#imperial assailant

[revenantfire]

02/14/23

You've impressed me, Valentine 🌹 Drawn for the Apex Valentine's Zine!

[yueebby]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. period piece, forbidden love

contents. ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior (5k words of gojo pining), lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. inspired by the apothecary diaries and this post. loosely based off of ancient japan (this is basically its own world). this is the prologue to the series where everything can generally be read as a standalone ! (fic under the cut)

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emperor!gojo who broke a hundred year tradition to take you as his only lover. despite your role as a concubine, everyone in the imperial palace knew he was going to make you his empress.

emperor!gojo who had not meant to fall in love with you, but you have managed to somehow charm him. a man that single handedly brought his own clan to power– weak in your hands. hushed whispers around the imperial palace call you a witch, but they never reach your ears. not as long as he is alive.

emperor!gojo shamelessly showering you with love. he pays no mind that it is highly frowned upon, he will have his hands on you every time you are in the same room.

emperor!gojo who is livid when there is an attempt on your life. his usual ocean eyes turned to blue flames like a wild animal. servants and clan elders alike scurry under his gaze. the assailant is taken care of by his own hands. 

emperor!gojo who is forced to satiate the clan elders into submission by taking in another concubine from an influential clan. he insists to you that it is no more than a political formality. who are you to meddle into imperial affairs?

emperor!gojo who can’t help himself and ends up falling for another girl who his clan elders demand he must wed. she is much younger than you, beautiful and is well bred; a perfect match for the emperor. 

emperor!gojo whose frequent visits to you come to an end, forcing you to move from his chambers and back to the consorts’ pavilion.

There was a time when you had everything. A place to call home in the Inner Court, a beautiful palace with anything you could have ever dreamed of. Servants, admirers, riches; you had it all. But what was most dear to you was your lover– a man so divine, many thought he was directly blessed by the hand of God. It was too good to be true. A woman of lowly birth like you, paid as homage for the sins of her clan against the new reigning family of Japan, becoming a concubine of the Heavenly Emperor. 

You remembered it all too well.

His brilliant mind that once strategized the downfall of the previous imperial family, calculating its next move in a game of Go against you. You can still remember the shock on his face upon his first defeat. The way he would keep you from leaving to fulfill your other duties until he was satisfied, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to keep up with you. No matter how hard he tried, you remained victorious. It drove him mad.

You remembered the stolen kisses while you made your rounds in the Inner Palace with your ladies in waiting. It took you quite a while to learn to tune out their giggles every time the Emperor dips you down to taste your lips in broad daylight. The grin that he wore after was enough to leave your legs weak.

Above all, you'll always remember how safe you felt in his strong, reassuring embrace. You’ve seen him train, and it was no wonder the Gojo clan rose to power so quickly as a result of one man. The way he wields the katana is unlike any man on the face of the earth. Those arms were your sanctuary. You can still vividly recall the attempt on your life, orchestrated by a traditionalist incensed by the Gojo clan's swift ascent to power. The emperor, outraged by the assassination plot, personally saw to the man's execution. 

However, the damage was done and it caused great strain in the Imperial Palace.

To appease the old geezers that were forced out of power, Emperor Gojo had taken in another concubine from one of the Big Three families of Japan— a beautiful Zenin girl. Her flowing, silky hair and saccharine voice enchanted everyone in the Inner Palace, captivating the Emperor, most of all. She was younger than you, with perkier breasts and soft skin that was enough to capture the attention of any man. 

You don’t blame her for taking the Emperor’s attention away. Though you would be a liar if you said it did not hurt you. Deep down, you cannot deny the agony that sears your soul, realizing that the only semblance of love you've ever tasted remains unrequited. With a heavy heart, you resign yourself to the bitter truth of your existence, knowing all too well the cruel confines of your place in this world.

You were merely a pawn, and the Emperor did not want you anymore.

That was made clear months later when you received a scroll from the Emperor’s advisor, a man you were once well acquainted with, Geto Suguru. 

“What is this?” You asked him quietly, your heart silently begging the Heavens it was not what you had suspected it to be. The black haired man in front of you does not respond, and you feel something pierce into your heart. Despite being a part of the Emperor’s court, it was rare that you received letters directly.

Your suspicions were confirmed when your shaky hands finally opened the scroll to read the familiar kanji written by your beloved.

“The Emperor decrees the termination of your role as concubine." Geto spares you the trouble of deciphering the characters neatly written in ink. “In his mercy, you are to be moved as a servant in the Outer Court. You are to serve the Imperial Physician.”

What you remember most was the silence. The Emperor’s silence after the stressful months you had to endure alone. The silence shared between you and Geto when you were forced out of the Imperial Court. All that was left was the sound of your heart breaking and the wood creaking underneath Geto’s feet as he walked away. Satoru never bothered to see you off.

Seasons change and by the next spring, you’re busying your hands with collecting herbs for the Imperial Physician, a man by the name of Yaga Masamichi. He is a kind man, pitying you enough to fill your days with laborious tasks to prevent your mind from wandering to thoughts of the unfortunate turn your life has taken. He is even generous enough to supply you with a new wardrobe of clothing full of light fabrics, a luxury you thought you would lose in the Outer Palace. Though the initial humiliation has worn off with the passing of time, you are still constantly reminded of your fall from grace.

Looks by the mix of condolences and disgust are shared when you roam the walls of the Outer Palace. You hear whispers of how the Emperor is infatuated with his newer, shinier toy. It is enough for you to swallow the bile that makes its way up your throat. 

“It is no wonder the Emperor tossed away a wildflower like her in exchange for a cherry blossom. He needed someone to rival his own greatness.” A particular comment stopped you in your tracks. Your grip tightens on the woven basket in your hand filled with medicinal herbs you had collected earlier that morning. 

“Have some pity on her.” Another eunuch whispers. Your breath falters, but you continue your walk with your head held up. You’ve heard the rumors. The beautiful Zenin Himiko has charmed the Emperor enough that there are rumors of a royal marriage to come. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained monogamous to her since he had banished you from his court.

A comforting hand links itself with your arm, “Ignore them. I saw Yaga shooing away a crowd of suitors that were lined up for your hand.” Ieiri Shoko scoffs, secretly sending you a wink. She has been studying medicine under Yaga for nearly a decade, eagerly accepting you as a companion upon your arrival. You feel your cheeks heat up at her flattery. You know she’s just trying to make you feel better.

Although your beauty never faded, it seems as though you are no longer sought after in the marriage market. Not that it matters, considering the new life that you’re living. You’re now a personal servant to the Imperial Physician, leaving no time to worry about suitors and such. Your days are filled with good work— tending to Yaga’s cherished garden that he has sowed for decades rather than frivolous games and attending the Emperor. It may not be glorious compared to your former life, but it was the best a woman of your status could receive. 

When you and Shoko return to Yaga’s estate, you’re surprised to see the somber look that has settled on his aging features. Shoko makes an offhand comment that he will age faster if he keeps scowling. She receives a scolding.

“Is something the matter?” You gently place down your basket full of herbs. 

Yaga sighs, calloused hands rolling up a scroll with the Imperial Seal. “It appears the Emperor’s consort has fallen ill and His Majesty commands my presence in the Imperial Palace.” 

The Royal Consort. The woman that dethroned you: Zenin Himiko.

“I understand.” You nod, maintaining your composure while two sets of eyes scrutinize you with keen observation. It was only natural the emperor wanted the best doctor in the country for his object of affection. “Shall I close up the shop while you journey into the Inner Palace?” 

Yaga shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. I will have Shoko act as my stand-in.” He remarks with a quick glance in her direction “You, on the other hand, will accompany me.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“Typically, one of my apprentices would accompany me on such journeys. However, now that I have acquired a personal attendant,” He gestures towards you with a flick of his hand, “It shall no longer be necessary.” As he speaks, he runs his hand absentmindedly through his well trimmed beard, gaging your reaction.

"I—" Your words falter and fade away. "Yes, sir," you respond, inclining your head in deference, a stark reminder of your place. While you may have concealed it, you were seething with humiliation. Returning to the Imperial Palace after a year of exile to serve the woman who took your spot was mortifying beyond measure.

“Very well. Pack enough for one week’s time. I doubt the Emperor would have called me if this was a light ailment.” He says gruffly. “We leave at dawn.” His gaze shifted to the horizon outside.

1 YEAR AGO

“Your Grace,” You purr at the feeling of his large hands scratching your head. 

The smile that rests on his face is almost ravenous. “Yes, my love?”

“I think—“ A soft sigh escapes your lips when he presses on your weak points. “I should g-go.”

His ministrations stop almost immediately. 

“Go?” His eyes peer down at you in his lap. It is now that you realize the weight of his piercing gaze. “Have I commanded you to leave yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have nowhere else to be.” He huffs, unintentionally puffing his cheeks out. You stifle the giggle that nearly escapes from your lips. He vaguely resembles a pufferfish– or so you think. Though you’ve never seen the round creature with your very own eyes, you’ve heard that the delicacy was something only members of the aristocratic class would feast on. 

Your mouth waters at the thought.

“What are you thinking about that could possibly be so important? Keep your eyes on me,” A strong hand squishes your cheeks together and firmly guides your face back upon him. 

You should be embarrassed; ashamed at the intimate position His Majesty has trapped you in. The way your head is tucked away in his lap as he peers down at you, nothing to shield you away from him. It was incredibly scandalous, considering that you were an unmarried woman! But it seemed like the Emperor had taken no mind towards it. You would even dare to say that he was enjoying it, with the way his lips quirk upward at the sight of you squirming. 

“Your Grace,” You repeat, determined to free yourself from his hold. His eyebrows furrow.

“Satoru,” He reminds you. You purse your lips. The position you hold in his court is simply not high enough to grant you the privilege of calling him by his given name.

“Your Grace,” You try again, the title rolling off of your tongue naturally. A man like him did not deserve any title less than.

“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Indulge a man, won’t you?” He pouts down at you. As stubborn as ever, you don’t relent.

“I would be overstepping my boundaries as your consort to call you as such. That privilege is reserved for your future bride.” You take advantage of his guard let down to sit up and escape his hold. If he could have caught you, he made no effort.

“I am a simple man.” He follows you to your vanity. A giggle escapes your mouth. He is anything but. “I want my love to call me by my name.” 

You turn around to cup his cheek. He eagerly leans into your touch, sighing happily at the contact.

“I wonder how Lord Kento and Geto would react to you like this.” You tease, a smile unknowingly painting itself on your lips. 

Satoru’s face falls, features morphing into an appalled expression. You watch him close the distance between you through the mirror.

“Kento?” His voice had a dangerous lilt in it. You blink, unsure what spurred on the sudden tension in the room. “Since when were you so comfortable around him? He cannot satisfy you like I can.” He reminds you of the man’s castrated state as an eunuch. You wince.

“I have not gotten comfortable,” You’re careful to pick your words. Gojo’s possessiveness was something that was not easily tamed. “He simply provides good conversation while you are away.The palace is far too big and lonely while you’re away dealing with clan matters.” 

The only response you get is a quiet grumble. “You’re lucky that you’re pretty.” His large hand creeps its way into your hair again, undoing the hairstyle your ladies in waiting had spent a copious amount of time on earlier that morning. Gojo carefully plucks the extravagant silver hairpin from your hair, the dangling pearls clicking softly at the sudden movement.  His hands slowly make their way down to the kimono that you are wearing, hands ready to undo the obi.

Your hands softly hover his, “I fear that our roles have been reversed. Should it not be me who gets you unready, Your Grace?”

He chuckles and through the mirror you can see a smirk make his way to his lips, “I’d let you undress me any day. Just say the word, beloved.” 

You roll your eyes, but allow him to continue. It was moments like these with the Emperor that led you on to believe that there was a semblance of love between the two of you. 

How wrong you were.

PRESENT DAY

The sun has yet to meet the horizon when you arrive at the Inner Palace. The horse-drawn carriage that you and Yaga had taken is the only sound at the scene, clopping down the stone road and back to the Inner Court. You miss the serenity of the beautiful palace you once resided in, knowing that it will be bustling with life in just a few short hours.

In front of the large doors of the primary ceremonial hall where the Emperor spends most of his time, stands Lord Nanami, a counsellor to the Emperor himself. Time has only made his face sterner, but his neatly styled hair and blue and yellow dyed court attire remained the same. He waits patiently while you and Yaga make your way up the flight up stairs that lead up to the hall.

“I am glad to see you in good health, Yaga.” Nanami bows. 

The man next to you promptly waves his politeness off, thanking him for his hospitality. You stand silently while the two men engage in conversation regally.

