, traditional compatibility is based on physical appeal and what a partner can offer, completely ignorant of one’s personal beliefs, morals, and ambitions. It emphasizes duty, and ignores emotional connection. It’s not what I want.”

They stood much closer, once more. She could see the reflection of the bonfire’s flames in his cybernetic. If she wanted, she could lean forward and rest her forehead against his chest.

“And what do you want?”

“I…” The weight of his gaze bore into hers, like the endless crush of a hurricane’s waves, surrounding and drowning. She shook her head. “I need to concentrate on Neyti and Daria. I don’t have time for superficiality.”

“Try again, Ennari.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Like I told Jason—”

“He’s a stranger.” Wolffe cocked his head to the side. “I’m not.”

“It doesn’t matter. My answer is the same. I don’t have time for superficiality—”

“And if it’s not superficial?”

Huffing her exasperation, she scanned the ferny clearing. “I haven’t met someone like that, so I don’t know.”

Wolffe was silent for a moment too long. “You haven’t met someone because you won’t allow yourself to get close to them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Ennari.”

She clenched her fists. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than you think.”

“Then you should know I have more important things to do than waste my time on a male.”

“Waste your time?” Wolffe demanded.

“What decent males are there?” She threw her hands up. “They’re all a waste of my time.”

Scoffing, Wolffe looked away, toward the bonfire. Agitation flexed in the hand he dragged through his hair. Annoyance flared in his nostrils as he settled a hard, disbelieving scowl in her direction.

“You are one of the most frustrating people I know.”

Offended, she glared at him. “What have I done to annoy you?”

“I would like to know what you want—”

BOOM.

A burst of color erupted in the sky.

Kazi watched it for a millisecond before large arms grabbed her.

A hand shoved her face into a chest.

Another hand gripped the back of her neck.

A second explosion shook the air.

The arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer.

And then the clapping started.

Awed whoops and shouts of ecstatic glee echoed across the clearing. Younglings squealed, and the sound of whistling rockets filled the air succeeded by a brilliant shattering of bronzed hues.

Understanding calmed the harsh beat of her heart and Kazi leaned away from Wolffe. His face was tilted toward the sky, jaw clenched tight and chest heaving.

Gently, she attempted to maneuver herself away. Eyes still on the sky, Wolffe refused, his arms seemingly locked in place. Eventually his features shuttered and he released her, sliding a trembling hand through his hair.

“They’re fireworks,” she said. The blatant obviousness of her statement earned her a reproving glower, and she dropped her gaze, searching the field for Neyti.

To her left, Fox was approaching, his expression neutral though she detected a hint of worry as he carefully assessed Wolffe. Behind him, still seated at the table, Cody was speaking into Nova’s ear, gripping the man’s shoulder. Nova nodded, rising to his feet, his lips flattened in a thin line.

People gathered closer. Bodies jostled hers.

Kazi clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to breathe. To ignore the swarming crowd.

A tiny hand tugged on her arm. Kazi hid her relief behind a strangled smile, kneeling to the ground. Distraught had harshened Neyti’s features into tight lines.

“They’re fireworks,” Kazi explained softly, resting a shaking hand on Neyti’s shoulder, squeezing her gently. “They’re used for celebrations, like tonight. They won’t hurt you. I promise.”

A particularly loud burst of snowy white made Neyti flinch. But the longer she watched the display, her distraught ebbed into curiosity which eased into fascination.

A throat cleared and Kazi pushed herself to her feet, appraising Wolffe. His face was stony, like it had been in the initial months of his arrival on Eluca.

The reversion unnerved her, and for some reason, she thought she might be to blame. Something had happened in their conversation that he didn’t appreciate.

“We’re leaving,” he informed her. His tone was clipped, hoarse.

“Okay.”

He turned on his heel, joining his brothers, not bothering to wait for her to say anything else.

A burst of coiled purples and effervescent greens decorated the night sky. Kazi ignored the fireworks, her attention lingering on the rigid shoulders stalking through the crowd.

Masterlist | Chapter 12 | Chapter 14

A/N: Poor Kazi overthinks her emotions and is quick to jump to conclusions. Poor Wolffe is second-guessing the things he thought he’d figured out.

Also, I know this is so basic of me, but here’s an image depicting the style of dress Kazi wore. Obviously, as described, the colors were more muted and the dress more cream colored.

#I Yearn and so I Fear #commander wolffe x oc: kazi ennari #commander wolffe x ofc #commander wolffe #oc: kazi ennari #commander wolffe fanfiction #commander wolffe fan fiction #star wars fan fiction #Star Wars fans

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grumfield · 3 months ago

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hello! As someone who loves to feed into your obikin spiral for funsies, tell me: what extra event would you have added to current canon (either to flavor the canon or to diverge it entirely) to have them get to an even more messed up relationship ? Cause like, I know it’s possible, but I’m curious if there’s anything you’d want to do to make them Worse™ for each other than they currently are

I can always count on you to be in my corner enabling my insanity. Love you bunches <3

As for an extra event for making them Worse™️. Steve Harvey Family Feud voice it’s gonna be killing off Padmé probably during her assassination attempt. Sorry girl!

Anakin’s mental stability for the foreseeable future (clone war especially) all kind of hinges on her and her sort of unconditional, unrepressed booktok romance novel boymom love (because girl heard he killed a bunch of children not once but TWICE and was still down to hit it). I think without that anchor anakin would be a lot more destructive and probably just implode a lot earlier. Especially because his mom would still die. He might not kill all the Tuskens but he also wouldn’t get the “don’t worry I still love you even when you slaughter innocents!” Affirmation LMAO

Obi-Wan’s whole thing is that he also loves with unconditional boymom love but his rigid orthodoxy prevents him from actually doing anything with it…it’s like a program that overrides native code to make it do another function lmao. I go off legends characterization for him and in it he’s simultaneously permissive and restrictive. He covers up all of Anakin’s shit (like in the book Rogue Planet 11 year old anakin explodes a man with his mind basically and obi wan just ignores it and pretends it never happened lmao) and then puts it out of mind because he truly believes that anakin will figure it out eventually (since he himself was a “problematic” padawan and figured it out). He’s like…one of those religious moms whose kid is gay but are in denial because “everyone feels like that obviously but I got over those feelings so my daughter will too” and wouldn’t be overtly homophobic but believes that it’ll get solved passively by higher power and are shocked when they bring their girlfriend over”. And all of this is wrapped up in a nice little bow where he always talks himself out of his first instinct (help/support/comfort anakin) and instead holds back to help him be “a good Jedi” because he doesn’t have the emotional tools to realize Anakin needs…Not That.

So all that said I think anakin would probably explode and things would get real bad. War’s hell, he gets no love from a wife, and his only emotional anchor is a guy who’s so repressed and lukewarm he shuts down any show of affection in favor of a lecture or “good Jedi behavior”.

I think their relationship would get…weird and unpleasant. Anakin would probably make bids for emotional connection early on and those would be met only occasionally in the context of like “we both survived x bad thing! Hug it out bro”. Which Obi-Wan obviously loves because it’s like affection in an appropriate Jedi context…Anakin would probably be essentially chasing after him like a stray puppy to a guy who will feed him but never actually take him home. Enough to physically survive but eventually it might start to look elsewhere for a warm bed and grow avoidant

Eventually though things start to take a decline and Palpatine’s influence starts to take root earlier because there’s no buffer and it’s way easier to be pushed over the edge when you’re basically in hell 24/7 and are starting to think no one cares about you/loves you. Anakin withdraws emotionally and gets all dark etc., Obi-Wan has no tools to figure out what to do, and so Anakin probably falls sooner and Palpatine will want to take advantage of that.

Idk what would happen after that but it would not be fun—and whatever happens it absolutely makes both of them worse LMAO

#sw.

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cha-melodius · 1 year ago

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Hi friend! Congrats again on 100 works! Thank you for offering to write more for us! ❤️I'd like to request 1. firstprince and 2. Kensington as an AU, but only because you dared us to! Alternatively, if someone already requested that and you don't want to duplicate, I'd be interested in a hockey AU set inside the rink! Thank you again, I am so excited to see what you come up with and to read more of your words!

(Thank you so much for taking my bait lol, I've wanted to write this canon-divergence AU where they hook up in Kensington during the damage control trip for a while now. I hope you enjoy!)

Falling Down the Stairs of Your Smile

(firstprince, 4.1k, M; read it below or on AO3) read all the fandom fest fics

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. They were supposed to finish up at the hospital, and then Henry would go back to whatever the fuck he does while Alex went to the airstrip. He’d fly back to DC, so that maybe he’d be able to get some schoolwork done before Monday, and try to forget that this ridiculous weekend ever happened—barring the fact that he and Henry were still obligated to keep up the fake friendship for a few more months, that is.

Instead, Cash comes up to him as they stand outside of Kensington with a slightly grim look on his face and says, “Change of plans.”

“Huh?”

“They discovered an issue with the plane during the flight prep. It needs some part that they’re not going to be able to get until tomorrow morning. We’ll leave then.”

“What do you mean, they can’t get it? Why not?” Alex demands. Surely in a country with fucking royalty, nothing is out of grasp for said royals and their guests.

Cash shrugs. “Didn’t ask. The palace confirmed you can stay another night.”

Alex groans probably a little too dramatically. “What about my classes?”

“I am, in fact, very aware of your class schedule,” Cash says dryly. “You’ll be back in time.”

“I don’t have another change of clothes.”

“Pretty sure Kensington has laundry.”

“I’m really not getting out of this, am I?”

“Nope.”

Alex sighs and looks over to where Henry is standing with Shaan by the front gates. There’s a look of trepidation on his face, no doubt because he’s just been told that he’ll have to deal with Alex for another night. Of course, that’s not a given. Henry will probably disappear into his apartments and ignore him, which suits Alex fine. They may have reached a kind of détente today, but they’re not friends.

“Sorry to hear about your plane,” Henry says as they get back into the car that will drive them further into the palace.

Alex shrugs. “It’s fine. I guess I’ll have to survive the hardship of ten thousand thread count sheets another night.”

Henry huffs a little laugh and grins. It’s kind of amazing how different he looks when he smiles for real. “I know you’ve probably had your fill of me today, so feel free to say no, but…” He hesitates a moment, as if waiting for Alex to shut him down before he even makes his proposal. “I was thinking of ordering in curry for dinner tonight. There’s a place not far away that’s quite good. Maybe watch a film?”

It’s pretty much the last thing Alex expected him to say. He wonders if this is another olive branch, an acknowledgement that it’ll be easier to pretend they’re friends if they’re actually… kinda friends. Surprisingly, Alex doesn’t hate the idea.

“What movie?” he counters.

“Well, I would suggest one of the Star Wars films, but I’m not sure we could agree on one.”

“If we’re not going to watch the best one, aka Empire—”

“You mean Return of the Jedi,” Henry interjects.

“—I guess that leaves the next best.”

“So, Rogue One?”

Alex grins. “Ok, maybe we can be friends, after all.”

He’s absolutely not letting himself think about the warmth that grows in his chest when Henry laughs.

~~~~~

Alex discovers that there’s a room in Kensington that’s pretty much as tricked out as you can get without being in a movie theater—“There’s an actual theater in Buckingham,” Henry tells him, “but Dad had this put in for family film nights”—with a massive screen and a killer sound system. They eat their curry out of take-out containers on a surprisingly comfortable, normal couch as the movie plays, keeping up a running commentary between them that ranges from Star Wars lore to the cast (“Come on, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t follow Diego Luna anywhere. Look at him!” Alex insists, which garners him a strange look from Henry) to random things entirely unconnected to the movie.

Turns out Henry is actually really funny, which is a fucking shock and kind of annoying except for how he leaves Alex in stitches several times. It’s absurdly easy between them in a way that it shouldn’t be, and Alex can’t remember the last time he had this much fun just hanging out with someone. And it’s Henry. What is his life, even.

“I can’t believe you like this one,” Alex says as they watch Jyn and Cassian embrace desperately on the beach. “It’s pretty much the opposite of a happy ending. For the main characters, at least.”

Henry hums, tipping his head slightly. “They give up everything in the service of a cause bigger than themselves, and they succeed. There’s something beautiful about that.”

“God, you are a sap,” Alex teases, bumping his shoulder up against Henry’s. Somehow they’ve managed to migrate closer on the couch over the course of the movie, until they’re practically touching.

“And why do you like it, then?” Henry counters. “The action and spies and intrigue?”

“Not only that,” Alex says. “But there’s a reason I’m a big Bond fan.”

A smile flickers across Henry’s face that’s a little melancholy but mostly contented. “I suppose that makes sense given what I know of your movie tastes now.”

“Also, your dad was a total babe.”

Henry’s eyes go wide as he chokes on a laugh. “I beg you to not.”

They lapse into silence as the final scenes as the credits start to roll. The movie is over and it’s getting late, but all Alex can think of is that he really doesn’t want the night to end yet. Which is crazy. Twenty-four hours ago Alex was actively cursing this man’s name, and now he seemingly can’t get enough of spending time with him. It doesn’t make any sense, but somehow it does; it’s the same feeling that he was chasing all those years ago in Rio, the one that pushed him to go up an introduce himself at exactly the wrong time, the one that made the hurt of that encounter linger for so long in his psyche.

“Hey, uh,” he says eventually, turning slightly to look at Henry, “thanks for suggesting this. It was fun.”

“I hope it made up for being stuck in London longer than you wanted,” Henry replies, his voice low and soft.

“Definitely.”

Henry smiles, a warm and pleased one that stretches his lips and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and Alex feels like he’s being pulled in by the magnetism of it. He wants to get closer, despite how close they’re already sitting. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch—the soft blond hair falling over Henry’s forehead, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips. He’s always known Henry was objectively good-looking, but Jesus, where does he get off being so pretty? It’s annoying, really.

Alex isn’t trying to make things weird, but he also can’t quite help the way his eyes are drawn inexorably down to those plush lips, still curved in a gentle smile. Who even has lips like that, does he get fillers or something, because they can’t be real, except they look very, very real, Alex hasn’t even ever kissed any girls with lips that nice, that look that soft—

Something short circuits in Alex’s brain and he just— has to know. How soft they really are. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning in and pressing his lips to Henry’s, which are, as it turns out, extremely soft. It only lasts for a second before his brain comes back online and he realizes Henry’s frozen stiff, which is fair, because Alex has no fucking clue what he’s doing. He hasn’t kissed a boy since Liam and this was not the fucking boy to just kiss out of nowhere. He’s gonna get, like, locked in the Tower of London or something.

He wrenches away as quickly as he leaned in, meeting Henry’s wide, stunned eyes (—still so so blue, how can they be that blue—), his lips slightly parted and just a little damp from Alex’s.

“Shit,” Alex breathes in a rush. “Fucking shit— I don’t know why I did that, I’m so sorry, Henry, I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Alex,” Henry murmurs, but Alex is too far gone in his spiral at this point.

“—I promise, it was just— I mean, I’m not even—”

“Alex.”

Alex stops in the middle of a word, his mouth hanging open. Henry’s got some kind of strange look on his face that he can’t parse at all.

“Did it really not mean anything?” he asks slowly.

The thing is, Alex has no idea what it means. Absolutely none. Something inside him—something he doesn’t really understand—wanted to do it, but like, just as an objective experiment. Except that part of him wants to do it again, even though he already got his answer. Really wants Henry to kiss him back. Which is making him feel a little insane.

Alex closes his mouth, licks his lips, and swallows hard.

“That depends,” he says cautiously, “on what you want it to mean.”

For some reason, that makes Henry growl in frustration and cast his eyes to the ceiling. Then he groans, “Christ, Alex, you’re so—”, grabs Alex’s face between both hands, and kisses him soundly.

Alex’s insides go positively molten. Henry’s hands are gripping his jaw, and in his hair, and Alex can’t help but press closer. His own hands find Henry’s narrow waist, reveling in the dip of it, the heat of his body scorching through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the only thing currently occupying Alex’s mind is a desperate urge to feel bare skin under his palms. That is, until Henry slides his tongue along Alex’s lower lip, sucks it into his mouth and tugs on it with his teeth, and Alex stops thinking altogether.

Their positions are a little awkward, twisted toward each other on the couch as they are, and Alex isn’t sure if he pulls or Henry pushes—or maybe both—but a moment later Henry is unfolding his long legs and shifting to straddle Alex’s lap, which is both incredible and incredibly overwhelming. Especially when Henry’s hips rock forward and Alex can feel his growing arousal pressing into the rapidly tightening region of Alex’s pants.

Jesus, this is— it’s— it’s a lot, but the very last thing Alex wants to happen is for it to stop.

He absolutely does not whimper when Henry pulls back, sending Alex unconsciously chasing after his lips. Fortunately, Henry doesn’t go far. He presses their foreheads together, breathing raggedly into the space between them as his thumb swipes across Alex’s cheek.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Henry breathes, and yeah, Alex had no fucking clue.

His mind is spinning at a thousand miles an hour, and he has no idea what to say to that besides: “Fuck.”

Henry chuckles softly, nudging their noses together. “Indeed.” He presses a soft kiss to Alex’s lips, then another to the corner of his mouth and one to the edge of his jaw. “Do you want to… go somewhere we won’t be interrupted?” he murmurs into Alex’s ear, and his warm breath combined with the words makes Alex tremble under him.

Alex swallows hard as his hands tighten on Henry’s hips, but he hesitates a moment too long because then Henry is actually pulling back, a concerned expression creasing his brow.

“Which is not to say— we don’t have to do anything more if you don’t want— I just thought—”

“I want to,” Alex blurts, surprising even himself. He’s not entirely sure what more means to Henry, but he knows he wants it. Jesus, does he want. “Yes. Fuck. Let’s do that.”

Henry grins, wide and nearly blinding in its brilliance, and Alex thinks he would do just about anything to see that smile on his face always.

They clamber off the couch, adjusting themselves with shared, knowing giggles, then Henry grabs his hand and tugs Alex through formal, stuffy corridors lined with portraits and antiques, which just adds a certain something to the absurdity of the whole situation. Somehow it’s not a surprise that Henry’s apartments are just as impersonal and opulent as the rest of the palace, full of hideous floral wallpaper and baroque furniture. Before, he’d have put that on Henry himself, but now it feels wrong despite the fact that Alex still barely knows him. It feels like he knows enough. Henry eats curry on the couch and cracks crude jokes and sniffles at the tragic endings of Star Wars movies (yes, Alex noticed). Henry is warm and soft and feels like he belongs in cozy, simple rooms full of old books and tea and cardigans.

Alex’s musings are cut off when Henry pulls him close again at the foot of the hideous gilt monstrosity that is his bed, wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist and tugging him into a lingering kiss. It’s softer than before, delicate and sweet, exactly like Alex would imagine Prince Charming would kiss. From this angle Alex has to tip his head up to kiss him, which is definitely not something he ever thought would do it for him, and yet. Henry’s evening stubble scratches against his chin, and broad hands grip onto his hips and pull him against the hard, flat planes of Henry’s chest, all of it constantly reminding him of the unmistakable masculinity of the person he’s currently making out with.

Alex thinks, distantly, that he should probably be freaking out about this a bit more, but it’s too easy to give himself over it in the moment. He can freak out about what whatever the fuck it means later.

Henry’s hands move to the front of Alex’s shirt, and his nimble fingers make short work of the buttons before pushing it backwards off Alex’s shoulders. His fingers leave trails of fire where they linger against Alex’s bare skin, and even just this has Alex moaning into the kiss, desperate for more. He tugs at Henry’s shirt, yanking the tails out of his pants and nearly tearing the buttons open in his haste, which makes Henry laugh at him, the bastard.

“Eager, are we?” Henry teases, and Alex bites the grin right off his face.

“Shut all the way up,” he huffs before sinking his teeth into the absolutely irresistible collarbone he’s just uncovered.

Henry sucks in a gratifying breath at that, his hands tightening on Alex’s waist, and then he’s manhandling Alex back onto the mattress, which has no business being as hot as it is. Alex kicks off his shoes before scrabbling backwards so that he’s lying against the pillows, his heart racing as Henry crawls up over him with a nearly predatory grin on his face. The way his body fully blankets Alex’s is overwhelming in the best way, making every part of Alex ache with the need to somehow be closer, even as Henry presses the their bodies together from knee to chest and captures Alex’s lips in another deep, probing kiss.

They kiss and kiss until Alex’s lips are almost numb from it, their hands roving over heated skin and through thoroughly mussed hair. Henry’s hips roll slowly against him, almost a question, and Alex groans when he feels the hardness of Henry’s cock pushing against his hip. His own is straining against the front of his trousers, and his breath shudders in his chest when he imagines what it would feel like to have Henry’s hands wrapped around him.

But—

“Hey, uh,” he breathes as Henry’s mouth moves to his neck, and he’s nearly driven to distraction by the feeling of Henry’s teeth scraping lightly over his pulse point, but he wants to get this out, “I’ve never actually—” His voice fails, and Henry pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. Alex swallows. “Done this. With a guy. I mean, kinda, but not really—” He lets out a frustrated huff. “It’s a long story.”

Henry stares at him so intensely and earnestly that Alex feels flayed open by it, like Henry can see all the parts of him that Alex himself didn’t know were there. “We can just do this,” he says as he pushes a curl back from Alex’s forehead. “The last thing I want is to push you into something you’re not comfortable with.”

It’s completely reasonable not to rush things, but Alex thinks if he leaves London without seeing Henry naked he might fucking expire.

“Did I not already fucking say I wanted it?” he retorts, a little testily. Better that than admitting how desperate he really is.

“Well, to be fair, we didn’t exactly specify—”

“I want you naked,” Alex breathes in a rush. “I want your hands on me. Your mouth, if— if that’s something you want.”

Henry’s gaze goes dark and hot, and he actually licks his lips. Alex’s dick twitches in his pants. Jesus Christ.

Henry dips back down to kiss his neck, but a moment later he answers. “That,” he says, pressing it into Alex’s skin as he kisses a path down his chest, “is something I very much want.”

Then Henry’s hands are at his waistband, making short work of his belt and peeling off his underwear and pants in one go, and everything goes very, very hazy after that in the absolute best possible way.

~~~~~

The room is quiet after they subside, after every ounce of pleasure has been wrung from their bodies, after shouted names ease into murmured endearments.

“I should go,” Alex eventually whispers into the stillness, because he should. It would be better if he spent the night in his own rooms. Safer.

He doesn’t want to, though. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now, doesn’t want to give his brain the space to run wild with this. That’s what will happen if he goes. He’ll fall into a research spiral on google, and text Nora even though it’s too late, and quietly freak out about everything that’s happened tonight. Here, though, Henry’s got an arm thrown over his waist, and it’s not much, but the weight of it soothes something within him. Keeps him grounded.

Maybe it’s just Henry that settles him. He doesn’t want to think too hard about that.

“You could stay,” Henry murmurs back. He leans in, presses a kiss to the outside of Alex’s shoulder. “No one will notice. Tomorrow’s Sunday. The staff come in late.”

This is a terrible idea. This can’t be… anything, really, given who they are. Alex doesn’t even know what he wants it to be, but he knows that.

“You sure?” Alex asks anyway.

“Stay,” Henry repeats.