Lord Nanami sighs, “His Majesty has been plagued by stress lately. To say I am relieved by your presence would be an understatement.” His statement is a subtle reminder that you must harden your heart upon entering the palace walls. The meticulously built walls were no longer a sanctuary for you, rather, a painful testament that you were no longer wanted. 

Yaga lets out a hearty laugh and it reveals a rare sight, Lord Nanami’s lips curving upwards by a slight. “I highly doubt the boy would be glad to see me. The appearance of the Imperial Physician is portentous.” He scratches his beard. You tilt your head in confusion at how he referred to the Emperor.

“I suppose, yet I am intrigued to find out how he will react upon seeing his object of affection flourishing anew despite the sting of frost.” Nanami audibly wonders. Even a fool could understand his eloquent comparison. The Emperor would be thrilled to see his consort in full bloom once again. You pray that the Heavens would grant you some mercy from witnessing such a scene.

“Youth,” Yaga shakes his head, chuckling to himself before regaining composure. “I mustn't keep the Emperor waiting. [Name], please gather the herbal ingredients to treat the young Consort as you seem fit. I shall confer with His Majesty and meet you in her chambers to declare a proper diagnosis.”

You bow, “Yes sir.”

While Yaga prepares to enter the doors where The Heavenly Emperor resides, your eyes couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the large bronze doors. 

“You seem well,” Nanami addresses you for the first time in over a year. Your eyes trail from the Emperor’s door to the blonde man in front of you. “Allow me to guide you to our herbal stock.” Nanami offers you his arm as you start to make your way down the stairs. 

You take it, lightly holding his arm.  “Thank you, Lord Nanami. Time away from the Inner Palace has been like a breath of fresh air,” You respond, ensuring your voice carries no malice. You hear the large palace doors from behind you open, the metal creaking loudly in the quiet dawn. 

“I must ask you to call me Kento,” He leads you down the stone steps. “We are old friends, it is strange to hear anything but.” 

You focus on your steps down the stairs, only responding once your feet meet the solid ground, “I fear that our social statuses have changed since then. It would be the cause of a scandal should anyone hear I am calling the Imperial Counselor by his given name. Your admirers would have my head on a stick.”

“Your imagination is amusing as always, [Name].” He gives you a closed eyes smile. You huff.

“I am only speaking the truth!” You insist. He chuckles.

“It is quite refreshing to see both you and Yaga again. I’m not sure how long it has been since I have been at the imperial physician.” 

You gape at his confession. “You mustn't skip your annual visits to the physician, Kento. It is in the best interest of your health!” You lightly scold him, lifting your hand to flick his forehead. It was a force of habit. “Perhaps if I have time after treating the Consort, I shall do a check up on you.”

Nanami clears his throat at your comment, the twinkle in his eyes dissipating as if your direct touch had burned him. 

“I would rather not lose my head.” He mumbles, eyes scanning the courtyard around the two of you. You knit your eyebrows, confused.

Nanami leaves you to fulfill his duties once you arrive at the Royal Kitchens to retrieve all the necessary items to treat Consort Himiko. You are glad that he did not accompany you into the kitchens to prepare Consort Himiko’s herbal soup. 

The memory of it still irks you.

“You’re late,” One of Consort Himiko’s ladies in waiting snaps just as you enter the kitchen. You look up to see a young girl, dressed in a light purple kimono. It must be Himiko’s signature, you note. It was strange to see someone outside of the Imperial family donning the color, but you suppose it was only a grand display of Himiko’s influence.

“You’re a lot more plain than I anticipated,” The other lady in waiting quirks an eyebrow, eyeing your appearance. You furrow your eyebrows, shocked by their rudeness.Their undying loyalty to their Lady was enough to fuel an unspoken hatred for you. Though you’re not sure that the two coincide, you don’t blame them.

The two are mixing a concoction that you don’t recognize to be used to treat the sick. The taller one adds some aromatics and herbs in and you see the other one unwrap a cloth to reveal a rare delicacy from the West. Cocoa, you believed they called it. 

Then it hits you– the two are not making a medicinal soup for their Lady, rather they are making an aphrodisiac! The image that conjures in your head makes you blanch. Back in the Outer Palace, Shoko had shown you the effects of the stimulant (you shiver at the memory of her shoving a treat laced with it into your mouth). It was certainly a night to remember.

“How pathetic,” You mutter underneath your breath, quickly rushing to obtain the ingredients you needed without making conversation with the two girls.

Fortunately, they pay you no further attention for the time you’re in the kitchen.

“Please excuse me,” You bow upon entering the Emperor’s chambers. Despite the Consort’s Pavilion being similar in size to a small town, you remember spending most of your time in the Emperor’s chambers rather than your own. It was probably the same case with Consort Himiko. You slowly place the tray carrying broth and medicinal herbs to treat the Consort down on the circular wooden table in the middle of the room.

Out of curiosity, your eyes can’t help but soak in the Emperor’s room. Not much has changed since you’ve left. His Majesty’s preference for minimalist decorations have stayed the same, along with his natural musk that fills your nose. You feel your face heat up at your own thoughts. How could you think of such a thing when you are about to meet his new lover?

Your gaze moves to his bed, where Consort Himiko resides– only to find nothing.

“Huh?” 

You observe his bed, silk sheets neatly made, seemingly untouched. The sounds of your sock clad feet patter on the wooden floor as you make your way to feel the bedsheets for any signs of warmth, but you are met with nothing.

“Don’t you know that entering the Emperor’s chambers can be punishable by death?” A deep voice from behind you causes you to jump in your spot. 

Your guard is immediately raised, head whipping to the sound. In hindsight, you should have never agreed to accompany Yaga on his trip. It was a foolish idea all along, you think as all of the air in your lungs dissipates upon seeing your former lover. 

Standing at the entrance of his own sleeping quarters is Gojo Satoru, his frame big enough to tower over the doorway. His arms are crossed over each other, electric blue eyes focused on nothing else but you. You press your thighs together tightly to avoid squirming anymore than you are.  He has loosened his dark blue kimono to expose some of his hardened chest, a sight any woman in the nation would die to catch a glimpse.  Even underneath all of the fabric, anyone can see his divinely sculpted physique.

“Your Grace,” You waste no time to dip your body deeply, praying that he will allow you to keep your head by sunset. “I apologize for the intrusion, I was under the pretense that Consort Himiko resided in your quarters–” Your voice loses itself in your throat when you see his shadow quickly encroaching.

“Himiko stays in her Pavilion,” He towers over you, eyes gazing down on you. “But one might suspect that you already knew that.”

Your eyes frantically meet his feet, desperate to salvage what was left of your dignity, “I assure you that I speak of the truth, Your Majesty.”

When he doesn’t respond, you slowly lift your head.

The flustered look on your face must have been amusing to him, as he makes his way closer to you, bending down to interrogate you further.

“Is that so?” He hums, enjoying every second of cornering you into his chambers. The back of your legs have met his bed, trapping you. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your breaths even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

He continues, “You’re awfully skittish for someone who was happily skipping around my territory in the arms of another man just earlier.” His predatory gaze seems to darken. 

“Kento?” When his name leaves your lips, the man in front of you grits his teeth. You turn your head to the side, deliberately avoiding him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how Kento and I’s relationship is any of your concern,” He does not take your actions well, his gaze searing into you.

“It certainly is when the woman in question is you,” Gojo’s voice loses its feral lilt, distress flashing across his face. There’s a newfound desperation in it that chips away at your resolve. His hand raises to your face so slowly, as if he did not want to startle you.

“This is wrong. I– I saw a couple of servants earlier making aphrodisiacs, perhaps you could have unknowingly consumed them.” You tell him, frantic eyes meeting him. It is not unusual for couples to use aphrodisiacs, you know that after under Yaga. The Emperor must have mistaken the laced dessert for his usual. 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his white hair.

“You are mistaken. This is solely your effect on me.” He promises. You could barely believe his words, stuck between feeling offended or shocked.

“How could you stand to be so cruel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. There are no tears in your eyes this time.  “I am not a courtesan you can buy for the night,” You snap, pointing a harsh finger to his chest. 

“What do you mean?” He sounds breathless.

“Whatever do I mean?” You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your mouth. “For a year, all I have gotten is pity from the world, because you decided I was no longer entertaining. You could have at least banished me away yourself. Instead, you sent Suguru who couldn’t even look me in the eye! Don’t you know how humiliating that is?” With every word that left your lips, more venom seemed to drip. Anger was prickling you all over, taking control of the rational part of you.

Gojo seemed to be taken aback by your outburst. It was far too late to take anything back now. If you lose your head by nightfall, so be it.

You dig a deeper grave for yourself when you take advantage of his moment of weakness to flee. He’s quick to react, attempting to grip your wrist.

“Wait, [Name], beloved–” He uses that all too familiar term of endearment, but it doesn't deter you.

You accidentally bump into the circular wooden table placed in the middle of the room. What an awful place to keep it, watching in horror as the Consort’s medicine shatters on the floor. To add salt to the wound, a vase you recognize to be specially gifted to the Emperor from a foreign nation tips off too before you can catch it. The sound of porcelain shattering fills the room.

“[Name]! Are you alright?” You hear Gojo ask from behind you, but you run over the broken shards before he can catch you.

Had you bothered to pay closer attention, you would have noticed articles of your clothing and a couple of your missing belongings littered all over the room– creating a faux impression that you never really left the palace.

Days passed by after the incident, and luckily, your head was still attached to your body despite offending and nearly endangering the Emperor. Yaga’s disappointment when you had told him what happened was made evident when he sent you home early after hearing the events that transpired, insisting that he can handle the Consort on his own. Normally you would have argued, but you knew better than to inflict Yaga’s wrath.

“Now you’ve really done it,” Shoko whistles lowly, walking in from the front of Yaga’s shop. 

You hide your face in your hands, “I made an absolute fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“A fool? No. A conspirator against the Emperor? Perhaps.” She dangles a scroll with a familiar seal on it. The Gojo Clan’s familiar emblem reflects off of the sunlight spilling into the room. Your heart drops.

“Oh, they’ll have my head.” You moan, hands instinctively lifting to shield your neck.

“Though I’m quite impressed that Yaga only sent you back here. He used to have worse punishments.” She shudders before impatiently unraveling the scroll. You watch her eyes gradually widen as they read the contents of the letter. The scroll falls from her hand.

You rush to it, desperate to read your fate.

To [Last Name] [First Name],

Greetings and prosperity unto you.

By the mandate of the heavens and the authority vested in Us, We hereby extend Our solemn words to you, [Last Name] [First Name], servant of the realm, in acknowledgement of your debt to the Empire.

In response to your unmeritorious deeds, The Emperor bestows upon you His imperial pardon from capital punishment. In consideration of your obligations and the harmony of the realm, it is hereby decreed that you shall serve as an indentured servant to the Imperial Household for a period commensurate with your debt. During this time, you shall labor faithfully and diligently under the supervision of Our Heavenly Emperor, performing duties essential to the welfare of the Empire.

By fulfilling your obligations with diligence and humility, you may yet earn favor and esteem in Our sight.

The Imperial Court

A loud gasp escapes your mouth.

You feel your legs weaken, your emotions running wild. Shoko’s eyes meet yours, mirroring your frantic gaze. In that moment, you are met with the same suffocating sense of hopelessness.

extra!

gojo was kicking his feet happily as he watched suguru draft out his letter to you. suguru thought it rather cruel, while the white haired male was too busy purring happily as he fantasized about having you back into his grasp.

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 3 - Hadvar I: Unbound

Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 Late Morning

Hadvar

My name is Hadvar. Soldier in the Imperial Legion. A loyal Nord, despite what those in Windhelm might think. Proud citizen of the Empire. Protector of the people.

This knowledge is all that keeps me from melting into a puddle of fear from the might of the beast currently destroying Helgen. While most of my detachment fends off the beast, I do my best to bring townsfolk to what safety I can find. Not that I have much faith in doing so; even as I escort an old man under cover, I watch the dragon - a gods-honest dragon! - bash its head directly through one of the guard towers. Solid stone and mortar that took months to build and reinforce, walls that have stood up to countless bandit raids, knocked aside as though it were a shanty of sticks. Countless arrows find their marks in the dragon's hide, only to bounce off harmlessly. Unbelievable. Any delusions of fighting this beast, this demon, are shattered in my mind. Escape is the only option.

I hear a cry nearby. A man trapped beneath rubble, his son desperately shoving at the unmoving stone. I notice the dragon leap from the ramparts, heading directly for us. Fear assails me again, but I use it to power my limbs, sprinting for the pair. I grab the boy, throwing me over my shoulder, ignoring his screams as the beast lands in front of us, shaking the ground and almost causing me to fall over. The thanks in the man's face is evident, but my mind is elsewhere as he yells at me, "Go, save him!" I dive behind the wall with the old man, my boots scorched with fire as it bathes the ground where I'd been seconds earlier. Even under cover, the heat is oppressive, and the sounds the dragon is making... Would it were louder, that I could drown out the screams of dying men, but no such luck.