So Alex stays.

~~~~~

The bed Alex wakes up in is unfamiliar, which is hardly surprising given his travel schedule lately. What is unexpected is that he’s naked, and there’s a warm, naked body pressed against his back, and abruptly all of what he got up to the previous night comes slamming back into vivid clarity.

He slept with the fucking prince. Henry. His nemesis, except not actually, apparently, and oh yes, definitely also a dude. Alex sucked his dick and most definitely enjoyed the experience, so that’s a whole new thing. The freakout about his sexuality that he shoved to the back of his mind last night rockets to the forefront now, and he can feel his breath stutter in his chest.

Except then Henry’s arm tightens around him and he presses a sleepy kiss to the back of Alex’s shoulder, and the tightness in his chest unclenches somewhat. Not all the way, but enough.

He fumbles for his watch, then jolts up to sitting with a new fear once he sees the time. Jesus Christ, Cash or Amy is going to show up at his bedroom any minute now to pick him up so they can leave, and Alex isn’t fucking there. This is a disaster.

Henry grumbles at being disrupted, sleepily rubbing at his eyes in a way that’s definitely not adorable at all. “Time is it?” he mumbles through a yawn.

“Late,” Alex huffs, briefly getting tangled in the sheets and nearly falling out of the bed in his haste to find his clothing.

He’s halfway into his pants when there’s a knock at Henry’s bedroom door, and he almost falls on his face again. That seems to wake Henry up a bit more, and he finally sits up, his hair standing up in all directions and his eyes gone wide.

“Yes?” Henry calls out.

“The Secret Service seem to have misplaced their charge,” comes Shaan’s voice through the door, and Alex would very much like to die right now. Henry stumbles out of bed, throwing on a robe, then opens the door just enough so that Alex isn’t visible. “I told them I would inquire with you to see if you had any idea of Mr. Claremont-Diaz’s whereabouts.”

There’s something very knowing in Shaan’s tone, like he’s perfectly aware of where Alex spent the night and furthermore none of this is exactly a surprise to him, and Alex only barely manages to hold back the extensive collection of curses crowding at the tip of his tongue. What the actual fuck.

“Ah,” Henry says. His cheeks are bright pink. “Just a moment, I’m sure I can help you locate him.”

“I’m not sure I’ve properly conveyed how agitated they are, sir.”

“Tell them I’m ok,” Alex sighs begrudgingly, stepping into view now that his shirt and pants are on. It’s not like he’s kidding anyone; he’s still barefoot in Henry’s bedroom and the bed that two people clearly slept in is fully visible from where Shaan is standing. “I just—”

Shaan holds up a hand. “Believe me when I say that you do not need to finish that sentence. I will deliver the message, but”—he pauses, glancing between them—“you probably shouldn’t linger.”

He pulls the door closed behind him as he goes and, despite the warning, Alex stands there for a minute, rooted in place and staring at the floor. Maybe Shaan doesn’t want an explanation, but the Secret Service certainly will. Fuck.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Henry says quietly, suddenly close beside him. Alex hadn’t heard him approach. He still looks so soft and sleep-rumpled, and something tugs at Alex’s chest that absolutely should not be tugging. “I shouldn’t have talked you into staying here.”

Alex huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t take much convincing,” he says. “I shoulda just set a fucking alarm.”

“Probably,” Henry agrees, his lips tipping into a wry smile that fades into a look of concern. “Are you… ok?”

“Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” he answers, probably a little too quickly. Henry just stares at him in that way that makes Alex feel entirely too seen. “Probably gonna get chewed out for disappearing, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s not exactly what I was talking about.”

Alex swallows. “I’m fine.” He offers Henry a little smile. “This was fun.”

“It certainly was,” Henry agrees carefully.

“Where’s your phone? I’ll give you my number, it’ll be easier to plan joint appearances or whatever,” Alex says in a blatant attempt to divert from a discussion about what happened or what this makes them. He’s got to figure his own shit out first. He doesn’t need Henry to know that he’s already wondering when he can arrange his schedule to see him again.

Henry gives him a look, but he fetches his phone and hands it over to Alex with a blank contact page open. Alex types in his number and hands it back.

“I’ll be disappointed if you only use that for booty calls,” he jokes.

Henry sputters out a laugh. “Noted.”

He’s endearingly pink-cheeked and smiling, and Alex doesn’t think before he takes the last step that puts him in Henry’s personal space, grabs the fronts of Henry’s robe, and pulls him into a kiss.

If he’d had any lingering doubts about the previous night, about whether what he’d felt was real or not, this thoroughly dispels them. The press of Henry’s lips to his, the way their mouths slot together as easily as if they’ve been doing this for years, the zip of electricity that fizzles under his skin and spreads out to tingle in the tips of his fingers and toes… Alex has never been kissed like this, has never felt like this being kissed, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Like he’s falling.

Oh. Fuck.

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfic #firstprince fic #firstprince fanfic #my fics #chamel's fandom fest

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cleopavus · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 1: How to Disappoint a Girl

From my fic "All Hale the Dagger-Wielding Rage Mage" an angsty Hawke x Fenris rambling canon fic. Written for me, posting bc my therapist says doing scary things is good or smth

ao3 link

TW: violence, reference to abuse, comprehensive warnings on ao3. 18+ fic.

________________

It was almost funny when Varric tried to be stern.

She couldn’t keep a straight face. He’d notice, too, and he’d glare and say, Stop that, as if her near-smile was too contagious, which of course made it worse. Three years of side glances and laughing at their own private jokes — well, those were hard habits to break.

“…Going out on your own with power-mad templars raiding houses all over Kirkwall and gangs painting the streets red; I’m just saying, why take the chance?”

Today, though, she couldn’t muster the energy. The usual irreverence they shared was out of reach, and she found herself wishing he hadn’t come at all. She should have told Bodahn to stop Varric at the doorstep, rather than disappoint him with all her moodiness.

“Hawke, what are you — are you pretending to read the finance log?”

She gave a noncommittal hmmm.

A snort. “Halen.”

For the others, it was Blondie, and Daisy, and occasionally waffles for herself, but when it was just the two of them, Varric called her by her name.

She pretended like she didn’t notice it, which was better than admitting how much she missed hearing it.

No one called her Halen. Not since Carver died.

It had been three years since their return from the Deep Roads — that blighted hole Carver had given his life to, and Mother had never really recovered. Leandra Hawke rarely spoke to her last surviving child.

Father had loved Halen, she knew: more than reason. And Mother did too, in her own way. But at the heart of it, Halen knew the sordid truth.

Mother loved Carver. And Bethany. And their deaths had undone her past the point of loving the last.

She had done everything she could to make her mother comfortable. They lived in Hightown, now, and they were safe as one could be in Kirkwall. Hawke had built a reputation as a woman you didn’t cross; dual shortswords glinting on her back, a public notice that if you dared to draw first blood, it would end in yours.

It was a very effective image: especially for such an elaborate, ridiculous lie.

Only her inner circle knew that the famous Halen Hawke was in fact, a secret mage. Magic thrummed underneath her skin. An apostate, that hid in plain sight, fluttering her lashes at templars as she snuck mages out from under their noses. On some days, Hawke almost felt proud. Four years, and she’d never been caught, even as she looked down death itself.

But if Mother was proud, she never said it. She only stared at portraits, looking blankly at Halen like she was only writing on the wall.

Papa. Bethany. Carver.

“Okay. It’s getting scary now. Either you’ve been spending too much time with Broody, or you’ve been holding out on me.”

Halen nearly flinched at the mention of their companion, but instead she closed the book deftly and said, “I’m not pretending to read, Varric,” she lied. “I happen to have a vested interest in finance.”

“What, like how much the estate spends on scones?”

She sighed longingly. “It’s not my fault that scones are the only edible thing on this rock you call home.”

“You call it home too, waffles. Even if you’ve gotten cheekier since you landed. Waffles doesn’t suit you as much when you’re scowling.”

She ignored the pointed comment on her mood and said, “See? Waffles. If Kirkwall had better waffles, I’d be more inclined to eat less scones.”

Varric snorted. “It will never cease to amaze me that both you and Isabela can knife a man from ten yards living on breakfast foods alone — or in her case, rum.”

“Isabela’s much better at the knifing than I am.”

Varric snorted. Hawke caught his expression and backpedaled.

“I’m going to take this moment,” she said, “to be glad she wasn’t here to hear that particular wording.”

“I think you’ve outranked Daisy in accidental innuendos this month. And Isa has a lot more fun teasing you than our resident kitten.”

Hawke sighed. “I’m pretty sure it’s hopeless, at this point. I can never catch it before it’s out of my mouth.” She groaned. “See? There it goes again.”

Varric chuckled. “Ah. It’s good to see the naive girl from Fereldan I once saw lurking around the guild. Where you been, kid?”

The words unexpectedly sunk in, digging like a knife. Memories bubbled upward, unwelcome and stubborn in Hawke’s mind.

Carver’s skin, tinted with veins of blue. His exasperated smirk, making some joke about dying in her shadow. The laugh she choked on in response before her breath spiraled away from her in panic. He’d given her his knife, but she couldn’t — she could not kill him.

If she had just done as her mother asked. Left Carver home….

A strong hand closed over hers, over the hilt of the shaking blade.

Aveline.

Her gaze was strong. Protective, even lined in grief.

Let me do this for you, she said. Like you once did it for me.

“It seems you’re not the only one who knows how to put your foot in your mouth.”

Hawke blinked, turning back toward him.

A haggard look crossed Varric’s face as he rubbed a hand over his hair, blowing out a heavy breath. “I’m, uh… I’m sorry, Hawke. Believe it or not, sending you down bleak memory lane was not the reason I came here.”

Guilt was not a good look on Varric. Hawke hated what it did to his face. He got crow’s feet. It was why she tried to avoid sinking into those memories: he always saw that ghost of old grief pass over her, and no amount of stern words seemed to convince him that she didn’t blame him. Despite his insistence otherwise, Varric was probably the most selfless of her friends — and there was no world in which he would have led them into the Deep Roads if he’d known what the ending would be.

After all, he’d lost his brother too, if in a different way. If she was honest, his way sounded worse.

All these thoughts passed her in a blink, in which she turned to glare at him. “Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face, which actually… worked. He startled a little bit. “Stop it,” she commanded with a flourish. “We’ve both had enough of the Deep Roads for a lifetime; no reason to let it stamp its grubby thaig-cursed feet across your face.” She tilted her chin toward the strap across his back. “Bianca needs you beautiful, not wrinkled and grey.”

A half-smile at that. “Bianca loves me regardless.”

“Will she love you as roast dwarf? Because I’m pretty sure the last time you got all morose, I swore I’d use you as target practice.”

“Go ahead,” he said with a smirk. “Throw fireballs at me. Bring the wrath of the mage. I can take it.”

She turned with a grin as she sheathed both knives. “What mage? I don’t see a mage.” She gestured toward the rest of her, dressed in brown and gold fighting leathers, a subtle baton at her side — the staff her father had made for her, one that collapsed to become less conspicuous. An ingenious design, one she never would have survived this far without.

Hawke wrapped a head scarf around her raucous bob of curls, letting it scrunch up as it settled somewhere in the center, then turned to face him. “No mage here. Only a rogue in all her glint-hearty glory.”

Varric shook his head, laughing — but it was half-hearted. “Yeah, well. About that.”

Her heart sunk a little, and the light wave she’d been riding threatened to out itself as the illusion it was. Nevertheless, she kept up the pretense, looking down at him with her hands on her hips. “Varric. You’ve got those… lecturing eyebrows.”

He spluttered. “I don’t lecture.”

“You nudge. You gently push. And then, if necessary, you bludgeon your prey with those sad, sad eyes that say they only want the best for you, and suddenly, your friend is halfway down their third pint of ale, wrapped around your pretty little finger instead of doing what they set out to do.”

He guffawed. “No friend of mine would give up after two ales.”

She grinned, putting on her cape with a flourish before moving toward the foyer. “Whatever you say, sad eyes.”

Varric grumbled something, then said, “Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”

Damn.

“Just thought I’d do a little staff dancing,” she said coyly, nearly to the door. “For Cullen. Or maybe Meredith. She looks like she needs a little loosening up.”

“Hawke.”

“Maybe add a little twinkling mage light for ambience, see if I can’t sway them a little.” She sighed. “The real question is, how will I choose betweenthem? They’re both so delectable in their own ways….”

“Hawke.”

Oh. Those were his lecturing eyebrows. And what’s worse, his arms had folded, too.

She let her hand drop from where it tapped theatrically at her chin, and she sighed. “Okay, okay. Sorry. What is it?”

For a second, he said nothing. Just exhaled slowly, pinching the skin around his eyes with one hand. When he dropped it, she wondered what carousel of emotions he’d been hiding behind it — because now, he just looked half-concerned, mostly wry. “Just… be careful, Hale. Okay? Kirkwall is shitty enough without you getting caught in the cogs of it.”

And that… that was certainly affection in those words.

She blinked, a little stunned, and ignored that sensation in her chest: like a thousand terrible things threatening to break free from where she’d caged them. Her smile felt strained. “I’ll be careful, Varric. You just worry about keeping that face of yours wrinkle-free.”

Not her best deflection, but not her worst. Varric huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

She slipped out her mansion door.

The stories coming from the Gallows were harrowing. She didn’t even have the mirth left in her to make it a pun.

Varric’s concern wasn’t unwarranted. Especially not after that whole disaster with Ser Alrik’s tranquil solution. Anders was still haunted by that day because of his near-miss with Justice and that runaway mage, but the girl was alive, and Hawke was much more concerned by the things that Alrik had said before she burned him to a crisp.

Do you know what we do to mages who lie?

Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask.

Usually Hawke opted for negotiation before violence, but in that moment, she’d seen red, throwing furious ice shards before she even stopped to think that perhaps using magic as a first offense against templars was not the best choice of plan. But Justice — Anders — ended the fight against the templars more quickly than she thought possible, and thankfully, Varric and Isabela weren’t nearly as susceptible to their nullifying powers. Still, she’d wished briefly in that moment that she’d been able to bring someone with a bit more front-line muscle.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been an option, and it still wasn’t.

Carver was dead. And Aveline was… well. After that disaster in the Fade several weeks back, and what Aveline had said in the aftermath, Hawke wasn’t feeling too comfortable in her friend’s company. Aveline had been shaken by the demon’s temptations, she knew, by old ghosts, but the insinuations she’d made about Hawke, about magic….

Let’s just say she wasn’t too keen on bringing Aveline to an underground network of Circle escape tunnels.

And Fenris….

Hawke cleared her throat, trying to simultaneously clear her mind of him. It didn’t work, of course, but she still tugged the hood a bit closer around her face as she approached the corner of the Hanging Man. She thought about going inside, if only to shake off the words bouncing off around her aching skull, but she didn’t want to see Isabela, or anyone, really, who might have dropped by.

So instead, she turned down a side alley, content to wander. Or she would have been, if her brain wasn’t so bloody loud.

I know I apologized for what happened in the Fade — but the more I think about it, the more I think you are to blame, too.

Hawke scoffed aloud.

Making the mage the scapegoat: how novel! Even when her companions had been the ones to betray her. She wouldn’t have even held it against them, if they’d just….

Hawke sighed, turning another corner. Unsure where she was going, as long as it didn’t involve familiar faces.

Fenris had blamed her like she should expect to blamed, and he hadn’t even bothered to apologize before he came pounding on her door again, ranting about Danarius and the Wounded Coast. That wiped all petty thoughts out of her mind, and within hours Isabela, Merrill, Fenris and herself were walking straight into an ambush they’d already known was there. More than capable of handling it, between the four of them, but unfortunately Danarius had, once again, sent people in his stead. Not just anyone — his own apprentice, Hadriana, who was most likely sent to haunt Fenris with news of a sister he hadn’t known existed.

After Hadriana was dead, there wasn’t much Hawke could do to calm him. If there had ever been some sort of… spark between them, it did nothing to incline him to listen.

In fact, her very presence seemed to make things worse.

He’d paced in that slaver cavern, practically coming apart at the seams with rage. But it wasn’t until he said, “May she rot, and all the other mages with her,” that Hawke took a slow inhale.

It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t. So she kept her voice level as she said quietly, “Maybe we should leave.”

The slaver’s cavern reeked of despair. Even Hawke could feel it. She’d felt the savagery in the Tevinter mages’ spellcasting too, even though she hadn’t wanted to: an old gift of sensitivity to others’ magic that was hard to block out, sometimes. But she couldn’t imagine what memories this place held for someone like Fenris, which was why she took another step toward him, lifting a hand.

He whirled when she did, eyes sparking blue and the briefest flash of lyrium racing toward his sternum. “Don’t comfort me,” he spat.

She withdrew like she’d been slapped, and didn’t move again. He continued to pace, a dozen bitter words bouncing around the room, but she didn’t let them hit her: at least, not until he stopped, ran his hands through his hair, and snarled,

“What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?”

Hawke stopped breathing in the branding silence followed.

The staff in Hawke’s hand suddenly burned. She didn’t let herself turn to look at Merrill, but she heard a footstep, as if Isabela had taken a step closer to her side.

Fenris noticed the movement. His gaze drifted over Hawke’s shoulder.

He scarcely tolerated Merrill on a good day, and Hawke doubted he’d lose sleep over whatever he saw on the blood mage’s face. But it did have another consequence: Fenris’s eyes slid to Hawke, as if registering the fact that those words belonged to her, too.

She didn’t let her expression shift, forcing herself to meet his appraisal without flinching. Cold, impassive, but if anything gave her away, it was the way her hand shifted around her staff. It took all her willpower not to collapse it, to hide it from prying eyes, to disguise what she was before the world reached out its claws.

In that moment, Fenris wasn’t the only one who’d started to drown in old memories.

Wrists hurting, hair catching on vines, throat tearing as she screamed, a voice that ranted madly about the evil inside her.

Too small hands, too small to fight, too far from the house as she was dragged away --

Hawke refused to let those bubbling memories surface. Instead she became stone, staring at him, waiting to see what he would do.

In the end, Fenris turned away. His words were hard. “I… should go.”

Hawke opened her mouth to argue: it wasn’t a difficult leap to imagine slaver reinforcements right outside the cave, or anywhere along the return path to Kirkwall, but he was gone before she said another word. She exhaled slowly, staring at the cavern wall for what felt like an eternity. When she finally collapsed her staff, tucking the baton back on her belt, she didn’t look at either of her remaining companions.

She turned instead to the figure in the corner, careful to keep her voice light. “Orana, wasn’t it?”

The girl looked a bit wide-eyed, but quickly bowed her head. “Yes — if you please. Orana — unless of course, you wish to change it, mistress.”

Hawke’s body stiffened.

Orana remained with her head bowed, as if such a request was not unusual or unexpected. Hawke didn’t trust herself to respond with the gentleness needed, so instead she stepped over the nearest body toward her.

Orana had retreated to a corner during the fight, and was now so surrounded by corpses that there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t have some hint of blood. Hawke moved slowly toward her, but Orana’s head was still bowed by the time Hawke reached her side.

She offered a hand, and Orana blinked — nearly flinched.

Hawke cursed her own idiocy.

See, Hawke? she thought to herself wryly. This is why he hates you — you never could stop and think before you did something stupid.

The thought was meant to be a joke with herself, nothing more — but the way it left her feeling stunned was perhaps more telling than she’d bargained for.

Instead, she focused on the task at hand.

“Orana is a beautiful name,” Hawke said lightly, smiling. “And more importantly, it’s yours. Can I help you get over these corpses? It seems they’ve rather… piled up around you.”

Orana looked blankly at her hand, at the bodies, but thankfully that’s when Isabela appeared, offering another hand. Her eyes flicked to Hawke, but only once, and barely long enough for it to be a wondering assessment, then she looked down at the bodies on the floor, toeing one with her foot. “My handiwork, sorry. Wasn’t really looking where I was putting them.”

Orana looked between the two hands offered, completely blank gaze filling with something like fear, like her lack of understanding was about to offend.

Isabela spoke with her usual warm amusement, not a hint of mocking in it. “If you reach out with both hands, love, we’ll lift you up and over. You’re covered in enough blood as it is. Then we’ll all leave this wretched place.”

Orana swallowed. “My apologies. Of course.” She took both their hands, and together they lifted her out of most of the gore. “Sincerest apologies,” she said again, sounding shaken.

Hawke gave her a smile. “No need. It was Isabela’s fault for building a wall of the dead around you, anyway.”

“True enough,” Isabela called from Merrill’s side, and they began to pick their way back through the cavern.

Hawke’s two companions trailed behind as she and Orana worked their way toward the exit, keeping pace but not keeping close. Hawke helped Orana through some tight cavern spaces more than once, and each time she seemed a little less confused by Hawke’s hand. From the moment Hawke had said she would pay Orana, the girl’s eyes hadn’t sharpened past glazed, but she would take victories where she could get them.

Suddenly, Fenris’s sneer flashed in her mind’s eye.

I didn’t know you were in the market for a slave.

Hawke closed her eyes momentarily, inhaling slowly as she ducked under a lone beam.

I’m going to pay her, Fenris. She can have a job and stay with me, if she’d like to.

He’d looked contrite after that. But it didn’t erase the fact that he’d immediately assumed that Hawke wanted to be a master. A master of a person.

Maker’s breath, was that really his impression of her? After three years, did he still see her as a Tevinter magister in apostate’s clothing, rotting away inside, magic spoiling all the good in her?

She wished she had an answer.

Orana did not speak much, and even though they were quite a few paces behind, the silence allowed Hawke to hear Isabela’s quiet voice. “You all right, Kitten?”

An unconvincing laugh from Merrill. “Oh, fine, I suppose. I’m quite used to Fenris’s… derision.” Elven soles scraped against rock. “I’m more worried… about Hawke.”

Merrill had tried to speak quietly, but it hadn’t stopped the words from reaching Hawke’s ears.

Damn echoing caverns.

Hawke said nothing. Instead, she forged ahead, navigating the winding curves, showing Orana where to watch her step, and didn’t say another word until they reached home.

That was three days ago.

She hadn’t seen Fenris since the coast, although Isabela had made sure he made it home safely. The disturbing encounter in the Circle tunnels had happened only yesterday, and even Varric had looked shaken after it. All in all, it had been a week she did not want to repeat, even if they had all come out of it unscathed.

She suspected it was their run-in with the grisly tranquil solution that had drawn Varric to her mansion that afternoon with ill-disguised concern. He was lucky he’d even caught her at home. Living a few steps away from Fenris meant she was actively avoiding her own neighborhood. Maybe that made her a coward, but she didn’t care enough to stop. Varric could write it into his damn novels if he wanted: might make her namesake heroine a little more well-rounded.

She was terrified for the day that he actually published those damn things. It might help to keep templars off her scent — her dual wielding skills were greatly exaggerated in the scraps of writing she’d read — but at least it helped sell her own status as a charming rogue instead of an apostate.

When it came to other tokens of embarrassment, however…. She was fairly certain Varric had love triangles set up around, beneath, and above her. It was a wonder novel-Hawke could move without being kissed on the mouth.

If I find whoever gave that bastard a pen, she thought, rolling her eyes in the general direction of the Hanged Man.

Hawke took another aimless turn. It was dark now, but she didn’t want her feet to carry her home just yet. Perhaps the white walls and embroidered curtains might help keep some bad memories at bay, but it would only spark others.

A patch of wildflowers. Papa in their farmhouse on the ridge. Too close to the road, she knew, but the flowers were brightest here, and she reached out to make a petal shine with tiny ice formations, watching it sparkle.

Then — blinded by pain at her forehead. Then, blinded by blood. A traveling templar’s lone red face, half-driven mad by what, she didn’t know, didn’t understand….

Years ago. Many years ago, by this point, and useless to dwell on — even if she did still bear the scar. A rather long one, from hairline to temple.

Hawke spotted an unfamiliar poster on the alley wall and slowed for a moment. She had to squint to read it in the dark.

BY ORDER OF KNIGHT-COMMANDER MEREDITH

ANYONE RUMORED TO BE HARBORING APOSTATES

WILL BE BROUGHT TO THE GALLOWS FOR QUESTIONING.

ANYONE WITH INFORMATION ON THE WHEREABOUTS

OF APOSTATES KNOWN OR UNKNOWN

WILL LIKEWISE BE COMPENSATED ACCORDINGLY.

A chill went down Hawke's spine.

It was that last part. The promise of coin….

Maker knew she’d done a thousand questionable things for coin. And slept soundly for it.

She’d have to be more careful. Take less trips to the Gallows — or more, maybe, if that was what it took to convince them she had nothing to hide.

“Hey! Care for a swim?”

Hawke blinked, looking around before she suddenly realized that she was at the docks. When had she even gotten here? Maker, she’d promised Varric she’d be careful, and she wasn’t even looking where she was walking.

“You’ll have to strip down that armor first though, darlin’.”

Hawke scoffed, disgusted. Not even glancing twice at the three lewd men leaning over a dark railing as she muttered, “Parasites.”

“What did you say?”

Hawke stopped. Turned. Smiled.

“I called you parasites,” she said agreeably, arms wide, head scarf dangling over one shoulder as she gave them a crooked grin. “But I could think of other words, if you prefer. Perhaps,” fingers tapping at her chin, “Half-witted ogres that tragically overestimate their bodily appeal, and deeply underestimate their ability to be less appealing than my mabari’s regurgitated breakfast.”

The closest one spluttered, the second one just looked mystified and the third — the third stepped toward her.

Hawke looked up at him with an innocent smile.

I dare you, she thought. I dare you.

“You’ve got a big mouth,” the brute said. “But not big enough for what I have in mind for it.”

Hawke’s smile sharpened.

The man leered in return. His two friends finally snapped to attention, looking hungry. They flanked their drinking friend with beady eyes.

She sighed, looking at them with sympathy. “I can see that I’ve filled the air with more words than you or your band of merry idiots could split between the three of your admittedly tiny brains. Worry not,” she said, lifting a hand, “I am not immune to your plight. Let me put it into words that are easier to understand.”

Her stomach rolled as the man’s stench hit her, as she stepped forward.

“I’m. Not. Interested,” she sang. “Simple enough?”

The face above her contorted with rage. “Oh, it’s simple. I’ll just break you in half instead.”

A meaty hand snapped out, grasping her upper arm. Hawke frowned with a theatrical sigh, looking at the dirt under his fingernails.

“Oh, you do know how to disappoint a girl.”

And then — he was screaming.

The other two men watched in terror as the man collapsed, green smoke spilling from his ears, as he screamed and screamed at something neither of them could see. He crawled on his hands and knees, dragging himself on the filthy ground as he tried to escape it —

The second brute looked up at Hawke, his face transforming into an impotent fury.

“You’ll pay for that,” he snarled.

She threw him an innocent, simpering look. “Oh, will I, now?”

One moment her staff wasn’t there, the next, wood notches extended out behind her with a flick of her wrist, sliding smoothly before locking in place. Ice crackled softly, tinkling bells along creaking wood as she dragged it lazily behind her, raising a hand blithely in challenge.

The man drew his sword, bellowed and charged.

One more step, and his eyes widened as a glyph flashed beneath him, as his feet stuck solid in paralysis. Another wave of Hawke’s hand, and little ice trellises climbed him, spiraling up his limbs and chest.

She could almost hear Isabela say, The last thing to ever climb him.

The third man came at her from behind, but his steps were loud, and she’d set her trap before he reached arm’s length. The blast knocked him off his feet, sending him flying into a wall with a crack and a groan.

Hawke sighed. “Tiny brains, indeed.”

The first man was recovering from her Fade-bound horror, but he hadn’t risen. Hawke drew a knife from her belt, inspecting it for no other reason than that she had the time, then screwed its matching end into her staff with a flourish.

��You’re making this practically leisurely, gentlemen. Further evidence of my theory that handsy men have no endurance whatsoever.”

The first man spit in her direction. “Apostate bitch. You won’t be so smug when we turn you in to the templars.”

“Oh, how original!” She clicked her tongue. “I applaud you, sir, for your creativity in threats — in spite of the many factors working against you.”

His eyes darkened as he rose to his feet. The other two rounded her, coming closer, closer….

And she was surrounded.

Just as she preferred it.

Her staff flipped, rose upward, and the world wrapped in storm — swaths of ice and lightning intertwining in a cackling hurricane of vengeance. One screamed, another still managed to swing at her head, and she ducked, responding with the knife end in his spine before she embedded ice in his skull.

He dropped.

Another brute clipped her shoulder with his shield, smarting pride more than bone — and it made it all the sweeter when she willed an orange smoke of whispers to climb down his throat.

He burned from the inside out.

That only left… ah, yes.

The smelliest of them all.

He ran at her in raging desperation, blade risen high.

“Inspiring,” she said. “Accolades!”

He bellowed, sword swinging directly for her neck —

Hawke bowed backward with a half-smile. She spun, out of reach before he could even turn, and by the time he had, she’d unleashed a shower of relentless frost.

The man choked, eyes wide beneath it as his movements slowed to a halt.

Do you know what we do to mages who lie?

Frost changed to ice, then to deadly hail. He wasn’t moving, and her hand was numb, but she didn’t stop.

Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask.

Jaw clenching, mana exhausting, ice boiling without her realizing it, flames tearing like blighted sunlight from her fingers —

What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?

The torrent rushed to a halt so quickly, she nearly stumbled.

Hawke’s chest heaved as she looked down.

The man at her feet was frost-bitten and burned. The other two corpses lay twisted in a mess of elemental rage.

Her staff lowered.

Predatory monsters: more deserving of death than any mercenary she had killed.

She pulled up her hood before walking calmly to the center of what was left of her storm. Stared at the magic-borne carnage.

“They deserved it,” she said shakily. “They deserved it.”

They deserved it. They deserved it.

A friend’s sneer. What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?

“…And then I told her I couldn’t, of course, because — Maker’s breath.”

Hawke whirled.

Two wide-eyed men in armor, staring at her, at the staff still in her hand — surrounded by corpses.

“Apostate,” one breathed.

Templars.

Hawke stared. So did they.

She ran.

Maker, but there was nowhere to run.

The docks weren’t as winding as Lowtown — it was too open, too well-lit, and they’d likely already seen her face —

Blighted void damn her. Stupid. So stupid —