Shaking, I hand the now crying boy over to the old man, when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. My hand flies to the hilt of my sword, but when I turn, all I see is a man in rags falling to the ground from the second story of the now burnt-out inn. Where in Kyne's name did he come from? Surely he hadn't been in there since this all began? I look up to the destroyed tower behind the inn, just in time to see another figure disappear from a gaping hole in its side. He jumped? Damn. The man is brave, if nothing else.

I offer him my hand, and realize with a start that he is the Breton that arrived with the prisoners. Saved from the chopping block from the dragon, if you could call it saving. Happy coincidence, that; I'd have hated to see another innocent die because of that thrice-damned traitor, Ulfric.

"Still alive, prisoner?" I ask, more out of amazement than curiosity.

"It's Talao," he responds pointedly. Quite a lot of spunk for a man who's nearly died several times today. "I am, and if you don't mind, I'd like to remain so." He glares at my sword, which I note is bared directly at him.

I lower it hastily, but do not sheathe it. Danger, and all that. "Good. Stick with me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy."

The old man looks at me with pride and hope as he comforts the boy. "Gods guide you, Hadvar." This. This is why I am a Legionnaire. Not for praise, or adoration, or battle. I wanted to be a shield for my people. And if I save even one person from the fires of Oblivion today, I will be content.

Enough dallying. "We need to find General Tullius and join the defense." The General will know what to do. The man's a military genius.

We run, heading toward the sound of the General's voice. A roar sounds close overhead. "Stay close to the wall!" I yell, as we squeeze through a narrow alley. The ground tosses beneath us with such force that we both go tumbling down, landing on our backs. Not ten feet above us, perched on the wall next to us, sits the dragon, another gout of fire spewing forth. Surely, we'll both die now, I think, covering my face from the vicious fire and blinding light. I swear I can feel blisters popping across my uncovered skin. But again, it lifts off, granting us a reprieve, and somehow another chance to escape.

Why is it here, for gods' sake? If we knew why, we might be able to do something. Is it hungry? Angry? Is destruction its sole desire, or is it far more nefarious? Is it even intelligent?

So many questions, yet all I can do is drag Talao through the glowing wreckage to the General. Atop his horse, he frantically but deliberately issues order to the troops. "Maintain ranks! FALL BACK!" An archer on the wall is grabbed by the dragon, and let loose to plummet to his death, screaming, a mockery of the creature's flight which ends with a sickening crunch. I've seen far worse horrors committed on the battlefield, but the sheer helplessness I feel, the despair is overwhelming. The general is right; full retreat is our only option now.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" The command spurs me to action once more, heading to the garrison with Talao in close pursuit. He may not have been a townsperson, but I believed in the man's innocence and knew that other soldiers likely wouldn't be as eager to protect him if they recognized him from the cart.

We're only a few dozen yards from the door when I see him, clad in blues and greys. By Ysmir, can't I catch a break? "Ralof!" He whirls around at the mention of his name, dropping into a battle stance. "You damned traitor, out of my way!"

"We're esaping, Hadvar. You won't stop us this time, milk drinker!"

My blood boils at his casual arrogance. "Like Oblivion you will. I'll send you to Sovngarde myself! That is, if they admit traitorous heathens like you."

I move toward him, ready to spill his guts on the ground, when something pulls me back. Talao is suddenly between us. "Are you both completely daft?! There's a dragon in the sky above us, raining death and destruction, and you're bickering like petty children over a sweetroll. Put aside your damn squabble until we're no longer an instant from being eaten alive!"

I nearly scoff at the notion, but astonishingly, Ralof nods and sheathes his weapon at the prisoner's words. I'm so surprised, I barely register him charge us, yelling "Get down!" He tackles Talao and myself to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Bastard! A trick? I wrestle my sword arm free, intent on skewering him before he does the like to me, when my heart jumps into my throat. A gust of wind slams into us, and black claws grasp at the air we'd just inhabited. We'd been a split-second from the exact fate Talao had warned us of.

Ralof stands, hurriedly helping us all well. "I reckon the man's got the right of things, don't you, Imperial?"

Damn him, but he's right. And I can't truly find it in me to hate him for it. Not just now. "Truce then. Quickly, into the keep." At least there we'll only have to worry about rocks falling on us instead of dragons.

Chapter 2 - Ralof I: Unbound x Chapter 4 - Hadvar II: Unbound

[vibrantbirdy]

Dissent: A Cassian Andor x Female Reader Story - Chapter 1

Title: Dissent Fandom: Star Wars Setting: Post Andor, Pre Rogue One Genres: Sci-fi; Action/Adventure; Hurt/Comfort; Romance Pairings: Cassian Andor x Female Reader Warnings for Chapter 1: Contains mature themes - Moderate-Strong descriptions of violence/injury detail and Imperial brutality including an instance of whipping - not gratuitous, mainly lead up and aftermath - and brief references to execution; Very strong language; Canon-typical angst; (Please bear in mind that Chapter 2 will include sexual content and mature themes (but there will also be fun romance too) Chapters: 1/2 Word Count: C.6k Summary: You are an ex-Imperial sharpshooter who defected from the Empire and forged a place for yourself in the Rebellion working intelligence. As part of a team led by Captain Cassian Andor to the planet of Divach, your mission is to uncover the reason behind the Empire's sudden interest in the small world. Following a disastrous start to the operation with severe consequences for Andor, you and he are thrown together to investigate further, and this seemingly simple directive becomes more complicated than you ever imagined.

Author's Note: I've been sitting on this one for months and months, working on it here and there and Part 1 is finally done. I'm extremely busy in real life at the moment and I wasn't going to split this story but it has become so long, and it has been ages since I've posted any writing so I felt like I need to produce something! As always, thank you for all your interactions with my stories - I am very grateful! Masterlist of my writing here.

The first time you meet Captain Cassian Andor, you almost break his nose.

Since you arrived on Yavin 4 five months ago, you've been grounded, spending much of your time carrying out menial duties on the base at Rebel Alliance Headquarters. Your fellow Rebels have not yet warmed to you, but you hope this is only temporary until you can prove yourself when you are finally cleared to run missions by Command.

When you'd handed yourself over to the Rebel contact you'd managed to source on Coruscant, someone had come up behind you and shoved a hood over your head. Your hands were bound behind you back and then you were roughly bundled onto a cold, rattling transport where you sat for hours in blackness, uncomfortable and confused. When you'd finally reached Yavin 4 in the Outer Rim, you could heard the jeers and the taunts as you were paraded, blind and disoriented in binders through a bustling Rebel base with the Imperial insignia still emblazoned on the sleeves of your jacket.

It hardly made for a subtle arrival, nor the best first impression, but you understood that this was a test of sorts. And so you've learned to tolerate the suspicion and snide remarks for the most part.

But Rek Ryker? That man really knows how to push your buttons.

That's why, one jibe too many, and you're sitting atop the big man on the floor of the mess hall, his arms firmly pinned beneath your knees. There's a crowd around you shouting and jeering. As you draw your fist back to give Ryker a right hook across the jaw, someone grabs your arm from behind, preventing your strike. Immediately, you twist around and deliver a cross-body punch with your left fist square into this new assailant's face.

The stranger lets go immediately and staggers backwards, his hand flying to the point of impact and he pinches his nose, tilting his head backwards and pacing a tight circle as if he might walk off the pain.

"Captain Andor," you hear Ryker acknowledge beneath you and with your arm still extended across your body, teeth still bared, you snap your head back to look down at him. He raises his eyebrows at you, the most infuriatingly smug expression plastered across his face.

"Get up, both of you," Andor orders in an accent you don't recognise, his words muffled through his hand which remains firmly clasped to his face.

You leap to your feet and turn to the Captain, snapping your hand to your forehead in a salute which sends Ryker and his companions into fits of mocking laughter behind you.

Andor, at least, seems too preoccupied with his tender nose to take much notice but your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you let your arm drop back down to your side. You're still unsure of what's expected of you in terms of protocol here. The performative motions with regard to rank hierarchy seem much less ridged than the Imperial command structure.

Although, you think glumly, brawling in the mess hall and striking a superior officer is probably still frowned upon, even amongst Rebels...

Andor finally lets go of his nose, revealing an angular face with a well defined jawline, sharp cheekbones and dark, sombre eyes. He's perhaps not yet thirty, but the rather grim expression that sits on his otherwise attractive face gives the impression that he's already experienced much hardship in his short lifetime.

You watch as a small trickle of blood escapes from his right nostril and runs down through his short moustache, across the downturned line of his lips and catches amid the stubble on his chin. Gingerly, he reaches up to touch his nose again and this time, as he takes his hand away and examines it, a small patch of crimson glistens on his fingers. Still, the damage appears minimal.

Thank the stars, you think.

"Ryker, I'll deal with you later," Andor says over your shoulder, before addressing you directly, "You, come with me."

Trying to ignore the multitude of eyes that bore into you as you exit the mess hall, you follow Andor like a chastened child. The Captain leads you out into the deserted corridor where he rounds on you.

"What the hell was that?"

"I've been here for months," you erupt with a candour surprises even yourself, "I've complied in Draven's countless interrogations, I've taken the whispers and the insults without complaint, I've cleaned so many blasters in the armoury that I can't get the oil stains out from under my fingernails. I gave up everything to be here. I didn't defect to sit in this kriffing base and rot. I can be useful..."

"You're the Imperial sharpshooter, right?" Andor interrupts your tirade, his tone impatient, "Right?"

"Ex-Imperial sharpshooter," you correct him through gritted teeth, unable to help yourself.

The Captain gives you an exasperated look as he pulls a data pad from the pocket of his worn brown leather jacket.

"Is that not your name?" he asks, pointing to what looks like a duty roster. You lean in to examine the text on the device. Your name is indeed on the list. "General Draven had cleared you to run with me on my next op. Tomorrow."

You don't know what to say, bitter disappointment forming hot and solid in your throat like a lump of molten durasteel and constricting your words. You were so close to the chance to actually do something and you didn't even know it. Now you've blown it.

You look up and examine the face of the man before you, trying to decipher what he might be thinking. Those dark eyes are set hard and cool, glinting like obsidian. Yet there is a glimpse of something concealed underneath, something almost wild, and you have this notion that if you could just mine through that impenetrable surface, you'd find yourself swept away in the tumultuous, endless ocean raging at the centre of his existence.

But today, the man is almost impossible to read.

"Captain...I..." you start, but you trail off, defeated.

"Get out of here," Andor says quietly, his expression suddenly softening as he inclines his head towards the door at the other end of the corridor, "Cool off before tomorrow, I need you with a clear head."

Your heart leaps at the realisation that he's not going to take this opportunity away from you, and it's like a rush of oxygen after the stranglehold of your regret.

"Thank you, Captain," and you can't help the grin that spreads across you face.

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, thinking you glean the faintest trace of a smile on his lips and a new, elusive warmth in his eyes. You nod a farewell, and take off to your quarters to prepare for your first assignment.

*********************************

1 year later

“An hour?!” Andor's frustrated query crackles through your com link.

"I'm sorry, Captain," comes Brox's meek reply, "I blew the circuit on the transmitter and I can't make the replacement charge any quicker than that."

The young man sounds miserable, close to tears, and you suddenly feel a rush of sympathy for him. He's barely eighteen and it's his first field op. He's a talented electronics tech, but he's just a kid and his nerves are all over the place. Ryker should have been checking his work, lazy brute that he is.

You listen to the disaster unfolding through your com link with increasing exasperation. There is little you can do from up here, perched high in the bell tower at the south-eastern corner of the market square.

Your position affords you a bird's eye view of the maze of streets below. Like most urban settlements on the planet of Divach, Kinafor is made up of looming, ramshackle houses topped with rooves of black slate from local quarries squeezed together in almost impossible proximity. It gives the impression that the structures themselves are fighting for space. The aged buildings seem to sag with fatigue over the filthy streets paved with the same grey cobblestone.

The dark skies and lashing rain manifest muddy pools which flood the rutted, poorly kept roads. It does little to alleviate the dour atmosphere. But despite the torrential downpour, the streets are teaming with people going about their daily business, their heads bent against the weather, jostling with each other to get where they are going.

Overcrowding is rife in Divach's towns and cities. You've done your research - this is partly an ongoing effect of the rapid industrialisation that took place prior to the Clone Wars under the auspices of the Separatist Confederacy. Yet the population of Kinafor appears to have doubled in only the last year and the once quiet market town just doesn't have the infrastructure to support the sudden influx of people and it appears that everyone is suffering for it.