Her mana was exhausted. She’d wasted it on her petty hate. Her staff nearly dragged, not meant for sprinting at this speed.

“Stop! Apostate!”

Thorns in her hair. Tiny fists of rage. Powerless. Too far —

Hawke ducked around the next corner, an empty side street. Footsteps harsh on stone behind her —

Face them. Face them. There’s nowhere to run.

“Shit,” she choked out. “Shit.”

She jolted to a stop where the street rose on an incline, chest heaving. Hawke touched her neck, snapping her cloak off with one fluid movement.

“Apostate! Surrender your staff!”

Her cloak drifted to the ground in a soft wave of silk. The footsteps behind her slid to a halt.

“Don’t move another inch.”

Hawke turned slowly. Staff angled. Feet planted.

The two men approached her, swords drawn. Thank Andraste for small miracles; she didn’t know them. She hadn’t laughed with them, hadn’t seen the shadows in their eyes as they patrolled the Gallows.

The one with pale skin stepped forward. The silver and red in his armor flashed in the lamplight. “Your staff,” he said. His voice shook. “Now.”

Head slightly bowed, she looked up from underneath hooded eyelids.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she said quietly.

It was the truth. She did not want to fight them. She didn’t want to win.

But they were duty-bound, and she could not leave a templar alive that knew her face as an apostate’s.

The dark-haired one shuffled forward. Too young. “Give us the staff.”

Hawke exhaled. Gathered what little mana she had left.

I’m sorry, Varric.

And she rained fire down on silver and red.

Twenty years of hiding negated in a moment of stupidity.

It was all she could think about, as the templar with dark hair stood above her, fingers clenched in a crushing motion, face twisted with the effort as he trapped her in Silence.

Air left her lungs. She dropped to one knee.

She’d only killed one of them. Only one, before her endurance was gone, and her mana with it. She held her remaining dagger in one hand, her useless staff in the other, and considered throwing the sharp one at her mark — but her vision was blurred, her face was bleeding, and he was covered in armor.

Red, and silver, and red….

I am a blighted, void taken, Maker-damned fool.

“Surrender,” the templar ground out.

Hawke rose to her feet. She nearly stumbled, leaning on her staff to stay upright.

“No,” she said hoarsely.

Weak ice formed around the templar’s feet — and with one step of his heavy boots, the crystals shattered.

White spirit-fire lashed toward her in response, righteous condemnation raining penance on her head.

Her right elbow cracked into the cement as flames pushed her down, as she cried out. Not real flames, but flames of heaven meant for her, holy wrath meant for apostates of sin —

May she rot, and all the other mages with her.

And all the other mages —

All the other —

May she —

May she rot, rot, rot —

Staff and dagger slipped from her hands. Hawke struggled to breathe, flat on her back, every muscle aching and begging for surrender.

What has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?

Hawke choked out a bitter laugh.

“Surrender,” the templar said. Sweat drenched his hair. Terror creased his eyes.

She shuddered in another breath. Her body shook so badly, it took a full ten seconds to get to her knees. Another five to get the dagger in her palm.

She looked up. “No.”

Silver and red, silver and red.

Her enemy’s brow creased with frustration, with fear. His growl was more of a groan. “Don’t make me do this. Come peacefully.”

She swallowed, looking away.

“No,” she said hoarsely.

Maker, Varric, I’m sorry.

“Are you mad?” the templar said. Desperation colored his too-young face. “Just surrender, damn you. Drop the knife. I don’t want… I don’t want to do this.”

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut. The dagger hung loose at her side, in her hand for no other reason than that its presence declared her hostile.

“You’ll have to kill your first mage someday, serah,” she said quietly. “It may as well be one who gives you no choice.”

Something flashed in his eyes, as if the humanity in her words had unraveled something in him, something he would never recover. She regretted that. Just like she regretted so many other things, starting with this night and her own Maker-damned recklessness.

The young man’s eyes hardened in resolve. The pressure increased on Hawke’s shoulders, around her body. A smite as powerful as Silence, an annulment that would end with her blood on the ground, the templar’s sword between her ribs. In seconds, it would finally be over.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, to all her friends’ faces.

Hawke closed her eyes.

Whoosh.

The templar gasped.

Hawke’s eyes flew open.

The templar’s mouth was open, eyes focused downward on the gauntlet that went through his armor, incorporeal as it was dangerous, wrapped around his heart.

Hawke leaned forward, choking on a breath.

Both templar and heart tumbled to the ground.

She stared. And stared. She continued to stare, even as Fenris moved away from the corpse, a lyrium torch of fury walking toward her.

Come peacefully.

Young eyes, so wide in death.

“Hawke.”

A hand touched the blood on her cheek, in her hairline.

Surrender, damn you. I don’t… I don’t want to do this.

Fingers around her wrist. Searching for other wounds.

What has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?

“Hawke,” Fenris said — demanded.

She didn’t look up. Instead, she twisted away from him —

— and emptied her stomach on the stone walkway.

Fenris swore in Tevene, grip snapping to her shoulder, her waist. The world spun even in his steadying grip, and she struggled to breathe as her vision warped and twisted.

The retching stopped. Dark spots flooded her vision.

“Put his heart back in his chest,” she said.

And the world went black.

#dragon age #fanfic #female hawke #fenris x hawke #dragon age 2 #angst #fenris #it's fanfic therapy idk

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reviiely · 1 month ago

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Good morning!! Don’t mind me giving an ask literally less than ten min after you posted lmao—

Very intrigued by your post-tahiti cal & daisy dynamic, I like that he’s still in her life even after all… that that was s2.

I’m more curious about why daisy decided to run away after the whole hive debacle? Was it for the same reasons as in canon?

Also, the last dot point also rose a mental flag in my angst-infested brain — does daisy ever mistake cal for coulson when she’s sick?

First of all, as always, hi Anon! I do not mind you asking me so soon— I love it when people talk to me so this is awesome.

YES SOMEONE ASKED ME ABOUT WHY SHE RAN AWAY FINALLY HAHA!!! I have dialogue written. It wouldn’t have seen the light of day if not for you. Thank you. Thank you so much.

As for your last question, Daisy never mistakes Cal for Coulson. She drew a line between them a long time ago, and she never crosses it, not even by mistake. The reason she rambles is that her brain knows that she trusts Cal. She just… doesn’t remember why she didn’t tell him before. So she then tells him everything that she can think of. She also has a habit of calling him ‘Doc’ and he finds it very endearing.

ONTO THE MAIN EVENT!!!! ITS SUPER DIALOGUE HEAVY IM SORRY BUT VOILA HAVE IT. IT ALSO HAS SOME CONSISTENCY MISTAKES BUT. IGNORE THAT. ILL FIX IT IN A LATER POST.

—

(Post season 3 finale.)

(In Daisy’s room.)

The room felt empty. Her mother and she were inside, but it felt empty. Since Daisy got her powers, everywhere had this sort of buzz, with the volume of it increasing with the number of people around her. The room was quiet. Lincoln’s absence haunted it.

“I think…” Daisy’s voice sounded foreign to herself. “I think it hurts more because I thought we could’ve had something.”

May understood. She always did. “Like what?” her mother asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Daisy admitted. “A future, maybe. I had this thought that maybe after all this was over, we would come home and have a drink and laugh about that time we almost died. Maybe even a life outside of SHIELD. But I…”

“Mm.”

“Last night, I had this dream.”

A beat.

“What did you dream?”

“It was just a regular day. A chill one. No ops, no paperwork, just the kind of day that we could do regular things. Me and him, we had lunch and we sparred and just… spent the day together. We went to sleep and he was next to me, but when I woke up, he wasn’t. For a minute, I let myself think that he just got up early and went to the bathroom or to get us breakfast. I laid there for an hour, pretending that he wasn’t really gone, that he’d be back any minute with a smile or food or anything. I just wanted…”

“Him.”

“Yeah.” Daisy stared at her hands. They blurred as her eyes welled. She didn’t like that. “I don’t think I can stay here anymore. Everything reminds me of him and it hurts. So much. Every hallway, every room, even the cells, they… I just can’t be here anymore.”

“So don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t be here. Take a little time to yourself. No one’s going to blame you. Not even if you never come back.”

“But…”

“We’ll survive without you. We’ll miss you, but we’ll survive.” May squeezed Daisy’s hands gently. “Phil’s going to relegitimize the agency. He’s handing over the reigns to the government.”

That got her attention. “What?”

“He’s stepping down as a director. This time next month, he’ll be a field agent just like you and me. We’ll get to pick our own assignments. The three of us, we can stick together. Just like old days.”

As much as she wanted to… “I can’t.”

“I understand. We’ll keep your room locked.”

“I might not come back.”

“I know. But just in case. You never know.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“It’s okay. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself out there.”

“Promise.”

Daisy lied as easily as breathing, these days.

#marvel #marvel mcu #marvel fanfics #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#aos #daisy johnson #philinda #mayson #philindaisy #melinda may #agents of shield #mcu #MayDaisy #Phil Coulson #AOS season 3 #anon ask

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mirabellemoira · 1 month ago

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Speak louder for the people in the back! The only right thing the showrunners did was ignore Sara Snow (who if she existed would have only one single line) but that would be enough for the fandom to favor her over Baela and we know why...

Context for those who may not have seen the tags on an ask earlier this morning:

#Ive seen wayyyy too many people in fandom at large pushing aside canon romantic interests #because they're

WOC in favor of insisting that their white male fav is obviously in love with their other white male fav #just saying #not saying everyone does it but we all know that if Baela was white #we'd have a hundred more writers in our tag

Thankful every day for one thing from HBO and one thing only and that’s them leaving Sara Snow out of S2

If it was just a fandom thing I wouldn’t even be that surprised because I’ve seen it so many times but then even HBO did it????

Let’s look at some non-canon pairings who had more romantic/sexual coded interactions than the canon engaged couple:

- Daemon and his literal Mom (I’m not going to summarize it we’re all traumatized from that)

- Aegon and Aemond (forehead kiss, hand holding, hand holding atop naked chest, being on a bed together with one of them naked, asking sexually charged questions, literally being eye level with dick, discussing past sexual partners, talking in Valyrian.)

- Daemon and Alys (sitting pressed together, hand holding, wound care, sitting on the other’s bed in tears and when they wake up to the sight they aren’t even startled, late night walks in the moonlight)

- Larys and Aegon (intimate balcony talks, vacationing together, vaguely creepy yet comforting talks over a sickbed, carrying one another across a room while injured)

Not to mention alicole getting 3 sex scenes, Aemond getting 2 nude scenes, Rhaenyra cheating on Daemon with his ex (who else thinks the writers will simply pretend this didn’t happen in s3?), and again, the fact that they had a Daemon/Alyssa dream sex montage? Still recovering from accidentally watching that scene with my parents, personally (aemonds dick out scene as well, we simply pretended it didn’t happen for a solid 2 weeks)

Also, we can’t forget the thing that finally broke me on the season finale. I was already fighting for my life after that Alicent Rhaenyra convo but I could have survived it. I could have gone on.

But they included the dragonseeds and OTTO HIGHTOWER IN A CAGE and left Jace and Baela out of the final All Must Choose montage

Insane. Absolutely insane.

#jacaela #ask #thank you for the ask!!!!!!!❤️❤️❤️#also I just want to reaffirm that this is a Ship How You Wish Household #you can ship Jace with who you wish #shipping him with other people is not racist #but we all know that if she was white? there’d be more jacaelas in the boat #if I’m not wording this right please show me grace im doing my best ❤️

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outofangband · 2 years ago

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I’ve been having thoughts about Húrin’s vision being twisted by Morgoth and wondered if you might have any ideas about this? Particularly how he sees Túrin and Nienor’s relationship. Do you think Morgoth would show Húrin them being happy and caring for each other, and relying on the context of this to horrify Húrin? Or do you think he would be more likely to try and twist it, and portray it as an abusive relationship, e.g. Túrin taking advantage of Nienor? I’m wondering if in general Morgoth lets Húrin see his children being happy, so that the happiness being crushed has greater effect, or if he just tries to hide anything good about their lives. Morgoth can clearly alter some things (Húrin doesn’t know about the slaying of Glaurung until he reaches Brethil) but can he hide that much? And would he want to?

I think there are several possibilities here!

More in my Wanderings tag!

cw: canon incest, discussion of abuse, etc

-One is just blatant inconsistency. One day their relationship appears kind and loving and the next thing Húrin knows he’s watching abuse. Húrin likely saw Glaurung's attack on Niënor and Morwen and the aftermath of that, might have even seen it as it was until Túrin found her.

It's also worth noting that he can't read Túrin's mind, he doesn't know that Túrin truly doesn't know his sister. Perhaps Morgoth shows him things out of context that makes it appear as though Túrin does actually know her but is pretending ignorance to take advantage of her.

Morgoth is likely aware of this to some extent, he knows the basics of Húrin's mind and he's had lots of experience with captives. And he is also fully willing and delighted to twist this into something that he can hurt Húrin with still further.

-Another is that he doesn’t let Húrin watch too much of the actual happy moments. Morwen is still alive after all and he might still have other surviving distant kin who are suffering (on that note I’ve always wondered if Húrin saw any of Aerin’s suffering). Húrin might be aware of Túrin and Niënor’s relationship being a kind one, with as you said, only the context to horrify him, but he doesn’t get to see many of their actual peaceful moments

Húrin has been a captive for nearly three decades. That's half of his entire life. He is likely desperate for kindness in ways he doesn't even fully understand. He's had no contact but his tormentors for almost thirty years. I've talked about this in my Wanderings posts and on the extraordinary impact this would have on his psyche but I can imagine it making him more sympathetic to his children, even if he believed they knew. He doesn't know what he'd do or who he'd turn to just to feel as though he was anything but hunted and tormented without reprieve.

As for how much he can hide and if he wants to, I think that the question of how much he can hide is complicated. He can hide or obscure big events though I imagine even if Glaurung’s slaying is hidden, his final confrontation with Niënor is not. I think Morgoth would have wanted Húrin to see every part of that. If it was as disturbing as it was to me I cannot imagine how it must have been for Niënor’s father.

As for how much he wanted to I think honestly if it would further his torment, Melkor will do it. I don’t think he has much need for intellectual honesty or consistency here .

More on this specifically here and in my the Wanderings of Húrin tag

Thank you so much for the ask! I hope I don’t disappoint!

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #the wanderings of húrin #Túrin #Húrin #Niënor #Morgoth #Melkor #Aerin #Morwen #Glaurung #in the iron hell #musing and meta

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wings-of-sapphire · 1 year ago

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So a while ago (like before Trolls 3 was even announced), I created my own AU for what a third part would be like. And it’s crazy, because the idea I had also included a troll named Viva, a long-lost sibling, crazy troll hair, crochet, etc. I decided to share some stuff about it before the Band Together movie comes out!

Above is an edit on who my new troll would be. I’m lazy and am probably never going to update her clothing so it’s the same as canon Viva’s.

Click for more to read the backstory and background of my Trolls 3 AU!

Originally my new troll (nicknamed Vi) was going to be Poppy’s sister. Here’s her original design:

Orange skin for Peppy, purple hair for their mom (who had pink skin and purple hair, the skin color passed down to Poppy). I wanted Poppy’s mom and Poppy’s sister to have similar names, like how Poppy and Peppy do. Their mom was named Viva, short for vivacious, which basically means happy (but in women). And her sister’s name was Vi, short for violet. When the Poppy was still an egg and the tree was first taken by the Bergens, there was an escape plan prior to the movie. That’s why the tunnels were already there. Viva, who held VI’s egg, got separated by fallen rubble after the Bergens tried to shovel up the escaping trolls, and they were presumed dead.

Cue the events of the first movie, the trolls and Bergens come together, and the second movie with the rest of the music trolls happen.

Then, twenty-five years thought to be dead, when a mysterious troll arrives in Pop village.

This is where I decided to change Vi’s character and design a bit. Here’s her final color look:

(Ignore the MLP pony reference lol)

I changed Vi to Branch’s old friend. I kept the prior escape attempt, but this time, like, three-year-old Vi (not Poppy’s sister anymore) saved Branch’s mom with her hair in that hair-turns-into-protective-spheres-around-the-troll way. Also, in this one, the old Bergens were using blowtorches instead of shovels.

Vi and Branch’s parents, alongside half of the trolls, were considered dead and charbroiled. That’s why Branch was raised by his grandma and took it so hard when she died, thinking now his entire family was lost to the Bergens.

First movie, second movie, enter Vi again.

I wanted something different than what we’ve seen before. Trolls rely on their hair a lot, for stairs, rope, protection. But Vi’s hair was singed short after little her saved Branch’s mom from a blowtorch. She’s had to rely on her wit and ingenuity to survive this long. I originally designed something close to canon Viva’s cape, but bigger and with a hood, so Vi could still camouflage herself pretending to be a little tuft of grass when she huddled up and pulled the hood over her singed hair.

The plot of the third movie would be, basically, Vi arrives in Pop Village and says she needs Poppy’s help. The Lost Pop Trolls have been in hiding all this time, first from the Bergens, second from the Hard Rock Trolls, but now the threat is over and Vi can talk to Queen Poppy.

There’s something brewing in the troll kingdoms. It’s called the Colorless, and it’s sucking out all emotion from Trolls and Bergens alike. And no song can bring it back.

It started in Pop City, where Vi was from. Their queen, Viva (Branch’s mom) has it, and the only cure is something called the Heartsong flower. She came to ask for Poppy’s help, and then saw Branch.

Another thing I wanted to be different was Poppy and Branch’s dynamic. Don’t get me wrong, I ADORE the sunshine/ grumpy ship. But what I won’t like is seeing the man completely WHIPPED and the woman acting like she could care less, especially if they’re supposed to be in a relationship. And let’s be honest, Poppy could treat Branch a little better.

(All we got when Branch got rock-zombified was a “branch!” and WE KNOW Beanch would’ve been screaming Poppy’s name if the roles were swapped)

In this movie I wanted Poppy to be the jealous one. Branch and Vi would bond through their protectiveness (I assume Vi would be a sort of guard for Pop City), their ingenuity (Vi crafts stuff to help her get around without hair, such as a grappling hook or stuff. Branch uses Gary— I want to see his boy introduced into movie canon— and Poppy can get jealous over that).

Anyways, Poppy’s at first SO WELCOMING of Vi and convinces a wary Branch to join her on their quest to find the Heartsong flower. Branch is distrusting at first, as the last new troll to enter Pop Village was Barb and she almost caused the end of all music, but on the adventure he and Vi bond over old childhood memories and Vi telling Branch about his mom.

POPPY gets jealous, and this time COMMUNICATES to Branch when he asks how she feels because they’re a HEALTHY couple who loves each other (they’re totally dating btw I’ve been waiting TWO MOVIES AND TWO TV SERIES FOR THEM TO DATE)

Vi x Branch is totally platonic btw

The movie would be about Branch, Poppy, and Vi going on a quest to find the Heartsong flower, which was actually in season by the Northern Troll Tree. Aka where the Old Bergens lived.

(After the first escape attempt with half the trolls pressured dead, the Bergens kicked out those appointed with protecting the Troll Tree, like they did to Chef during the second attempt. The Old Bergens moved up north, where they started a new tree and fed on any stray troll crazy enough to wander up there.)

I guess the moral of the story can be that even though someone is from an older generation, it doesn’t mean they’re incapable of understanding equality is still needed. I’d like it if it could be perceived as an LGBTQ metaphor, like just how people are old doesn’t mean they can’t get that everyone can live in harmony, harmony, harmonyyyyyyyy

(IDK HOW TO GIF OK BUT IT’S THAT MOMENT IN THE SERIES WHERE BRANCH TELLS POPPY HE HATES IT WHEN SHE MAKES HER POINTS THROUGH SONG AJDISIENFJDKS)

At the end Ofc I want a Broppy proposal. You know that scrapped song at the end of Frozen II where Kristoff fumbled through his proposal and Anna ends up proposing to him? Yeah that’s what I want

(And maybe we see Vi at the end talking to DJ Suki or whatever saying dinner would be nice OK I’M PROJECTING I JUST WANT SOME GAY AND THE TROLLS ARE FMNCKNG RAINBOW)

Though that could turn off a lot of adult audiences (old Bergens lmao) so maybe just some quiet background stuff hard to catch, like Gwen’s “Protect Trans Kids” flag in AtSv.

Okay that was long

But anyways

Hope you enjoyed

Let me know if you’d like some more clarification on this AU!

(Btw— I’m calling this the Trolls: Heartsong AU!)

#Trolls Heartsong au #Trolls 3 #dreamworks trolls #Heartsong au #Saph’s Heartsong au #Trolls au #Broppy

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ssreeder · 2 years ago

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You'd THINK I'd be over the moon (ha) over the next chapter being so soft and nice and pretty

But again. I am having war flashbacks to Eve and V. And like, Azula is RIGHT THERE. And Ara is like, 👌🏼 this close to losing it. And jet is fucking comatose or whatever but eventually he'll wake up and cause problems on purpose. And iroh is watching zuko all the goddamn time. And quon is still unaccounted for in what he's planning.

Like. I don't think I'll be able to survive the crash after the high of them being soft Reedy. I really don't think I'm strong enough

-Fragile heart

(On that note, but feel free to ignore this bit, I don't... I really don't do with major characters dying. As in, canon deaths at most and even then. So i was wondering if it was possible you could let me know if or when you know for sure you plan on killing them? Bc i love your story but yknow. There's stuff i can't deal with so. Yeah. No pressure though, i understand if you want to keep it a surprise)

Why is this us right now?

I’m just trying to pretend I don’t have a bunch of dirty laundry shoved under my bed (the fic) and whyyyyyyyy do you have to come in and remind me?! (Stop pulling out my DIRTY LAUNDRY FHA!!!)

Can’t the boys just be happy and forget that everything else is falling apart??

as for your (pleas in the parenthesis) you can DM me and I’ll give you the insights on future deaths as long as you promise not to expose me lol. Or if you’re in the server on discord just DM me there lol. OKKKKKK FHA???? I lub you.

<3333

#haha FHA I love you #I’m just trying to have a good time #stressing everyone out #& you gotta shut that shit down #EXCUSEEEE MEEEEE you said #damn I must have really caught you off guard with the forest lesbians deaths #I’m sorry haha #idk why I put haha at the end of things that are not funny #it’s just me trying to make light of the situation #anywayyyyyyy go ahead and DM me #you’ll reveal yourself but I won’t expose you if you don’t expose me #:) but I like you so I’ll tell you #liab #ITF #ask

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aria-i-adagio · 1 year ago

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from the music meme: 4, 8 and 13 for Rhys?

The trouble with anything music related for Rhys is that he has taken up residence in a corner of my head, really likes music, and has opinions.

#4 A song lyric that describes them.

“Playing with prodigal sons / takes a lot of sentimental Valiums / Can’t expect the world to be your Raggedy Andy / while running on empty you little old doll with a frown / you got to keep in the game / retaining mystique while facing forward. / ... / So please be kind if I’m a mess.”

‘Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,’ Rufus Wainwright

I was tempted to just copy and paste the entire song, rather than just a few lyrics. Rhys is very much a lost little boy who is far, far in over his head and struggling to figure out how to swim. He doesn’t know what he’s doing; he’s running on caffeine and nicotine (and pot to sleep); he has to pretend to be something that he really isn’t in order to survive.

Alternative:

“Hi / huh-i / Hyper / Hyper-media-ocrity / You don’t need to / Emerge from nothing / You don’t need to / tear away”

‘Emerge,’ Fischerspooner

^ Rhys's self-concept when he has gotten 110% frustrated with another day of Josie trying to civilize him. Followed up by Nirvana, ‘All Apologies’ (I have determined that obviously Orzammar has figured out how to record music, because the mental image of Rhys self-regulating by dancing around to music to self-regulate in the top of that tower while watering his plants is just too damn good to not be a thing.)

#8 A song that makes them feel nostalgic.

“Wicked Little Town” from Hedwig and the Angry Inch

#13 A song dedicated to one of their ships.

Rhys/Dorian

“When I fall to my feet / wearing my heart on my sleeve / all I see just don’t make sense / you are the port of my call / you shot and leavin’ me raw / now I know you’re amazing / ‘Cause all I need is the love you breathe / put your lips on me and I can live”

“Underwater,” Mika

But also... Rhys pouting when Dorian is in Tevinter:

‘Los Ageless,’ St. Vincent -and- ‘Happy Idiot’ TV on the Radio

(I would say I only ship Rhys with Dorian, but I think there’s probably something going on with the two of them and Iron Bull as well. Except not romantic between either of them and Bull. idk, ignore that, for now, there are too many fun ways to play that possibility and we don’t have time to unpack that.

Crackship that isn’t quite crack other than it will never be canon, Rhys/Josie would be fucking adorable, because he’s more of a disney princess than Josie, which says something.)

#ask memes answered #rhys trevelyan

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sexonastickstan · 2 years ago

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I posted 12,434 times in 2022

42 posts created (0%)

12,392 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@shewhohangsoutincemeteries

@dailystrangerthings

@notyoursunnygirlfriend

@madisonmcarthy

@endiness

I tagged 11,391 of my posts in 2022

Only 8% of my posts had no tags

#that’s my queue - 3,160 posts

#stranger things - 1,672 posts

#joseph quinn - 798 posts

#eddie munson - 734 posts

#moon knight - 648 posts

#damn good babysitter - 536 posts

#the umbrella academy - 516 posts

#oscar isaac - 485 posts

#glee - 394 posts

#stranger things - 371 posts

Longest Tag: 134 characters

#generally though it’s either ambulances since we live across the street from a hospital or at night i can hear the train from downtown

My Top Posts in 2022:

🕯 🕯

Already summoning

🕯 Stancy endgame 🕯

in season five

🕯 🕯

92 notes - Posted July 2, 2022

Top five things I need from stranger things season four:

1. Steve survives

2. Max survives

3. Jopper becomes canon

4. Stancy getting back together pls

5. WILL BYERS CATCHES A DAMN BREAK

110 notes - Posted May 25, 2022

So we all agree, if Eddie dies we just ignore it? Pretend it didn’t happen? Still write about him and talk about him as if nothing bad ever happened to this precious man? Okay, good.

111 notes - Posted June 3, 2022

Me, every time Wanda was onscreen in Multiverse of Madness:

1,031 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Can we talk about how a broadway actress, who nobody outside of the theatre community really knew about, just won an Oscar? Can we talk about rare this is? Can we talk about how once given the spotlight this young woman gave one of the best performances of all time and was recognized for it? As a theatre nerd, this is incredible and the fact that the world now knows the girl we used to call “the bullet” as an Oscar winner? I’m floored. Ariana DeBose, I hope your spotlight only continues to grow, but never forget broadway!

1,661 notes - Posted March 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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saratogaroadwrites · 1 year ago

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Tron: Liberation (13/15)

Tron: Liberation | saratogaroad rating: T total wordcount: 106,965 characters: Tron, Beck, Mara, Zed, Paige, Pavel, Tesler, Clu 2, Dyson, Yori, Quorra, Original Siren Character relationships: Tron & Beck, Beck & Mara & Zed, Tron/Yori other tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Continuation, For Want of A Nail warnings: none

The Game has changed. The Revolution has begun. With Tron healed and once more in the fight for the Grid, the war has begun. But Clu will not give up so easily, and this is a war that will be fought in the streets. But it is a war that Beck and Tron intend to win, so long as they can do one thing first:

Survive.

[AU: Fanmade Season 2]

“Don’t try to be gentle about this, Eniac,” Tron said, sitting on the medical table in the Undercity’s small medical station. Yori sat at his side, holding his hand as Beck kept watch, leaning against the wall by the door. Programs ran about just outside, scrambling to deconstruct the entire base in the short time they had left before the Occupation came down on them. Beck had known Tron long enough to see through his almost easy posture, to see his free hand clutching at his knee, the lines around his eyes, and knew that he wasn’t the only one in the room worried about this. “Did any Viral get into my code?”

“No. Your firewall was clearly well coded,” Eniac said in her quiet voice, scrolling through Tron’s source code with a practiced hand. Beck watched, core in his throat, as Eniac continued: “I’m not seeing a hint of Viral code having gotten through it.” She handed Tron back his disk, though rather than dock it he held it in one hand. Her eyes softened. “Thank your User, I suppose, because we’re going to need you to get through this intact.”

“Yes, we are.” Yori sighed as Eniac left the room, long dark braid swinging behind her, to aid in clearing the space. “But there is one thing I need to know.” She leaned back enough to look Tron in the eyes and asked, “How sure are we that Cyrus is gone?” Tron and Beck exchanged a glance for a moment, but before either could speak both looked up as Paige entered the room, Zed and Mara at her heels.

“Unless he could survive a blast that made a three meter wide crater?” Zed sighed, “He’s gone. Long gone.”

“Like we should be,” Paige grumbled as she came to stand beside Beck, arms crossed over her chest. She gave him a sideways look and then turned to Yori, “If we don’t move up that timetable, we’re going to get caught down here. I can’t tell you how many programs will derezz if Ion gets his hands on them.”

“Is he that bad?” Mara asked softly, tugging on her fingers. Like Beck, she hadn’t been hurt by Cyrus or his blast. Like Beck, she was also still more than a little rattled by the milli’s events. Zed put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

“Worse,” Paige and Yori said in unison. The pair shared a look, before Yori shook her head. A distant look came into her eyes as she stared at the floor. Tron squeezed her hand, but it seemed to Beck no one could find the words and actually give the order. The room went silent for nearly half a micro, the only sounds their breathing and the rush in the halls outside. For a moment, if he ignored that, Beck could pretend they hadn’t almost been blown to bits and bytes. If he tried, he could convince himself that the distance coming into Tron’s eyes was that of remembering better times, not of a near-Viral scare that had made him pull away from Beck and Mara so quickly he’d almost fallen right over again.

“Then,” Mara’s voice broke into Beck’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment, “Paige is right,” She said firmly as all eyes came to rest on her, “We may not be entirely ready, but when are we going to get a better chance?” She pulled away from Zed, walking towards Tron and Yori. Beck could see the tense line of her shoulders, her fists clenched at her sides, and the concern in the frown on Yori’s face as she continued, “We have to take the shot.”

Yori looked at Mara for a handful of nanos, then looked to Tron. For a handful of nanos, neither said a word. They looked at each other with ancient eyes, saying things he’d never begin to understand in just that one glance, before Yori nodded. Tron’s shoulders slumped as she hopped off the table.