It's no coincidence that there has been a marked increase in Imperial activity in the sector. Like many planets caught in the wake of the Empire's relentless progress, Divach's natural resources are being scoured and plundered, with most remaining rural communities being forced off their ancestral lands and into the urban centres.

Rebel Command want you to find out why the sudden Imperial interest in this particular planet, and today, you have that opportunity. Your fellow operatives, Brox and Ryker, are currently bugging Kinafor's Imperial Bureau in the hopes of capturing a meeting taking place between the Imperial whom whom the Empire have recently set up as Magistrate, Dek Perrin, and Senator Josen Stoker, a politician renowned for his love of Empire and his unwavering loyalty to Emperor Palpatine.

Ostensibly, your look-out is under shelter, the ancient, behemoth of a bell and its inner working protected by a sturdy slate roof. However, the rain is now blasting in horizontally through the open arches of the tower. On the short time you've been on this little planet you've come to realise just how unpredictable the weather is here and you wish you'd brought something waterproof. Even your boots are filled with water, and your clothes, simple travelling garb of leggings and a loose, lightweight shirt, stick to your skin uncomfortably. At least it's not cold - this is what counts for the summer season on Divach.

Aware that Ryker and Brox are almost out of time, you rub the rain water out of your eyes as best you can and look again through the sight of your binoculars.

A tall, middle aged Imperial Officer with a long, elegant gait is floating his way down the main street with an entourage. You recognise him instantly as the target, General Perrin, the two rows of red and blue pips on the front of his dark, grey uniform indicating his status. Next to him is an older, balding man, scurrying to keep up with the General on account of his short little legs. He is dressed in refined, but rather strained looking purple robes which are tailored in the fashionable Coruscanti style. He can only be the other mark, Senator Stocker. Four Stormtroopers armoured in their soulless, white shells bring up the rear of the party.

“I just need more time to...”

“Do we abort?" Ryker's rough brogue cuts across Brox's message, "Andor? Andor?”

The overlapping chatter on the coms is making you nervous. How many times have you told Ryker to keep to essential communications when pieces are moving on the board? There are so very few things you miss about your days as an Imperial operative, but coms discipline out in the field is definitely one of them.

“Andor, Perrin and Stocker are approaching your location now,” you interject quickly.

“Hold your positions and keep working," Andor's order comes through, his voice low and urgent, "We need this intel and we won't get another chance. I'll get you your hour. I'm going dark - Bird, you have command.”

"Acknowledged, I have command," you say and despite your growing apprehension, you feel a rush of warmth at the use of your nickname.

Less than a week after your first mission with Rebel Intelligence, somehow, Ryker had discovered that your Imperial sharpshooter callsign had once been Raptor. For weeks after, he'd insisted on calling you Bird-Brain. Once the joke had worn thin, even for Ryker himself, the Bird part just seemed to stick around. Secretly, you've grown fond of it, especially the way it sounds as it rolls off Andor's tongue.

You hold your breath as you realise Andor is walking straight towards the Imperial delegation. As he reaches the party, he roughly and deliberately shoulder barges past Senator Stocker who reels backwards, a pudgy hand clutched to his chest in affront.

You lift your binocs to your face, fighting to get them to focus through the visual noise of the relentless downpour, and succeeding just in time to see Andor's usually handsome features twist into a vicious sneer. His mouth moves as he passes the Senator, and you can just about make out his words.

“Fuck the Empire."

That'll do it, you think, grimly.

************************************

As a Stormtrooper grabs him roughly by the shoulder and spins him around, shoving him back towards Perrin and the Senator, Cassian Andor thinks this might be the stupidest thing he's had to do in a long time. Deliberately risking capture as a diversion tactic was not on his to do list today.

But Cassian knows that the Empire aren't looking for spies on a backwater planet like Divach. Espionage is not the biggest threat to Imperial power here.

Insurrection is. Dissent.

So today, Cassian dissents.

“What did you say?” A mortally offended Stocker manages to stutter out in his pompous Coruscanti accent.

Behind the Senator, Perrin's face is reddening, painting a crimson canvass of indignant rage at Cassian's overt and brazen insolence. The General is clearly infuriated to have his authority undermined and challenged on his planet - and in front of an Imperial Senator no less. Cassian might as well have spat in the face of Emperor Palpatine himself.

The spy feels a strange thrill of satisfaction. Since joining the Rebellion, the covert nature of espionage - the sneaking and stealing and lying for intelligence - has afforded him very few chances to show his contempt for the Empire so simply, so directly. It makes him feel suddenly, gloriously human and so alive.

The memory of the day his adoptive father was murdered by a fledgling Empire flashes into his mind. Clem Andor had been trying to protect his neighbours, to keep the peace in the streets of Ferrix City as Clone Troopers marched through the town, signalling the beginning of Imperial residency on the planet. For his efforts, caught up in the unbridled confusion of furious anti-Imperial feeling, he was falsely accused of anarchy and carted away for summary execution.

Cassian closes his eyes for just a moment and he feels the ghost of cold metal in his hand, the phantom weight of a baton in the grip of his fist. He tastes in his mouth the ice of Ferrix's frigid, winter air. The years fade away and it's if he is still that thirteen year old boy, rushing headlong in a reckless, hate-fuelled frenzy towards a clutch of the occupying Troopers.

The image of his father hanging in the square at the end of Rix Road, falling snow gently gathering on his still body, is never far from Cassian's consciousness. But today, something old and familiar flares deep within him at the remembrance. The embers of the white-hot fury he keeps smothered by cold, learned dispassion for the sake of his clandestine occupation suddenly ignite.

It feels like freedom.

Cassian welcomes it as he repeats the provocation with a snarl.

******************************

“What's going on, Bird?” Ryker's distorted demand bursts through your com link, the ragged edge of panic at the threat of possible discovery tangible in his voice, “Do we abort?”

“No, you heard the Captain, hold your position, keep working" you reply, "Andor is... He's causing a … scene.”

You mean to say distraction but it's quickly becoming more than that.

You wince as the closed fist of a Stormtrooper catches Andor hard in the mouth, and he spins to the ground in a spray of rainwater. He tries to rise but a heavy, white boot lands between his shoulder blades and slams him face down in the dirt.

General Perrin barks an order, his once serene face now aflame with self-righteous anger. The Trooper with the savage right hook hauls Andor to his feet, a gloved hand twisted viciously in the spy's dark hair. He's bleeding from his mouth, his face and once cream coloured shirt spattered with black mud.

“What?" Ryker presses, "What do you mean, a scene?”

“Never mind!” You hiss into the com, “He's bought you and Brox some time, just get on with the job. I'll let you know if anything changes.”

If it was anyone else at the centre of the commotion unfolding on the street below you, you might think that this chosen course of action had been conceived of panic.

But this is Andor. You've observed first-hand his uncanny ability to adapt to the unexpected, calculating his next move based on shrewd observations and then acting with swift, often ruthless efficiency. It's what makes him such an effective weapon against the Empire. He is, by all accounts, a sharp, precise instrument.

And while necessity has rendered today's choice of tactic rather blunt and a little rougher around the edges than his usual style, you know that this isn't panic.

It's instinct.

A resistant Andor is dragged past the street where, even now, Ryker and Brox are bugging Perrin's office and you exhale a breath you didn't even know you had been holding as you realise that he has succeeded in drawing attention away from the others.

The relief is short-lived and your heart sinks as Andor is frogmarched in front of your position and towards Kinafor's main square. You can't resist leaning over the stone balustrade of the bell tower and peering down into the street below. Fleetingly, the Captain raises his gaze to the heavy, grey sky. There is a look of resigned acceptance on his filthy, bloody face and as his eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments, you think you catch the trace of a grim, rueful smirk on his lips.

********************************

Dedication to the Rebellion sometimes makes things incredibly simple. Cassian has long become accustomed to an existence of constant jeopardy, where the illusion of choice is often stripped away and his actions are dictated by necessity and urgency. There is no choice in rebellion but to decide how to resist; how to keep moving. To push, to scramble, to crawl, to climb, anything to keep ahead of the ever-grasping Imperial reach.

Cassian knew, even as he'd crushed his com link under his boot, that this particular decision would cost him. He knew the outcome would be unpleasant. He knew that it would probably hurt.

He'd supposed, perhaps naively, that he would be hauled off to be roughed up in a filthy back ally somewhere until Perrin and Stocker were satisfied that he'd been suitably chastised for his impudence. It wouldn't be the worst thing he'd suffered through for the Rebellion, and Cassian knew many who had sacrificed much more in the name of the Cause.

But as he is led into the market square, the reality of the situation he has created for himself finally sets in. A Stormtrooper with an orange shoulder guard designating his rank as a Squad Leader, is standing next to a tall, sturdy-looking wooden post, the base of which has been securely screwed the cobble stones. The Trooper is caressing the tail of a whip through his gloved hands as if it is a strand of his lover's hair.

There doesn't appear to be a gallows in Kinafor yet. That day will come, Cassian muses bitterly. It is inevitable. It will simply appear one day, hastily erected in the name of a savage, polluted vision of justice and when it does, the people of Divach will either be too paralysed from the shock of the first exhibition of unspeakable, deadly barbarity, or otherwise ground so far under the Empire's leaden heel to even flinch.

He thinks again of his father.

The Trooper who has been diligently prodding Cassian in the back the whole way to the square now shoves him forwards towards the post and orders him to remove his shirt.

"What, you're not going to buy me a drink first?"

It's a stupid time for a cheap jibe and Cassian knows it. It earns him a stinging backhand to the face, the impact sending a new stream of blood trickling from his already split lip. He glares at the Trooper as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, before pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the wet ground at his feet.

The Trooper secures him to the wooden column, affixing his arms above his head where heavy magnetic cuffs snap closed around his wrists and lock tightly. He suddenly feels overwhelmingly vulnerable, strung up half naked and exposed, and his entire being rails against the unnatural, paralysing feeling of abject restraint.

Cassian swallows his fear as best he can, reminds himself that he took the only course of action available to him. Ryker and Brox's imminent discovery would have blown the entire operation and the capture of agents under his command is no option at all. At least whatever happens next gives them a fighting chance to complete the mission.

Then, he thinks of you and a small flash of reassurance passes through him. Over the year that he's known you, you've proven yourself to be a capable and determined operative. Above all, you are pragmatic, and he knows he can trust you to be courageous enough to get him out of here if - when - you can, but that you are not likely to risk the intel, nor the lives of the others in the process.

Cassian allows himself a moment of escapism, taking comfort in the thought of seeing your face, of indulging once again in the lingering, stolen glances that seem to intersperse your otherwise strictly working relationship more and more these days. He wonders if you know just how meagre a thread his professionalism hangs by in those rare moments you find yourselves alone together.

“The Empire is the uniting, stabilising force in our Galaxy.”

Perrin is standing with his back to Cassian, the Senator by his side. He is addressing a sombre crowd of citizens whom Stormtroopers have hassled away from their daily business to stand, huddled together against the ceaseless rain to observe this spectacle. The faces in the crowd are grave and solemn. There is sympathy in their expressions and grim expectation, even some contempt directed towards the Imperial presence. But there is no panic. No confusion.

This has happened before, Cassian realises, and it rekindles some of the furious fire in his belly temporarily snuffed out by his apprehension.

He should have predicated something like this. Perrin is exactly the type of man to favour a public display of violence as a mechanism of control. Pain and humiliation are simple but effective tools of spreading fear amongst the Empire's subjugated populaces, especially when an Imperial zealot like Perrin can claim to be prescribing them as a remedy to unrest and disorder.

As his dogmatic drone continues, the General's voice is almost fatherly, a stark contrast to the brutality he is about to oversee.

"Disrespect against the Empire will not be tolerated here on Divach where we all benefit from the guidance of the Emperor's steady hand. I hope that the regrettable example I am forced to make today will assure you that I will act always swiftly to protect the integrity of our thriving community wherever such disloyalty is exposed."

At Perrin's finishing words, Stocker's eyes appear to gleam with pious reverence.

Perrin turns and nods at the Squad Leader over Cassian's shoulder.

Almost immediately Cassian hears the whip whistle through the air behind his head and he braces the front of his right shoulder against the post, allowing his cheek to rest against the wood which smells newly cut. He inhales deeply, trying to ground himself in the earthy, reassuring scent.

A strip of fire erupts across his shoulders and upper back, and the sheer power of the blow snaps his head back and forces his mouth open, ripping a strangled shout from his throat. Cassian sets his jaw and clenches his hands into tight fists, steeling himself for the next strike.

********************************

He doesn't know how many times the Stormtrooper has brought the whip down across his back. He lost count some time ago, one savage, agonising blow blurring into the next and the next and the next. All Cassian knows is that it has finally, finally stopped.