“We leave within the next sixteenth.” Yori said. She squeezed Tron’s hand again, then strode away from her partner. She headed to the door into the rush, shoulders straight and head held high. “Mara, Paige, with me. Zed, head to the garage and cobble together whatever you can with Avery; I want every program with a baton by the end of the sixteenth.”

Zed hissed through his teeth but turned on his heel, muttering about how there wasn’t enough code in the building for that kind of task even as he headed out the door a pace ahead of Yori. Paige squeezed Beck’s arm, then headed out with Mara at Yori’s heels. The door whooshed quietly shut behind them, leaving Beck alone with Tron still seated on the medical table, staring at his disk resting on his lap. Beck shifted his weight.

“You okay?” He asked, then grimaced to himself. That was a stupid question; they both knew what Virals meant to Tron. Beck was honestly a little surprised he was still actively functional. Or, at least, appeared to be so. Tron was silent for a few nanos longer before he took in a deep breath and finally docked his disk.

“Fine,” He said in a voice that was not fine at all. “But we need to talk about that stunt you pulled up there.”

Stunt? Beck frowned, confused.

“What are you talking about?” He asked as Tron looked up, “That thing with the truck?”

“Yes, that thing with the truck,” Tron hissed. Beck stiffened. “The next time I tell you to go, you go.” Tron’s eyes were hard as he continued, “This isn’t Argon anymore, Beck. You can’t expect to disobey orders and get away intact.”

“And leave you without back-up?” Beck raised an eyebrow, trying not to back down in the face of that stern look, “In case you missed it, Cyrus almost had your head back there. And don’t—” He raised a hand, “Say you would have been fine. You were on the ground. If we didn’t get involved, you’d have been derezzed.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Tron replied. Beck’s core lurched hard.

“Well it’s one that I’m not.” He shot back, startling Tron into silence. Beck took a deep breath, trying to ignore how it shuddered. Tron could handle himself. He knew that. They both knew that. But even with the triples behind them, Beck couldn’t quite shake off the image of Tron’s collapsing form in the Spire, and to see him at Cyrus’ mercy…the image stuck in his processor, Beck shook his head. “Besides, I’m not some helpless Beta fresh off his rez.” Beck frowned, “I can usually handle myself.”

“Dyson.”

“Usually,” Beck stressed with a narrow-eyed look. He swallowed a comment about how Tron hadn’t fared so well against Dyson, either, and instead lowered his hands to his sides. “You trained me to handle things like this, to take down soldiers, to protect others.” He pushed off from the wall, taking a step closer, “And that hasn’t changed. Even with all of this—” He waved a hand towards the doorway, where the rush of programs had become a white noise hum beyond the closed door, “We’re still a team. I’m not going to abandon you, even if you tell me to.”

“And if ends up with you derezzed?” Tron asked in a small voice. Beck drew up short, a realization shocking his core. They were the same. Tron wasn’t angry, he was afraid. Afraid of losing Beck the same way he must have lost nearly everyone else, the same way he could still lose Yori. Beck had lost Bodhi and Able, not to mention Argon, but Tron had lost all his old friends, his old team, a large chunk of his runtime to his unhealing injuries…Beck couldn’t blame him for being afraid, even if the thought of Tron so very scared made him want to quake in his boots right then and there.

But he couldn’t. Taking a deep breath, Beck closed the gap between them.

“Hey,” Beck hopped up onto the medical table, nudging Tron’s arm with his elbow, “Whatever happens, I chose to come back and fight, remember? However this ends, it’s still my choice.” He smiled, just a little, as Tron looked sideways at him. “Seriously, it’s not like you dragged me kicking and screaming.”

Tron snorted, hands clutching at his knees.

“I should have let Able drag you kicking and screaming away from all of this.” He shook his head, staring distantly at something for a moment before turning back to look Beck in the eye. “You might regret that choice, you know. I can’t see this ending well.”

A hundred programs against Clu and his army? Beck couldn’t either. Even so…

“Still my choice,” He said firmly as the pair of them hopped off the table. He reached up to clasp Tron’s shoulder for a moment, pinging a [calm] down his arm before letting go. “Come on. Before Yori comes back and asks what the hold up is about.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of her.”

“She’s scarier than you are!”

Tron just laughed, through the sound was tired. Still Beck smiled to himself as they stepped out into the hall, but then there was no time to talk and barely any time to think. Programs had no choice but to flee the Undercity in droves, head into the Outlands and the Capitol beyond. Screens were shattered, terminals destroyed so no data could be recovered from them. The makeshift Garage was emptied of all vehicles, and the Resistance, with Yori and Quorra at its head, left Lithium for the Outlands before the sixteenth was over. Red bled into the Dark Side on their heels, the Occupation forces having finally reached their mark, but no one was around to be found. By then they were already riding hard over dark stone and through storms so fierce the wind nearly blew them off their bikes. For a hard triple they rode, crossing kilometers and barely stopping for sips from a communal energy canister to keep riding. Some programs, too exhausted to continue, had to ride double and enter sleep mode on the back of a trusted partner.

Beck couldn’t blame them; even the ride to Gallium had never been this long, this tiring, this stressful. But then, nothing so important had ever hinged on a ride to Gallium. If they failed here, if they were derezzed, then the Grid would never be free.

They had to make it, somehow.

Tron City appearing over the horizon late in the downcycle roused everyone’s mood, the Resistance coming to a halt in a deep canyon not too far from the city’s western entrance. Other cells were already there, the milling crowd of black-suited renegades and rebels pockmarked with the gleaming white suits of their guiding Sirens. Yori slipped into the crowd like she belonged there, Quorra at her side, while Tron remained on the edge with Beck. He stared over the crowd; there must have been over a thousand there already, with more appearing over the hills and rises from every direction across the Outlands.

“Mara! Zed! Beck!” A familiar voice suddenly shouted. Crouched by her bike, Mara shot to her feet and turned on her heel.

“Ray!” Mara shouted. She took off at a run up a nearby hill, then laughed as their old friend tossed herself forward, the two of them meeting in a tangle of limbs and breathless joy. Beck watched for a moment, then looked up to see the rest of his former coworkers all piling over the hill. It was hard to count at first, the mass of helmeted heads blending together, but a micro or two later Beck heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

They’d all made it here in one piece. They were all still functional.

He looked up as Zed shouted, nearly knocked right over as Bartik and Hopper went at him with gusto, and had to swallow a laugh. He looked over the crowd a micro longer before tilting his head as he noticed a small detail he hadn’t seen while counting them before.

Every single one of them were in their blacks, but each and every one of them bore Tron’s mark on their chests. Their assignment accents were the same as ever, but the emblem was repeated nearly sixty times over. Tron was stiff beside Beck, staring at each of them in turn. He looked as Beck shifted his weight, boot scuffing against the stone as he gestured to the milling crowd in the distance.

“Think they’re all wearing that?”

Tron snapped his head to look over the larger crowd in the canyon, shoulders tense. It was impossible to read his face through his darkened visor, but his voice was thready, unsteady.

“I hope not…” He almost whispered, then seemed to shake himself, “They’ll get noticed in a nano if they keep it.”

“It does have that effect on programs,” Beck snarked, earning himself a wry snort from Tron. Calling it a win he turned around to stare at the city for a long moment. The lights of the Capitol, the city that shared Tron’s name, gleamed in the dark of the downcycle, just waiting for them to finally make a move. Beck shifted his weight.

“What’s it feel like?” He asked, “Coming home after so long away?”

“To be honest?” Tron said quietly, “I’d rather be anywhere but here. This feels like a trap.”

Beck sat up straight. So, Tron had that same feeling? He looked back out over the city, took in what he could see of its mazelike streets and sharp corners. If they got turned around down there they’d get lost, be easy pickings for any Occupation forces. Oddly enough, though, the city wasn’t red like most others he’d seen. Other than the yellow edged tower in the center of the city, there was no sign of the Occupation around.

In short, it felt very much like a trap. Beck shook his head.

“Not the first one we’ve dealt with.” He rolled his shoulders back, trying to work out the tension there. “We’ll manage somehow. Then you’ll be in charge and everything will be fine.”

Grid, he hoped so.

"You're taking this idea remarkably well," Tron said quietly, arms over his chest. Beck snorted in amusement.

"What, the idea of you being System Admin?" He smirked. "I don’t see how it’s going to change much. You'll still be telling me what to do, and I'll still choose to go about doing things my way."

"And needing someone to fish your disk out of trouble because of that," Tron groused, lightly shoving Becks head with the palm of one hand. Beck just laughed, easily catching his balance.

"That, too," he said before sobering. He reached up, clasping Trons shoulder. "But seriously, you'll be fine. Being at the top of command doesn't make you Clu."

Tron looked at him sharply. Beck shrugged, and the old program groaned softly.

"When did you get so good at reading me?"

"Lucky guess."

“And he’s been around you long enough,” Yori said from behind them. They both turned to see her walking up, Quorra and Paige trailing in her wake. She smiled at her partner, but her eyes were cold as she looked over the city. It had been their home once, Beck knew; to see it and know that it wasn’t home anymore…he wondered how they were taking that. “You’re not as hard to read as you think.”

Tron was silent, doubtlessly rolling his eyes beneath his helmet. Rather than justify that with a reply he instead asked, “How many are going in?”

“Just the five of us,” Yori said, hands on her hips. “Even if we go in in squads or groups, there’s too many programs entering at once. We’d get noticed by the border guards in a nano.”

“Which throws off the entire plan of lying in wait,” Paige said before Beck could open his mouth. “But why just the five of us?”

“Because a pair of partnered units being escorted in would be almost normal,” Quorra said with a sidelong look at Beck and Paige. They shared a look with one another, then looked back at her.

“He’s not—”

“She isn’t—”

Tron failed to swallow all of his laughter, prompting Beck to turn and give him a hard look even as Quorra broke out into giggles. The old program didn’t even seem phased, looking instead to Yori as she smiled and cracked open her baton. Why did everyone think they were a partnered unit?! Beck liked her, yes, but—

“The rest will all wait here.” Yori rezzed her helmet with a few quiet clicks, bending over her bike’s controls. “I’ll send a signal when we’re ready for them to come in.”

She shot forward in a blaze of light. A pace behind her, Quorra’s bike roared down the hill. Tron looked back at Beck with amusement dancing in his pale eyes before he too was gone, and then it was just them. Paige looked at Beck for a moment before her lips curved upwards.

“Come on,” She said with a knowing look on her face, “We don’t want to be late for the show…Partner.”

She was gone before Beck could reply, leaving him sputtering on the hill overlooking the city. Slowly, he shook his head.

Partners. Somehow that didn’t sound so bad.

Storms stretched out for kilometers ahead of what was left of the Convoy Clu had taken to Argon. What had been hundreds of ships was now less than a single hundred, his contingent cut in half and limping home like the loss of Argon was the loss of a limb.

Dyson was lucky Clu had him out tracking their rogue asset, Clu thought, or he’d have been the one chained up in a hold somewhere. Thunder rumbled outside as Clu rolled his shoulders, trying to keep his breathing even. The storms were getting stronger as more and more of the Grid began to fail and collapse around them, the signs unseen by most programs. They’d have to move some of the outlying cities population inward again. Of all the times to be dealing with a rebellion!

The door behind him swung open quietly. Without a word or fanfare, one of Clu’s remaining Honor Guard stepped into the room. A tablet glowed blue under his arm as he came to a halt several paces behind Clu.

“Word from General Dyson, sir,” his guard said. Clu gestured for him to continue and he said, “The rogue sentry has been derezzed. Tron and the beta are moving on the capitol, assisted by Yori and a force a hundred strong and should be there just ahead of you.”

Yori. Clu almost shuddered. Of all the luck that he’d found her in this disaster…

“Is that all?” He asked instead. His guard was silent for a nano, doubtlessly checking the tablet.

“Yes sir.” A shift in movement and then: “Should I send word to Jarvis?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Clu sighed, staring out at the storm clouds. “Send word to Castor instead. Have him prepare to meet our…guests. And—” He continued, “Send a message to Dyson: If he wants a chance at Tron, he has until we arrive to do it.”

“Yes sir,” Said his guard once more. Clu watched his reflection in the window as he turned on his heel and marched out to do his bidding. It was only when the door closed that Clu sighed more heavily, bending at the waist and putting his hands on his knees. He’d hoped, almost beyond all logic and reason, that the reformat of Argon City would have taken Tron out somehow. But it hadn’t, and both Tron and Beck were still functional. Worse still, they’d managed to find Yori and her makeshift army.

Tron and Yori had been legendary in the Old System, the tales he’d heard from older programs and Flynn both had said, instrumental in the destruction of the MCP of their old home. They were a bundle, not offshoots or part of the same code, but complimentary. Where one would step the other would follow with ease and grace. For the two of them to be together again, and headed for the Capitol…Clu had half a processor to stay in the air and never land again. At least then he’d see them coming!

He was breathing too quickly. Forcing himself to take a deep breath to cool his intakes, Clu stood up straight. He raked a hand through his hair, staring out into the storm. So what if Tron and Yori had reunited? So what if Beck had managed to stay functional. They were three programs with the help of maybe a hundred, and he knew where they were headed. Dyson would catch them and that would be the end of it.

Wouldn’t it?

Lightning struck a rock formation outside the ship. The Grid buzzed beneath his heels, as angry as always. He took another deep breath and pushed it out of his processor.

It wouldn’t be long now. Soon, Tron would be under his control.

Soon, all of this would be over.

The Capitol hadn’t changed in the past five hundred cycles. Tall buildings still reached up into the storm clouds, programs dressed in rain gear or holding transparent umbrellas filled the streets, heedless of the storm spitting rain down on their heads. Though their little group of five earned some odd looks, no one bothered to try and speak to them or slow them down as Quorra, helmet rezzed to hide her face, led them through the mazelike streets of the Capitol. Yori walked at his side, their hands brushing with every step. A step behind, Beck and Paige walked with their heads practically on swivels, small-town programs seemingly overwhelmed by the big city.

He knew better, of course. They were impressed, sure, but there was a solidity to their gazes that spoke more of watching the perimeter than being lost or out of place. It made a bit of proud warmth uncurl in his core, to know how very far Beck had come in so short a time. He could only hope to guide the young program a little bit further.

“Here—” Quorra said suddenly, coming to a halt in front of a non-descript building. Overhead, neon buzzed through a large sign that cast the entire street in blue light. She pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a repurposed cargo lift on a track. “Zuse runs the club and bar on the top floor. If anyone knows how to get to the Admin Tower, it’ll be him.”

Beneath his helmet, Tron frowned. Beck leaned back and almost fell with how far he had to go to read the sign blazing over their heads. He caught his footing and said,

“End of Line Club?” He looked to Tron, “Do you know the place?”

“I did, once,” He replied, stepping in and shutting the door to the lift behind them. It rose with a core lurching jolt. He looked to Quorra as she derezzed her helmet. “Wasn’t this further uptown before?”

“It was,” Yori said, derezzing her helmet and raking a hand through her hair, “Before Clu blew it up as payback for Zuse being an Iso sympathizer.” She turned to Quorra. “How did he survive that?”