He realises that he is now sagging against his restraints, the cold metal of the cuffs digging into the red raw skin around his wrists and he tries to take advantage of the break in proceedings to straighten his posture again, unwilling to give Perrin or the Stormtrooper any further satisfaction in the effect their ruthless work has had upon him.

But the reprieve, such as it is, doesn't last long. Perrin is there, suddenly behind him, winding his sharp, skeletal fingers painfully through the spy's wet hair, roughly pulling his head back and forcing his gaze upwards to the leaden sky.

The rain is still hammering down, sharp pinpricks in his open wounds, and now the drops pelt down onto his face as well, mingling with the sweat on his brow and temples and trickling salty water into stinging eyes. He squeezes them shut.

Over the ringing in his ears, Cassian realises Perrin is speaking to him.

“Say it again,” the General seethes.

He wants to. Cassian really, really wants to.

A strained growl rumbles in his throat and he grits his bared his teeth.

Despite what he knows they will bring him, those three incendiary words are already forming on his tongue like a compulsion. He yearns to spit them out and watch as the Imperial bastard's face falls. He wants to yell them at the top of his lungs - Fuck the Empire! - each syllable it's own purging, cathartic release.

But as Perrin releases his vice-like grip on Cassian's hair and the spy blinks the rainwater from his eyes, he catches a glimpse of your face amid the crowd over the General's shoulder.

An overwhelming sense of relief floods over him, and douses the blaze of his temporary madness. You would never leave your post unless Brox and Ryker had sent confirmation that the job was complete - that they were out and they were safe.

You've come back for him.

Cassian's dark eyes flick back to Perrin's, and he keeps them locked there for as long as he dares, his chin tilted upwards in defiance. This final show of resistance is rewarded as he sees the General's steady, cold stare appear to falter just for the briefest of moments.

The spy revels in this small victory until, reluctantly, he averts his gaze and looks down at the wet ground in a gesture of capitulation, the best his pride will allow.

It seems enough to satisfy Perrin who leers at him in triumph, before slapping the release button on his captive's restraints. Exhausted and agonised, Cassian's body fails him, his legs give way and he collapses, hard, to all fours on the cobblestones in the mud.

Get up, Andor, he orders himself, get the fuck up.

*************************************

“Kriffin' hell,” Ryker says, jumping up from his seated position on the ramp of Andor's U-Wing, “What happened to you?”

The sudden absence of his considerable weight sends the ramp rocking so violently it unbalances Brox to the point that he is also forced to stagger to his feet to prevent himself toppling off the side.

Andor removes his arm from around your shoulder where it has been slung all the way from Kinafor's town centre to here in the junk yard on the outskirts where the ship and the rest of the team are waiting.

It hadn't been difficult to extract him. By the time you'd pushed your way through the subdued crowd that the Troopers were busily dispersing, Perrin and Stocker were already halfway back to edge of the square, engaged in some casual conversation as they made their way toward the Bureau to carry on with the business of their day.

They'd got what they'd wanted from Andor - an example, a potent, brutal, tangible reminder of the consequences of challenging the Empire's authority. You try to comprehend the men's palpable disinterest towards the barbarity they'd just inflicted, but you can't, and thinking about it only makes your blood boil.

Disentangled from your support, Andor takes laboured, stilted steps towards the U-Wing, obviously determined to make a show of making his own way back to his own ship. You don't fuss, choosing to give him space and allow him this moment to restore some semblance of his bruised pride if this is how he feels he needs to do it.

The Imps have made a real mess of him. He is soaked through, his dark hair set in jagged points against his forehead which send raindrops trickling down his face to drip off the end of his sharp nose. Darkening blood from his split lip where it met with the Stormtrooper's gauntlet is caught in his stubble, and there are new abrasions, one on his right cheek where the rough wood of the post has grazed his skin, and two more on his wrists, rubbed raw where they have taken his bodyweight against the biting metal restraints.

There had been little point in trying to puzzle his sodden, filthy shirt back on to his body. It would've only stuck to him and chafed against the angry, red welts that criss-cross his back, evidence of the cruel leather which has bitten deep into his flesh. His exposed skin glistens from the rain amid a mixture of mud and sweat and blood.

“We needed a distraction,” Andor replies flatly, his voice strained as he slowly ascends the ramp of the U-Wing, "So I made one."

Brox looks crestfallen at the sight of the Captain. His mop of curly blonde hair is wild, as if he's been constantly running his hands through it in despair. His usually bright blue eyes are bloodshot. It's clear that he's been crying, overwrought with a feeling of responsibility for the situation that no one in their right mind could ever fairly place on his young shoulders. Andor must see it too because he claps the boy briefly on the shoulder just before he passes through the doorway into the ship.

“Cassian?”

K-2SO, Andor's reprogrammed Imperial security droid sounds just about as distraught as is possible for a mechanical lifeform to be as he twists in the pilot's chair and catches a glimpse of his returning master from the cockpit.

“I'm fine, K,” Andor says, rather sharply “Just get us out of here as soon as you're sure Command is receiving the transmission, then set a course for back home."

K-2SO is uncharacteristically silent.

"Say you understand, K," Andor growls through gritted teeth.

"I understand, Cassian," K-2 relents, as his master turns away towards the back of the ship.

"I've got him," you mouth to the droid.

K-2's inner workings whirr as he gives you a nod of his mechanical head, the bright, white bulbs of his visual receptors shining with something so human that it could almost be mistaken for gratitude.

You have a real fondness for the droid. Usually unrelentingly verbose, his reprogramming has gifted him with several quirks including a brazen sense of independent thought and a sarcastic sense of humour. It seems odd to feel an affinity with a machine, but you do. Those first few monotonous months of eating alone in the mess hall had quite often been interspersed by the company of the huge, lumbering droid, even though he had no need to eat at all. He was intrigued by you, as you were by him. A couple of ex-Imperials, finding a new purpose, a new freedom within the Rebellion.

You follow Andor as he stumbles through the cramped corridor of the ship until he reaches the cargo and passenger compartment. You hear Brox traipsing after you, but you turn to him and silently shake your head. He means well, but a crowd won't help. He gives you a look of understanding that is coupled with relief and scurries back through the ship to sit behind Ryker and K-2 in the cockpit.

Andor starts rummaging around clumsily in the med supply drawer, discarding equipment here and there, sending instruments and bandages sprawling across the durasteel floor. He seems in a trance, blinded by his pain and oblivious to your presence. He's unsteady on his feet, staggering this way and that, and you just wish he'd sit down. Finally, he finds a bottle of pain pills, tips several - probably too many - into the palm of a shaking hand, and swallows them greedily.

You feel the ship rumble and vibrate as K-2 fires up the engines and soon the U-wing starts to climb towards orbit. Andor loses his balance during a brief moment of turbulence and crashes unceremoniously to the floor.

You crouch down on your haunches in front of him. He is already trying to rise.

“Andor, let me...”

You reach out and touch him gently, desperate to snap him out of his reverie, and you accidentally graze one of his wounds where the tail of the whip has snaked over the front of his shoulder and down to his collar bone. He recoils from you like an injured animal and slumps back to the floor.

“Sorry, I'm sorry," you raise your hands in a placating gesture, "Just...please, Cassian, let me help you."

The use of his first name seems to ground him in some way. He looks up then, suddenly and with unguarded, anguished eyes that focus on you with an almost desperate intensity. He looks lost, a vulnerability radiating from him that you've never felt before - a raw, elemental hurt so great that you think he couldn't verbalise it even if he wanted to.

You feel an overwhelming need to reassure him that it hasn't all been for nothing - that this reckless, physical manifestation of the resistance he's dedicated his life to has meant something. He saved Ryker and Brox. He saved the mission. It was, perhaps, the bravest, most selfless thing you'd ever seen anyone do.

But tongue-tied and unable to put any of these grandiose feelings into words, you instead place your palm gently on Andor's cheek. Silently, he brings his own hand up to rest on top of yours and he closes his eyes as he leans, ever so slightly, into your touch.

It's enough for now.

To be continued

[lifblogs]

Just... Omega

@ailesswhumptober Day 5 Overstimulation, Migraines, "I can't take this anymore."

Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 1412 Summary: Hunter hasn't slept in one rotation, and his overtaxed body is struggling with handling his enhanced senses. READ ON AO3

Hunter growled as yet more noise assailed him, and he had to grab a bunk lest he fall to his knees. His hands shook, helmet trembling from where he held it against his left side.

If he put it on, maybe he could drown out the noise that stabbed right into his brain, maybe he could—

The Marauder tilted, the starboard-side raising, pressure slamming into it.

“Tech!” Hunter cried, wanting his ship under control.

“I’m trying,” he yelled back from the cockpit.

Hunter tried to face the consoles, the lights in the cockpit, but they seemed to sear right through him. He groaned, and despite it being rude, he put his helmet on.

The touch of it against him was almost too much, and he wanted to scream, wanted to curl into a ball, wanted to lie in the dark until his headache was gone.

Hunter’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to make his way over to the cockpit, knowing he had to be in this battle; he had to help them escape from the Imperials.

Tech swooped down just as Hunter tried finding his seat, a v-wing narrowly passing over them, the roar of their flight shuddering against the viewports. An explosion sounded, and the fighter fell off their scanning systems.

Hunter, panting hard, took his seat beside Tech, telling himself to look at the viewport, to check the shields and ship’s systems every few seconds.

A blast came from behind.

“Sorry! I’ll get him when he comes around,” Wrecker called from the gunner’s mount, voice the loudest thing Hunter had ever heard.

Omega was firmly fastened into a seat, but when Hunter looked back to check on her she was squirming.

She wanted to help.

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” Tech called, voice so loud Hunter wanted to slap him senseless.

This migraine was too much, the overstimulation was too much.

He hadn’t slept in one standard rotation, and everything was brighter, louder, each sense sharper and more distinct.

Even the electromagnetic frequencies felt like horrible, tight buzzing beneath his skin. His own ship felt like a foreign object, everything too close, trying to find ways into his aching brain, or down into his bones.

Dizziness overcame him as Tech pulled an absolutely insane maneuver, flipping them over towards where the stern had been, and straightening out to come behind the Imperial ship.

Tech fired, and Hunter almost threw up from the pressure of the recoil against the Marauder.

Steps thundered through Hunter’s head and then Omega was at his side, pointing at their scanners.

“We have too many ships on our tail,” she said.

“I am aware,” Tech told her.

Hunter wanted to scream at them to just shut up. Please!

He held his head in his hands, like his fingers could press through his helmet, to grip the aggravating ache until it decided to leave him alone.

Hunter’s vision doubled, and he mumbled out, “Eight ships?”

“Four. What is your issue?” Tech responded.

“M-migraine.”

“What do you need?” Omega asked, even as a warning flashed and sounded (feeling like booming strikes to his head).

Hunter tried to look at their surroundings, look for something to help them.

That storm.

There was a storm, right?

“Hide—hide in the storm clouds,” Hunter ordered.

“The sky is quite clear,” Tech informed him. “The electric storm passed yesterday, and as a matter of fact we would not even be able to fly in it.”

Fire and explosions in a bright sky had Hunter hunching in on himself, mumbling please on loop, mouth barely opening so he would hold in his last meal of rations.

“Tech, what does he need?” Omega asked, since Hunter wasn’t forthcoming.

What had been her question, again?

“I’ve got it,” Echo said, coming and putting his hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

Hunter slapped it away, hating the vibrations that the pressure of his action sent through his arm. He gritted his teeth.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled out.

“Fine, but if you show any sign of falling, I’m grabbing you,” Echo said, lowering his voice.

Echo took him to his rack to lie down, even as guilt gnawed at Hunter. He was supposed to lead, supposed to protect.

The world seemed to be spinning, and when he asked Echo about it he told him that the ship wasn’t doing any such motion.

Hunter laid down, clinging desperately to his rack, wanting it all to be over.

He lay there for what felt like hours and hours, tense, shivering, begging, and pleading, head aching like it would never stop.

“Please, please, please… I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t—”

He was soaked in sweat, still pleading, and holding on, when Echo came to him hours later.

The pain was gone, as was the hair-raising discomfort, but Hunter worried anything would bring those feelings back.

He was relieved that he hadn’t thrown up.

He forced his helmet off, finally, gasping, and rolled onto his back.

“How are you feeling?” Echo murmured.

The low rumble of his voice didn’t decimate him, so he assumed he was feeling better.

Though he was sore just about everywhere, and tired, and his movements as he sat up were slow.

He held his face in his hands.

“Like I have… the worst hangover… in the entire history of the galaxy,” he gasped out.

“Still have the overstimulation?”

Hunter could sense the Marauder working all around him, but now it was a comfort, not something that felt like it was trying to burrow its way into him and kill him. Still, as a test, he ran his finger over a piece of his armor.

Nothing.

No vibrations sent to destroy him, touch not too much.

Hunter almost shook his head, thought better of it, and said, “No.”

He groaned, swinging his legs over, putting a hand to the back of his stiff neck.

The rest of the ship was quiet (even Wrecker), everyone probably trying to make sure he would recover.

Then it hit him—the battle, the Imperials!

“Where are we?” Hunter asked, getting to his feet, rejecting Echo’s kindly-offered help.

“Hyperspace, heading towards the Outer Rim.”

“How’d everyone make out? Is the ship damaged?”

Tech, probably hearing that Hunter was awake, came over from the direction of the cockpit, tapping away at his datapad as usual. “If you define the engine close to failing as damaged, then yes.”

Hunter groaned.

“I hope we can get some parts to repair it, wherever we’re going.”

“For the moment, I am just happy to see that you are… repaired. In a manner of speaking, of course.”

“Omega?” Hunter asked.

Tech nodded towards the gunner’s mount. “Sleeping.”

“But I’m sure she’d be happy to see you’re okay,” Echo said.

Hunter slowly looked towards the soft light behind the curtains, and with the lights of hyperspace coming through the viewports, Omega’s flickering shadow was painted across them.

He let out a breath that seemed to relax his tense shoulders somewhat.

“Nah, she needs her sleep,” Hunter said.

Still, he rejected any offer to spend more time with the others, and for now, was content to sit on the steps to the gunner’s mount till Omega woke up.

She looked after him. He looked after her. It was just the way it was.

~~~~~

Hours later, Hunter awoke to his cheek getting poked.

“Wh-what?” he asked, trying to open his eyes.

When he did he was met with Omega’s face hanging over his own.

“You’re in my way,” Omega said, peering down at him from a step or two above.

“You sleep okay?” he asked.

“Fine. And you’re… okay?”

Hunter nodded, stiff neck protesting somewhat.

“Yeah, kid. I’m okay.”

She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, though in this position that meant her arms were around his neck.

A strangled sound left him involuntarily, yet he tried to laugh.

Omega loosened her hold, slipped sideways from the steps like he figured she could have done the whole time and gave him a proper hug.

Hunter sat up, pulling her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head.

He could hear her heart beating, blood pumping through her small body, keeping her alive, keeping her here. And now, the beat of her heart was like a calming rhythm, the many sensations of the galaxy no longer biting into him. Hunter let out a contented sigh. 

There was just… Omega.

[crow-aeris]

Damian’s first meeting with Bruce | To Brace Upon Benign Feathers

Damian picked himself up from the dusty ground, his tail lashing through the blood-stained sand as he wiped away the crimson clinging to the corner of his mouth. The fledgling could feel bruises blossoming along his torso, legs, and face, but he at least made it out with his life.

Damian's opponent didn't have the same luxury.

"Better," a voice commented in the League dialect.

The harpy eagle straightened, folding his wings tighter against his back as he peered at his mother. The imperial eagle looked him over critically before nodding in approval, "After careful discussion with your Grandfather, we have designed you prepared for training beneath your father. We have forged you into a blade, Damian, and your father will sharpen you."

His mother turns away, beckoning Damian with a sweep of her elegant tail. The fledgling trailed after, carefully keeping his distance from his mother's blade-laced tail. Damian struggled slightly to keep up with the imperial eagle's strides, but he managed. Eventually, they reached Talia's private office- one of the few areas within the facility that was hidden from Grandfather's near-omnipresent eyes.

Talia waited until Damian fully entered the room before shutting the door with a flick of her heavy wing. She beckoned him closer, and Damian obeyed- eagerly tilting his face into her clawed hands. His mother's palms always smelled like blood, which should've been disconcerting to some, but Damian knew she would never use her claws on him.

The fledgling felt his mother gently brush her tail against his, and Damian returned the action.

"Will you tell me Father's identity?" Damian asked, suppressing his purrs as careful claws combed through Damian's feathers.

His mother hums in consideration, "No, I will not. Think of this as... a trial. All I will say is he lives in Gotham..."

-----

Bruce swept between the buildings, his dark wings skimming past the apartments' walls. With a flick of his tail, Bruce made a narrow turn and latched onto the side of the building. With narrowed eyes, Batman waited a few seconds before diving.

The harpy eagle slammed into his target, avoiding his spine as he pinned the man's wings against the ground.

"Where is he hiding?" Batman snarled, grunting as the man tried to stab a hidden knife into Bruce's side. Thankfully, the kevlar was enough to impede the knife, but it was enough to distract him.

The man screeched, scrabbling in panic and somehow hitting a solid hit against Bruce's chest. His suit's flexible yet sturdy material absorbed and distributed the impact, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Bruce rattled out a low hiss, looming over the man with flared wings that seemed to suck the light from around them. The man froze in fear, and Bruce took the chance to knock him out, tying up the man for Gordan's men to collect and subsequently interrogate.

With a weary sigh, Bruce spread his wings and took into the sky. The harpy eagle glided over Park Row when a sudden weight slammed into his side.

The eagle hissed, flicking his tail to reorient himself as the weight continued clinging to Bruce's side. A sharp pain stabbed into his side, slicing through the kevlar as Bruce twisted and slammed himself against the side of a building. Still, the assailant continued to cling to Bruce's side.

He hissed, feeling claws sink into the flesh of his wings, dislodging the two from the side of the apartment. Bruce twisted, flaring his wings to slow their descent before allowing his assailant to crash into the ground. Bruce lurched away, carefully watching the other's movements before realizing that his assailant was a fledgling-

Narrowed emerald eyes glared at him through wild hair, lips pulled back to reveal sharpened fangs. Taking advantage of Bruce's shock, the fledgling lunged.

The black-clad vigilante flared his wings, barely dodging the child's blow before allowing a low, threatening rattle to escape his throat, his voice modulator struggling to keep up with the eagle's snarls, "Who are you?"

The fledgling narrowed his eyes, and faster than Bruce could react, there was a blur, and Bruce's back slammed against the concrete. He could only struggle upright when the fledgling unsheathed a katana and pointed it at Bruce's throat.

The wicked blade gleamed in the pale light, a mere centimeter away from the eagle's jugular.

"Hello, Father," the fledgling sneered, emerald eyes gleaming as the clouds momentarily parted to illuminate the young child with a threatening halo, "I expected more from you."

[wanderingjedi77]

I’ve got a Bo-Katan fic. Din finding out Bo has a badass wife and enjoys seeing Bo go soft for her even as her wife teases her. Bonus points if you can slot fennec in there somewhere.

Please and thank you

Oh I really like this anon. :) I think I slot fennec in here. So here it is. :) I hope you like it.

Bo-Katan x Fem!Reader (Cyar'ika)

You heard the shooting first, follow by shouts in both basic and Mando'a as you sat in your camp. You were alone, and preferred it that way; unless you were with your wife.

The shots come closer and you move to the edge of the encampment, where you see two Mandalorians and a mercenary?She looks like a mercenary fighting Imperials, storm troopers to be specific, and you sigh.

Who are you to miss out on all the action?

You slip on your helmet, and rush into the battle as the Mandalorian in silver armour gets knocked back towards the others-

The Imperial raises his blaster in the confusion and you rush towards him as you pull out your own blaster-

"Get down!" You shout as you shoot one of the Imperials. You look over and register that flash of blue armour and the owl markings to be your wife, Bo-Katan, before you get slammed to the ground, dropping your weapon in the process. You roll the assailant over and take off his helmet, punching him a few times in the face before grabbing your blaster from where it fell and shooting him.

Wild with adrenaline, you stand up and turn to the other remaining troopers-

Din stayed back, halting in his steps as the female Mandalorian shot one imperial, and then grabbed him hard enough to throw him into the storm trooper as they went tumbling off the cliff into the abyss below. She looked at him and he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"This is the way." He said, and the woman laughed under her helmet as she removed it to reveal a woman with a pretty smile. She glanced past him for a moment. "You must be Din. Bo has told me about you a few times. I can't say her stories get any less interesting."

"You know Bo-Katan?" Din asked, as he heard the others come up behind him.

"Do I ever." You say with a knowing smile. You look at Bo as she approaches and winks, her helmet clipped to her belt. "She's my wife."

Bo throws her arms around you, and you rest your head on her shoulder, relaxing. She holds you tight, and doesn't let go as you pull back.

"Miss me that much?" You ask softly.

"Mhmm just a bit my love." Bo replies, and she turns to look at Din, and Fennec. "That's Fennec, she's been helping Din and I out."

You look at the other woman who nods at you firmly.

"It's nice to meet you." You pull away from Bo and hold out your hand, and Fennec shakes it with a smile. You offer your hand to Din and he does the same, if a bit more formal.

"I didn't know you had a wife." Din questions, but his voice is kind. He seems to enjoy watching you interact.

"I bet you didn't know I was a good warrior either. I've saved Bo more times then I can count." You feel Bo slip an arm around your waist and shiver from the contact.

"I've saved you just as many."

"Just a few..."You tease and she laughs, clearly pleased with your answer. Force, you love her laugh.

"You look at each other like your the only stars in the galaxy." Din remarks, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You look at Bo, who has a little smile on her face that reminds you of when you first kissed her, eyes full of love as she replies,

"She is the only light in my life."

"And you are mine." You answer, heart beating fast in your chest at her answer.

"So are we going to investigate or are you two just going to stand there and flirt with each other until the sun rises?" Fennec smirks.

You blush, and Bo kisses your cheek. "I guess we had better get moving." You look at Bo and kiss her properly. "One for the road, you can have more later when were alone."

"Alright Cyar'ika." Bo replies, tilting her head back as she smiles at you, "You can have your way this time."

You blush and laugh nervously. "Thank you princess." You reply softy, using your nickname for her. You always felt nervous and giddy when she called you sweetheart. "I'll make the most of it."

Bo smiles, puts her helmet back on and makes sure you stay close to her as you follow Fennec and Din. She doesn't want to lose you after all.

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 131

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm

This is the last post! I hope you enjoyed.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here.

Day 130 here

***

25. “I want you in all the ways you’ll let me have you.”

115. “You can have all of me if that’s what you want.”

***

straight into the nsfw under the cut

When his brain kicked into operation again, he saw that Damian had come too, striping the sheets and Tim’s hand with white. He lay with his hands spread over his face, concealing his expression from Tim's gaze and maybe his own. His breath rattled the slightest bit on each unsteady exhalation.

Tim held Damian tight to his chest and kissed his shoulder blades, his ribcage, the nape of his neck. He petted Damian like a cat, stroking from his chest down to his thighs. He whispered, "You did so well for me," and "you're amazing," and "so beautiful," and all the other things he could think of to reassure him without acknowledging he knew how exposed Damian must be feeling at the moment.

Damian's body began to relax beneath his ministrations within a minute or two. By the time Tim had to pull out or risk losing the condom, his breathing had slowed to the very edge of sleep's pattern.

Tim went to the bathroom and cleaned up, then went back to give Damian's shoulder a gentle poke. "Hey, Dami. I know you're so tired you wanna kill me, but you'll hate it in the morning if you wake up with this mess all over you."

Damian groaned in protest, but got up and went into the bathroom himself. Sure enough, a second later the shower sputtered on. Tim spread the top sheet over the mess and fell asleep waiting for his return. 

When he woke up, his cell's screen read 12:18 PM. Damian had adhered himself to his body, every inch of Tim's back in contact with some part of Damian's front. Tim's head rested on his arm beneath Tim's pillow, and his other arm was clamped around Tim's waist, holding him fast.

Tim smiled and overlay the arm circling his torso with his own. "How long have you been awake?"

"Almost half an hour." Damian kissed his neck.

"That must've been boring." Tim burrowed deeper into Damian's embrace.

"Not at all. I was doing precisely as I liked." Damian kept kissing him: his temple, his ear, the top of his head.

Tim rotated in the circle of his arms, and Damian lay on his back to give him more room. Tim caressed his chin to turn it so he could check Damian's expression. "How are you feeling?"

Damian lifted his brows in imperious dismissal. "I am in peak physical condition, as usual. How are you feeling?"

Tim knew it was going to come out as unbearably cheesy even before he said it, but he did it anyway. "Lucky."

Damian cradled his face in the palm of his hand. "I think I'm lucky, too," he said, eyes alight with fondness.

Tim kissed his fingers and rested his head on Damian's chest.

He had almost fallen back asleep when Damian's voice vibrated beneath his ear. "Timothy."

The mild shock of hearing it echoed down his backbone. He craned his head back to look at Damian again. "Yeah?"

Damian frowned pensively. "Last night . . . you said you . . ."

"I said I'm in love with you," Tim finished for him, with an ease he didn't feel. Saying it out loud still felt like offering his chest up to Jason for target practice.

"Yes." Damian rubbed Tim's back as he spoke. "I don't like it." Tim froze, but Damian kept going as if he didn't notice. "It feels unequal."

Tim relaxed again. "Oh. Well, you don't have to worry about it."

"Tt. I'm not worried, I'm merely objecting to you having made your position more assailable through ill-advised exposure. The stability of our relationship depends on being in an equitable stalemate." Damian lifted the hand Tim had rested on his chest and kissed his fingers, one by one. When he'd finished, he added, "It was reckless of you."

Tim couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry, are you objecting to me having confessed before being sure you felt the same because it was a bad tactical move?"

Damian gave him a faint smile. "You're a brilliant strategist, but your impulsivity does occasionally take over."

Tim wrinkled his brow. "I'm not sure how to respond to that. Are you insulting or complimenting me?"

"Neither. It's a statement of fact." Damian's grip tightened on Tim's fingers where they rested on his sternum.

"Okay." Tim rolled to straddle his hips, hands planted in the mattress on either side of his head. He dropped a kiss onto Damian's forehead. "Well, so's this. You listening?"

Damian took a deep breath as if he were bracing himself, though his expression remained unchanged. He nodded.

Tim had to kiss his nose, too. "Good. I don't mean to burden you with the facts. But I do love you, and I want you in all the ways you'll let me have you."

Damian lifted his hands to Tim's thighs. When he spoke, after a long pause, his tone was tentative in a way he rarely allowed others to hear. "May I ask why? What's the incentive?"

Tim couldn't stop one corner of his mouth from pulling up, though the question sent a pang through his heart. "The incentive is that I want to. Now are you going to let me, or not?"

He wasn't sure Damian would catch the reference, but a quick flash of recognition and amusement lit the serious features beneath his gaze. "Ya 'amar, you can have all of me if that's what you want."

Tim's breath caught at the endearment. He lowered his body to press his face to the soft skin beneath Damian's jaw. "I do," he said, words hushed by Damian's neck and his own nerves. "I do want all of you."

Damian held him close, arms steady and sure. "Then that is what you've got."

"And . . ." Tim swallowed. "And is that what you want, too? Me, I mean?"

Damian put his hands on either side of Tim's face to lift him up so they could make eye contact. "Why want what I already have? Rather, I will keep what you've given, and protect your heart with far more care than you have shown for it. You cannot have it back." He pulled Tim’s mouth down to kiss it, one brief press like punctuation. “Will you agree?”

Tim nodded and hoped his face didn't look as stupid-stunned as he felt. “I agree.” 

“Very well.” Damian released his grip. “Then it's settled. I won't entertain any further equivocation. You’re mine.” 

Tim laughed, and kissed him, and let himself be owned.

the end

[archduchessofnowhere]

It was the morning of January 30th, a gloomy winter day, the sky being overcast, and snowflakes drifting across the window-panes. I had my singinglesson from the wife of Professor Niklas-Kempner, at ten in the morning as usual (...) When, shortly before, I had returned from the south, I had once again been struck by the change in the Crown Prince, and this time more strongly than ever. He was rarely sober; did not get home to the Hofburg Palace until dawn; and as for the company he kept, the less said about it the better. His restlessness and nervous irritability had become intensified, He spoke menacingly of horrible things, and, in my very presence, would cruelly toy with the revolver he always carried about with him. Indeed, I had become afraid to be alone with him. Still, summoning all my strength of mind to aid me, I went on trying to hide from others’ inquisitive gaze the complete failure of our marriage. On the particular morning of which I now write, the entrance of my chief lady-in-waiting interrupted the singing lesson, and the gloomy trains of thought which were interspersed with it. Her aspect was unusually serious and reserved when she begged me to give her a few minutes in private. She had, she said, an important communication to make to me. I went with her into the adjoining room, and looked at her while, in words hesitant and trembling, she began to talk about bad news from Mayerling. I realized instantly that the catastrophe I had so long dreaded must have taken place. “He is dead!” I cried. Sorrowfully she nodded her head in the affirmative. He was dead; he had fulfilled his dreadful threat, and had put an end to his disordered life. Such was the insufferable climax to all I had suffered, seen, and heard during the last few weeks. I trembled with excitement and terror. Then I begged my informant to tell me, in detail, what had happened; but, as yet, she knew nothing more than the bare facts of the suicide. Soon I was summoned to the Emperor [Franz Josef] and the Empress [Elisabeth]. Accompanied by my chief lady-in-waiting, I went to the private Imperial apartments. The Emperor was seated in the middle of the room, the Empress, dressed in black, her face pale and rigid, was standing beside him, In my shattered condition I believed that they looked on me asa criminal. They assailed me with a cross-fire of questions some of which I could not, and others would not, answer. At length the Empress made up her mind to tell me the whole truth. The most horrible thing had happened which could befall a wife. At Mayerling, early in the morning, the Crown Prince had been found in bed, with his brains blown out, and beside him the corpse of a woman who had also been shot— Mary Vetsera.

Count Joseph Hoyos, one of the Crown Prince’s guests at the shoot, summoned early in the morning by the groom of the chambers, who could get no answer to his knocking at the door of the Crown Prince’s bedroom, had forced an entry and had seen the two dead bodies. Hoyos had made all possible speed to Vienna, and had conveyed the terrible news to Rudolf’s chief chamberlain. It was decided to tell her Majesty the Empress before any one else; the companion and secretary, Fraulein von Ferenczy, being charged with this painful commission. The Empress went at once to the Emperor. The agony of this hour was borne by the parents alone, without any witness of their grief.

Only after that was it decided to acquaint Rudolf’s widow with what had happened. I sat between their Majesties while what I heard and suffered inflicted on me incurable wounds. At length I ventured to tell the Empress what, weeks before, I had tried to say to the Emperor. I spoke of Rudolf’s manner of life, his habits and customs, his associates, how completely his health had been disordered. The Empress, however, stubbornly closed her mind against these communications, and it was an additional distress to me to feel that she was turning away from me. In her eyes I was the guilty party. Though outwardly I remained calm, inwardly I was in a state of collapse.

Princess Stephanie of Belgium (1937). I was to be empress

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

[In-progress Obimaul, post TCW, updates tuesdays! New? Read the prequel "Desertification" on Ao3! 18+, Link at the end. ]