The young Iso shrugged her shoulders up to her ears, hands laced behind her back. Paige turned to watch her instead of at the rapidly disappearing landscape out the dark glass that went from street to penthouse.

“I’m not sure,” Quorra said finally, “I guess if you survive as long as Zuse has, you learn a few tricks.”

Tron turned in time to catch Beck’s eyes. Slowly, Beck shook his head. So, he thought this was a trap, too. Tron frowned beneath his helmet as the lift began to slow, the pulsing beat of music beginning to shake the elevator. The late system time did nothing to deter programs desperate for a good time, and as the lift stopped the doors opened to the club packed full. Programs with all manner of designations and assignments bobbed and weaved, dances Tron didn’t quite recognize or could rightly call dances taking up every bit and byte of their attention. Paige made a disgusted noise behind him, but when he turned enough to look at her her helmet was still up, clean surface reflecting the flickering lights within the club.

With ease borne from many a trip through a crowd like this, Quorra stepped into the club and began to beat a path towards the bar. Yori was a pace behind her, holding onto the Iso’s elbow as they walked, Tron just behind her and Beck at the rear. The clang of the lift doors closing behind them was lost to a heavy bass note, one that made Tron’s entire frame vibrate and audio inputs ring. How anyone could stand this long enough to have fun, he just didn’t know. There were enough programs half-drunk on energy at the bar he really did have to wonder about the stability of their code, but as he watched the white-suited, pale-haired bartender turn around and freeze as he caught sight of Quorra, maybe that was the point.

Maybe no one around here wanted to be stable enough to think.

“Well—” The bartender said in a too-tight voice, “What strikes your fancy, hmm? Bit of High Rise?” He asked, never taking his eyes off of Quorra’s stern face, “Or maybe a little of Five Milli Fire? You look like the type who needs a bit of relaxation—”

“Cut the act, Zuse,” Quorra hissed, barely audible over the thumping music and laughing programs, “I know you.”

“Zuse, hmm?” The program almost whimpered, drawing the attention of a Siren nearby, “No, no, can’t say I know the name. My name is Castor, my dear, and I—”

“Very funny,” Quorra said flatly, “but I think I’d recognize my old friend a kilometer away.”

Silence. Then he sighed. “…Yes,” the Program said with an oddly tight smile across his face, “I suppose you would, my dear. Ah, well,” He sighed again, and his smile became a hint more genuine. “It is quite good to see you in one piece, my dear Quorra—after the Purge, I assumed you derezzed in Arjia City.”

Quorra grimaced. “Not quite,” She said, “but it was close. I had help, and now I need yours.” She gestured with one hand at Yori, and at Tron standing behind her with every circuit on his suit turned off. Zuse blinked, before his eyes went wide.

“Goodness,” Zuse said, looking the two of them over, “I never thought that you’d find—” He put a finger to his own lips, stopping himself from saying another word. He smiled beneath his finger, then cleared his throat. “Well, this is certainly a momentous occasion! Come, come—” He moved to step out, gesturing to the Siren with a single hand. She watched them with pale eyes even as Zuse said, "Gem, my dear," He gestured to Quorra with his chin, "Watch the place for a bit? Something calls my attention."

"Of course," Gem replied with a look at Tron and Yori. She raised a hand and the music changed, the heavy notes and synth covering Zuse's footsteps as he came out from behind the bar to slip an arm around Quorra's shoulders.

"This way, my dear," He said with a tight smile that set Tron's shoulders to tense, "best to have this conversation in private."

He led Quorra away from the bar with that guiding arm. Yori glared at Zuse’s back, quickly falling into step behind him. Tron turned over his shoulder for just long enough to gesture for Beck and Paige to fall in, the pair somehow already used to moving together. He smiled, unseen, beneath his visor. They could say whatever they wanted, but he’d know a partner-bundle when he saw one. If they survived all of this, they’d be good for one another.

Though that was still a very big if. Tron stepped through the door to Zuse’s office and looked around as Beck and Paige stepped inside, the door closing behind them. There was a small bar across the room, glowing canisters and carafes of energy just waiting to be consumed. The music was muffled here, quieted by the couches and curtains. A sleep-bunk was carved into the back wall, no doubt Zuse’s or perhaps meant for two, but it saw no use as Zuse let go of Quorra, turned on his heel and once again stared at Yori and Tron.

“I’d heard the rumors,” He said, “we all had, but to think…Tron and Yori, both alive and functional?” He shook his head, render desaturating as he rested his hands on the head of his cane. “Clu must be roiling like a storm right about now.”

“I’ll count us all lucky if he is,” Yori said firmly, “But we’re not here to talk, Zuse. The Admin Building.” She watched as he lowered himself to sit in an overstuffed, over-designed chair. “We need access. Quorra says you can get us in there.”

“I most certainly can,” Zuse replied, leaning back in his chair, “But what would be in it for me? If you fail, Clu will know I helped you and then…” He spread his fingers in a mimicry of an explosion, “Once again I must crawl my way back to the top.” He cocked his head to the side. “What do I gain from this little arrangement, hrm?”

“A free Grid doesn’t count for enough?” Beck said, arms crossed over his chest, “You’ve obviously managed to rebuild before.”

“Not with any measure of joy, my young friend,” Zuse sighed, buffing his nails on the front of his coat. He pondered them a moment, then closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. “But I see your point. I certainly would rather enjoy not having Clu breathing down my neck all the time.”

“So you’ll help us?” Paige asked. Zuse looked to her, at his reflection in her helmet, before he rose to his feet.

“I’ll do better than that, my dear program,” He said with a grin, holding his cane tight in one hand, “I’ll take you to the top of the building myself.” He gestured with two fingers for the five of them to follow before heading to the back wall. Without a word he reached up to a light fixture bolted just above his bunk, turned it counter clockwise, and then stepped back as a wall panel slid upwards to reveal a smaller lift. Beck whistled softly as the lights clicked on. Zuse grinned.

“Straight into the tunnels for us.” He turned to glance back at them, “I do hope none of you are afraid of tight spaces.”

“We’ll manage,” Tron said flatly, the last to step onto the lift. Zuse used his cane to shift between Quorra and Paige’s arms to press a button near the doorway, sending them down at speed. There was no way to monitor their depth, but Tron’s internal clock told him this descent took longer than the ascent to the club from the street. It made sense: the tunnels beneath the Capitol were deeper than the ones beneath Argon, having never been used for drainage or races. Flynn had built the ones here much like the ones in Lithium: for storage and extra living space if it had been needed. In the past programs had used them, but now…Tron frowned as they stepped off the lift and into the dimly lit tunnels.

Now, no one seemed to use them. Yori frowned, rezzing her helmet as they passed through stale air.

“When’s the last time anyone was down here,” She asked softly. Zuse shrugged.

“Before the Purge, I’d say,” He said as he began to guide them down the long stretch of tunnel, “Now there’s quite a bit more space up in the city, so programs see no need to come and stay here.”

Quorra flinched back away from him. Yori put an arm around her shoulders, her spine straight as a staff as she stared at the back of Zuse’s head, doubtlessly glaring at him for his unkind commentary. Tron brushed a hand across her shoulder as they walked, transmitting a gentle [calm] through to her. She sighed, looking at him, but didn’t release Quorra. From his other side, Beck shook his head.

“Not even Clu’s soldiers have been down here?”

“Oh, they don’t quite see the need,” Zuse waved a hand in the air, “And they’ve been ever so busy squashing rebellions and resistances since word of Tron’s continuing survival got out, you see.” He swung his cane as they walked, back and forth like a pendulum. Tron frowned. “All those little rebellions have certainly been giving Clu some real trouble. Nearly a million programs all up in arms against him? It’s really a surprise we haven’t had more reformats yet!”

Beck made an oddly pained noise in the back of his throat. Paige took his hand as they walked, but remained silent. Barely a micro later, Zuse stopped them at a doorway. It was locked with a keypad, but four presses and quiet chimes later, it swung open. Still unseen, Tron’s frown deepened. How had Zuse known the access code to the Admin Tower? Another of his tricks of survival? Or perhaps something more.

There was no time to think on it. Zuse led the little group into the maintenance hatches of the Tower, straight down the corridor and one right turn into the elevator. There, another code sent it up at such a pace the ground seemed to lurch beneath them. Tron caught his balance, looking out as glass reappeared. They were headed up, up, up, high into the airspace around the Capitol. Higher than most Lightjets dared to fly, the only ships up here would be Clu’s convoy. He looked around for the yellow-lined command ship, set to arrive within the milli, but it was hidden from sight at this angle. It must have been on the other side of the building.

“Why do you have the access keys for this building?” Beck piped up from behind Tron. Zuse blinked, then turned that same smile back over his shoulder. Everyone stared at him, the edge to his smile tighter now, before he turned away.

“When you survive as long as I have, you learn a few…tricks,” Zuse said as the elevator dinged their arrival. He stepped out as the doors opened, his white-suited back quickly darting off down the golden lit hall before Quorra could grab him. Tron looked at Yori, who looked back at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. It was obvious now that this was a trap, but what choice was there? They had to strike now. If they didn’t, if Clu had a chance to mount a proper defense of the tower or offense against the Resistance, what chance would they ever have again?

The thought caught in his processor, Tron stepped off the elevator and after Zuse. This high up they were above the storm clouds, and he could make out the other towers through breaks in the clouds. He could also see that Zuse had come to a halt in the center of the half-lit room, looking out at the storm brewing around them, and at Clu’s convoy just now visible over the Outlands on its way home. Frowning, Tron held out an arm to keep Quorra from walking over to him. Zuse took a breath, nodded once to himself, and then began to speak.

“You see,” Zuse clasped the head of his cane in both hands, “The reason Clu was breathing down my neck most recently? I knew where you were, my dear,” He strode backwards past Quorra, who’d gone stiff as she finally realized what they walked into. “And hadn’t told him a word. But,” Zuse smiled, “My dear Gem passed word to his command staff the micro you came with me.” Everyone turned. Paige snarled and reached for her disk. “So, I suspect you’ll see Clu quite soon indeed.” Zuse stepped back through the doorway. “I am rather sorry it’s come to this, my dear Quorra, but…such is the way the disk has fallen.”

“Zuse, you—” Quorra screamed, charging for him with circuits overload bright. The white-suited program gave a jaunty little wave as the door closed and locked with a harsh click. Alongside Quorra Paige threw herself at the doorway but it wouldn’t budge. Beck grabbed the bypasser wrench off his hip and slammed it to the wall, watching the code stream past.

“It’s locked,” He said after a nano, emitter glowing a soft blue-green as he tried to work, “It’ll take a sixteenth to get through all this encryption!”

Tron opened his mouth, then stopped. Footsteps echoed through the room. He reached back for his disk.

“We don’t have that kind of time,” He said. Everyone turned around, watching as, from the shadows, strode a red-lined program. There was a sneering smile on that old familiar face, hands clasped at the small of his spine.

“Well,” Dyson said in a falsely warm voice, “this is certainly a surprise.” He looked over the little group with knowing eyes, gaze lingering on Beck before Tron stepped in front of him. “Tron, Beck, our former Commander Paige, and—oh my.” He paused, eyes going wide as he finally saw Yori standing beside Tron. Her circuits were flaring overload bright, shoulders rising and falling in a forcibly steady rhythm. She glared at Dyson as he continued, “Yori. What a pleasant surprise! And look—” He turned his gaze on Quorra, her disk still in hand. “You brought us an Iso.” His eyes narrowed and all trace of amusement dropped from his tone. “The last Iso.”

Quorra drew in a sharp breath. Her render went pale; she stepped back behind Yori as Dyson’s eyes narrowed with unhidden hatred.

“Clu will be very pleased to see you again, I’m sure,” He finally sneered, taking a step forward towards them. Tron shifted his weight, hearing two disks kick on behind him as Beck and Paige took their stances. Paige then gasped softly in alarm, before Beck hissed something that Tron just couldn’t make out. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of Dyson but then Beck stepped up beside him and took his stance despite a fine tremble to his frame. Dyson just cocked his head. Then he opened his mouth--

“Quorra!” Tron shouted, “Get out of here! Go!”

“But—” She started to protest, only for Paige to shoot forward, grab her by the wrist and forcibly pull her along. She stumbled, reaching out for them, “Tron!”

“Go!” He and Yori shouted in unison, Beck’s voice echoing a nano later. Dyson shifted his weight, made to charge after the two female-designates, only to have to leap back as Yori’s disk nearly carved his head off his shoulders. He landed with a snarl, glaring at the her. With a breathy sob Quorra turned away; she and Paige took a running leap out the window, glass shattering and batons cracking open. Two light-jets flew out of the city, blue-white and green trails bright in the darkening sky. Dyson sneered as he rose to his feet.

“That won’t protect them, you know,” He said, pacing a wide circle around the three of them, “Clu will be here any micro. He’ll find the Iso and finally be done with the threat to the Grid.”

“The only threat around here is you,” Yori hissed, staff extending from her baton, “And we’re going to be done with you!”

Dyson smirked.

“I’d like to see you try,” He said with a huff of laughter, reaching back to grab his disk, “But then…you never were very good at fighting, Yori.”

“We’ll see about that.”

And then they moved. Tron and Yori charged forward in the same nano, side by side, while Beck went around to flank Dyson. Dyson pivoted on his heel, moved to throw his disk at Beck, only to find Tron there to clash with instead. Beck went low as Yori went high, the two of them aiming for Dyson’s port as if they’d trained together for cycles. Dyson snarled, forced to drop the clash and drop to his knees, spinning out a whirling kick to force the three of them to jump back or lose their footing. He popped back to his feet and charged at Tron again, only to have to jump back as Yori swung her staff wide. He almost slipped as the Tower rattled. Tron looked up, snarling as he saw the yellow-lined command ship of Clu’s convoy docking at the top. Clu had arrived, and they were still here dealing with Dyson? There wasn’t time for this! He stepped sideways, towards the steps that would lead up to the highest level of the Tower.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Dyson shouted, taking a run at Tron again. Tron braced his stance, brought his disk up—but then Yori was there, staff in hand. Dyson leapt back rather than be skewered, a frown creasing his brow as he landed and stared them down.

“You two go,” Yori said firmly, holding Dyson back at the end of her staff, “I’ll deal with him.” She turned her head enough to meet Tron’s gaze, “Stop Clu.”

“Yori—” He reached out, but she reached back with one hand and shoved him back. He stumbled, eyes wide as she turned to face down Dyson. He couldn’t leave her to fight him! Five hundred cycles of skill or otherwise he’d derezz her! He reached out to her, “Yori, no!”

“Go!” She shouted. Dyson’s frown became a sneering little smirk. He looked at Tron over Yori’s shoulder, eyes gleaming with malice. There was a promise in there, too, Tron knew: Dyson intended to derezz Yori, and then come for him. He needed to stay, to end this threat once and for all, but—

“Tron,” Beck shouted from the stairs at the other end of the room, “Come on! We have to go now!”

For a nano, Tron hesitated. He looked from Yori to Dyson, then to Beck halfway bent over the rail of the stairs. Core lurching in his chest, he turned away.

“We’ll come back!” He shouted to Yori as he hit the stairs. Ahead of him, Beck was taking them two at a time. Tron looked down for only a nano, then forced himself to turn his eyes forward.

They had to stop Clu. That was all that mattered.

Soon, one way or another, this would all be over.

#tron #tron: uprising #tron fic #!fic #fic: tron liberation

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