~~~~Chapter 8: Research and Rest~~~~

Darth Maul does not sweat.

A feature of zabrak, Dryden had believed, or nightbrothers specifically, considering the fetid swamps that bore them. Neither humidity nor dry desert heat seemed to bother him. The efforts of battle, business, and pleasure alike failed to bring any telltale gleam to crimson skin. The sith didn't even sweat in a hot bath, whenever they’d shared such on First Light or when visiting the Black Sun’s impressive bathhouses.

Now, as he watches sweat bead across tattooed skin and green mist seep from between bared teeth, Dryden has to wonder at the power of these psychic attacks. In the wake of it Maul growls and shakes, and radiates that same luscious aura of darkness all sith artifacts do. Even from a distance the force boiled hard enough that with just a barely-there connection he had felt it twisting.

A shiver runs crisp and chill down his spine. How quaint Maul’s warning suddenly feels, about the beguiling dangers of the objects in this room. By far the most seductive thing here is the sith lord driven to his knees before him. Dryden murmurs a question, barely recalls the words even as he says them. It serves its purpose, calling Maul’s attention to him. Bloodshot eyes open and rise to his. Sulfurous and dilated, only a thin ring of color around two dark pools. From this angle the zabrak is just sharp horns and burning irises framed in furious black.

Lovely, really.

The impulse to touch drives his hands together, fingers laced and steepled before his mouth. Dryden entertains the idea of running his fingers down the marks of a damp brow only briefly, truthfully far too engaged in watching how gracefully the sith rises to his feet, so very… wraithlike. The motion is too smooth to be anything but force-assisted.

When the other man turns his back Dryden follows, riveted by the fine tremor in black-clothed shoulders. After nearly three years of working together, Lord Maul has finally brought him here, to Dathomir… and how illuminating this visit has been, in such a short bit of time too.

It was to Maul’s credit that Crimson Dawn had survived the birth of a new Empire. Thrived, despite the chaos swirling around a young regime eager to swallow all who could or would stand opposed to it. Dryden had come to respect, and at times even depend on, Maul’s power. His efficient, unrelenting drive. However, the sith’s occasional habit of, hmmm… disappearing was, in Dryden’s opinion, another matter.

Sometimes it was simply not answering comms, other times...

Visits to worlds in the unknown regions. Excursions into imperial occupied space. Days in a trance, speaking to -apparently- ghosts. He’d rather feared this event was yet another distraction when Maul had gone quiet some weeks ago. Ensconced on Dathomir, off in his own horned head, again, leaving Dryden to manage their organization alone.

So unutterably boring compared to having him around.

But Maul’s summons had ended that monotony in spectacular fashion. A mystery, an unknown assailant, a dark power… and an exclusive invitation. Dryden’s patience had paid off so very well.

For a second time he is forced to stop his fingers from touching.

He does wonder though, who else had his lord contacted for help, before him? No one useful it seemed. No one with answers. These Dryden would provide, through the Dawn’s network.

The other man begins drifting back the way they came and Dryden smirks as he follows, self-amused. That Darth Maul has no one else is a delightful little theory Dryden finds himself lending more credence to by the hour.

They return upstairs to the ichor lit living space, such as it is. Maul retrieves his two books and goes to curl up in a nook of the stone couch. Dryden settles in beside him, not quite touching, and smiles a belladonna smile. With a faint creek from ancient bindings, Maul opens one of the books. His fingers are the slightest bit unsteady, a tremor making the edge of a floating page quiver. Oh yes, delightful.

"My lord,“ he interrupts before the sith can really get to reading.

Maul is immediately tense, turning to glare, a black lip curled just enough to show a hint of teeth. Heat creeps up Dryden’s neck as his markings flush in kind. Irritability is par for the course with Lord Maul, but that’s a bit more aggression aimed his way than is warranted, really. He’s here to help after all.

Staring back, he rolls his wrists over to show open palms. When the sith puts his teeth away and blinks, Dryden softens his own expression into an indulgent pout, reaching out to rest his arm on the couch behind Maul’s back. “What else might I do for you?”

Sharp teeth flash again when Maul replies. “Find me more references."

Tsk.

“Of course.” Dryden replies smoothly, and sits back on the couch- more of a bench, considering the lack of padding… perhaps he could get away with gifting the sith a collection of cushions? The carved scrollwork everywhere is lovely, but the lack of finishing touches is rather unfortunate.

“I will contact the personnel out hunting for us, yes?” he asks rhetorically, and uses his datapad to remote access First Light's encrypted holonet connection. “Perhaps they’ve found something by now.”

Maul grunts, and turns to his reading.

Dryden does as promised, checking in with his auction hunters and archivists.

Nothing pending, unfortunately. He reports the state of things in an apologetic murmur, and turns to working on other matters for a time. It wouldn’t do to press the irritated man for more details so soon; these will come in time.

Beside him, Maul reads with dogged focus. This turns out to be an activity involving near-constant muttering, rifling back and forth through the pages, and frequent small noises made at the text. This amusing intensity of concentration is broken an hour or so in, when the world tilts and—

Dryden sways in his seat, faintly startled. There are… chimes? Strings? Floating unseen through the air and reaching, seeking not through the air, but in the force, some great, intangible spider weaving a silken web from the energy of the universe itself. Plucked threads hum in a resonance felt rather than heard, bell tones melting in the ears across dimensions as they call, beckoning, coiling in an oil slick embrace around—

Maul makes a noise like a speeder failing to start and drops his book. It flops to the floor, and the sith hunches over. Energy surges out to throw the strings back, tearing, rending, shredding.

Dryden braces his hands on the stone couch, fighting to keep hold of which way is up as the raging chill of the dark side rips the beguiling music into a discordant cacophony, filling the world with screaming noise, windchimes in a hurricane.

When he can focus past the sheer noise, Dryden finds Maul curled in on himself, entire body gone indistinct and hazy. The sith's form wavers like a mirage, the lines of him dissolving into grey, curling mist. It’s the only part of him that’s moving, whipped into tatters by the storm playing out in the force.

Dryden has a hand out before he can even stop himself, surprised when his fingers are met with solid warmth.

The heat of Maul’s body is like a furnace beneath the black, roughspun fabric, bones shifting subtly against Dryden’s palm as the sith breathes— hard, panting. A far more pleasant thing to focus on than the dizzying sensation of clattering bells reverberating through his entire being, strings plucking and catching at him as they whip past in the force.

Swallowing back nausea, Dryden dares to reach toward the sith with what little force presence he has, pressing himself toward the questionable shelter of the icy claws ripping the noise asunder. A chill burns down his spine, vertigo gives one last, hard twist, and suddenly he’s… numb. The chimes and strings and furious energy is replaced by buzzing, as though a door had been shut on it all. Maul’s back heaves against his palm, and he takes a deep breath of his own, looking down to see his arm beginning to blur.

"Remarkable," he manages, raising his other hand before his eyes. A laugh rises in his throat as he watches his fingers all but disappear into shadows. In a matter of seconds his body appears no more corporeal than Maul’s.

Buffered from the attack, he is free to watch the man fight. A delight in any context, truly. The sith’s energy- what he can perceive of it- lashes around them. A deadly whirlwind pushing and shredding and holding back the dizzying, frigid presence that tries to intrude. Grinning, he reaches out with his own pale command of the force, moonlight compared to the wrath of a sun, reveling in the burn and rush of true power.

By the time whatever it is eases away, the cloth under his palm is damp, and his sith is shuddering from the strain.

“What-?” Dryden says in a whisper, then stops.

He isn’t sure how to phrase what he wants to ask. Adrenaline has made him giddy, questions clamoring in his mind, but Maul is growling again. The vibration of it rolls up his arm. He takes his hand away, but the zabrak doesn’t seem focused on him, too busy retrieving the fallen book with shaky fingers. It sits unopened in Maul’s lap for a time, while Dryden puts his thoughts in order and the sith’s breathing returns to normal.

A wordless sigh, and Maul goes to his reading like nothing had happened.

Dryden doesn’t. Couldn't possibly. “Do you… have anything stronger than tea, my lord?”

"Mnh," the man replies, seeming to think it over before setting his book aside and disappearing down the hall. The zabrak returns with an ancient bottle of something golden, and one crystal tumbler.

“Oh ,” he says at the sight of it, and ends up pouring four fingers for himself.

Dryden whiles away the rest of their evening working on his datapad, comforted by a glass of something like whiskey, if it was made from distilled sunshine. Maul reads beside him, disappearing to the kitchen on occasion for food, or presumably to weather yet another of the psychic assaults far enough away to spare him the radiant effects.

He can’t quite decide if he’s grateful or disappointed by that.

When the other man has finished devouring both books, to no evident result, he sets them on the low table and rises.

"I am going to rest,” Maul informs him, apropos of nothing, “Are you returning to your ship?”

"Hmmmm," Dryden stalls, nibbling lightly on his lower lip and swirling the dregs in his glass, "What are the odds something dathomirian would kill me in my sleep?"

"Small, but not zero. Everything on this world wants to kill and eat everything else, always," Maul says, blunt as ever.

Dryden looks up at him from under his blonde eyelashes. "Does that include you, my lord?"

"Mm, naturally,” the man responds, hands behind his back, shoulders too straight, a bright gleam in those bloodshot yellow eyes.

He laughs, entertained. Such a mild threat was practically a warm welcome, wasn’t it?

“I shall stay then,” he purrs against the rim of his glass, “if it pleases you?"

“Mh,” Maul has to say about that, “come then.”

Evidently, it does. Dryden tosses back the last of his whiskey and rises, turning to his droid. “Tee-four, retrieve my day bag, yes? Oh, and my crane robe. The black silk one with yellow tips on the feathers, from Ziton.”

He turns to smile at his sithly host, gesturing toward the hall he presumes leads toward the bedrooms. “After you.”

Maul leads him through a roughly hewn archway and down a hallway leading off to several little cave-like rooms, most of them empty apart from what’s clearly an office, shockingly modern. Dryden’s brief glance gives him the impression of a room transplanted straight from an Imperial starship, repainted in black. Curious.

Down past the office, the carved stone corridor opens up into a sprawling room that he takes for another storage space but… no, this must be the bedroom. They had passed by nothing else that would fit the description, and this room does indeed have a bed in it. A very large one- ovoid, of modern design- placed two steps up on an elevated dais that fills the far left of the room.

After a long look he can t ell how the room’s design had begun. Black ashwood furniture and tiled floors, luxury fixtures in bronze. The redstone of the walls and ceiling have been worked smooth, then carved onto decorative moulding, pilasters, and arabesques.

Whereas the rest of Maul’s apartments look half-done, this sanctuary stands as the example of what they all might become. Rough stone and eclectic styles, smoothed and harmonized into something… elevated. Dathomir’s wild sensibilities intertwined with sharp civil luxury, all bathed in the red gleam of the sunset pouring in through a wall of windows.

At some point, however, it seems the room’s thread had been lost. Countless candles, scattered about, substitute where electric fixtures seem to be inoperable. Their unsteady magelight reveals an odd and extensive collection of extra furnishings and storage crates, shoved and packed at random into the darkened edges of the room. Their surfaces are covered in… things. Partially disassembled electronics lay alongside priceless artifacts and sporadic clutter. Books, datapads, scrolls, tablets, and dripping candles. He spots the geometry of no less than three holocrons within the mess, edges shining in red and gold.

Maul’s dimly-lit hoard reduces the floorspace of what should be a grand room to perhaps half its useful potential.

He allows himself a long count of five to be overwhelmed by it all, then forces his mind toward relevant questions. Meanwhile, Maul has gone ahead, winding his way across the room.

"...my lord?" he asks, seeking direction.

The sith stops at the large bed and reaches to unlatch something at his middle, sounding distracted when he replies. Or… perhaps that’s tired? He’s never heard lord Maul sound tired before.

“Sleep where you please. Though I warn you, the attacks will continue through the night."

Well. That explains some things, including the bloodshot look his sith is sporting. Granted, his eyes were always somewhat rimmed in red, but not usually quite this much.

Dryden surveys the space, considering. There's a canapé à confidante style sofa with a long plush section that would do, if he cleared it off. What looks like a daybed is tucked up next to the windows, covered with more pillows than Iego has moons. Perhaps some of those might be migrated to the living room couch? Anyway, these two options may prove far enough away from Maul to avoid interrupting Dryden’s sleep with further assaults from those awful strings… but the sith had proven quite capable of shielding them both, and why invite him here in the first place, if not for company?

His shoes click on the tile as Dryden crosses the room to test those waters, moving up the two steps to join Maul on the dais. There’s more tiled redstone here, softened near the bed by a collection of dark pelts. He walks up to the edge of the mattress, mindful of the zabrak’s personal space -or more accurately the reach of his claws- and sits. No reaction comes.

Hm!

He looks over to find the sith tossing his robes onto the back of a chair. The last gasp of sunset highlights his lord’s skin with orange and gold. Taking off his cape, Dryden reclines on his elbows, tipping his head back to keep Maul in sight. “Tell me you’ve been able to get some sleep, hm? I know you can survive without, but that seems dreadfully unpleasant.”

The zabrak climbs into his bed, rolling over to fall back into the pillows. "Mnh."

When that’s all the answer he gets, Dryden lets his eyes wander over the view left bare to him, the rise and fall of a tattooed chest already slowing toward sleep. They’d shared beds before but never had the sith actually slept in his presence, so far as he knew. What a day of firsts it’s turning out to be, all thanks to this odd affliction.

Really though, what could be powerful enough to do this to his lord? Who could be daring and motivated enough to risk such advances?

PA-LT4 trundles in, balancing an oversized suitcase, and the crime lord turns these questions over idly as he stands to retrieve it. He’s imagined no truly realistic answers even in the time it takes to complete his nightly twelve-step hygiene routine, the droid kept busy fetching water. Its comings and goings don’t seem to bother Maul, who hasn’t stirred once since collapsing on top of the bedclothes in nothing but the pants he likely didn’t want to bother getting off over his cybernetic knees.

Dryden considers his motionless form briefly, and decides a pair of shorts are indeed enough. What was that saying? 'When in Onderon, do as they do'? Besides, Maul has never once cared about his state of dress, and the air here is a hint warm for his tastes.

He folds his crane robe and sets it aside on a small leather ottoman, then finds his way under the duvet Maul had ignored entirely. Black shimmersilk sheets await him, and he comments on them quietly, in case the man is still awake to hear him.

"My thanks for your hospitality, my lord, in these difficult times."

"Mnnnn," the sith hums softly. Not asleep quite yet then.

Dryden smiles as he makes himself comfortable. A night or two of poor sleep, presumably to be interrupted by the strange attacks, is an exceedingly small price to pay for everything he is gaining from this venture. He pillows his head on an arm and watches Maul’s pulse beat in the hollows of his neck, wondering what new things tomorrow will bring.

…and if he’ll get to take a longer look at that storage space.

Tag List: (comment to be added)

@savageopressbignaturals

[wrathofanempireif]

Aftermath

Bruno moved stealthily through the fiery remains of the Capitol building, its windows alight like countless spectral eyes, each fading into nothingness as the embers gradually exhausted themselves. The scene would have been spectacular, were it not marred by the lingering stench of death, the countless bodies strewn across the streets, and the haunting gazes of the survivors. They observed Bruno with a feral intensity, their expressions alternating between fear and a hunger for violence.

He didn't resent their hostility. Their clothing was shredded, their injuries oozing crimson, while he passed among them in a striking red coat, a stark contrast against the background of ash and snow.

Following him were two Imperial Marines, their faces concealed behind black visors, a gift from his new associates.

Allies. The word almost gagged him. Indispensable allies. He corrected himself, understanding that the loyalist faction had no chance without the seemingly infinite resources of the Imperials.

They needed him. He reassured himself, subconsciously adjusting his red uniform now emblazoned with the Imperial insignia. Looking up, he observed the loyalist forces marching in unison with the Imperial Marines. They were once the underdogs, the only ones courageous enough to confront a corrupt society.

Why, then, did he feel such an overwhelming emptiness? His gaze swept over the survivors being forcefully herded, or rather, dragged into emergency tents, with medical personnel moving briskly from one patient to another.

The cacophony of voices, cries, and shouts sounded eerily hollow.

He halted at the Imperial security boundary, where silent tanks stood their ground. Their gray armor bore scars from small arms fire. The gunners acknowledged his presence with a brief wave, directing him through the gated checkpoints.

As he walked on, he spotted increasing numbers of loyalist soldiers, each standing at attention as he passed. He offered a faint smile in gratitude, a gesture far more than the Imperial Marines afforded him. They looked upon him with nearly as much disdain as the Commonwealth prisoners of war shuffling by. Spotting the command tent, Bruno approached, lifting the tent flap to enter. His escorts positioned themselves outside, joining several other Marines on guard.

Inside, the only sources of light were the glow from the command consoles and the holographic maps. Overseeing the map was General Laertra, a burly man with sun-bleached hair and a prominent scar tracing his jawline. He looked up, arching an eyebrow at Bruno's arrival.

"Commander," Laertra intoned in his characteristic monotone, "I believe I explicitly instructed you to remain at your post."

“You assured me my family would be safe, and now you tell me to stay put when you don’t even know if they’re alive?”

“I suggest you get a grip, Commander. You have responsibilities beyond your family," the General shot back, returning his gaze to the map, observing various strategic points. "Or perhaps I have been misguided in my faith in your leadership of the Loyalists?”

"Listen here, you-" Bruno's retort was cut short as he felt the chill of steel pressed against his neck.

"Have faith," a voice as soothing as a warm breeze came from behind him as a hand gently grabbed his chin. "This is not a time for doubt."

"May I present Imperial Operative 008?" the General announced, a note of amusement in his voice. "Release him."

The cold metal retreated from his neck, but the hand on his chin did not. Bruno turned slowly, his eyes widening as he caught sight of his assailant. She was nearly a foot taller than him, slim despite the ethereal armor that adorned her figure. Her face was hidden by a veil that drifted with her smooth movements.

She circled in front of him, long black fingernails adorned with stars painted onto them carefully tracing around his face.

A flicker of pain surfaced; Bruno winced, reaching up to his face as she withdrew her hand. He could feel the small cut made by her nails. She lifted her hand, a droplet of blood placed on the pad. She gently lifted a medical reader and transferred the blood onto it.

"A highly effective asset, sadly we missed out on a field test," the General said, drawing Bruno’s attention and clasping Bruno on the shoulder. “Now, about your family, I’ve received news that they were evacuated by what remains of the Commonwealth forces.”

Evacuated. Bruno released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief flooded him. At least they were safe. Yet, they should have been here; he could show them the truth then. They would understand. He nodded to himself for reassurance.

"What now?" He asked, looking around and realizing the mysterious figure was nowhere to be found.

"Your suggestion to focus our reconstruction efforts on the mountains and the subterranean mining cities has been approved. Our support there is stronger anyway.”

"And what about me?" Bruno asked, scanning the tent, half expecting the unseen assailant to materialize again.

"You are destined to guide your people towards the future, a future alongside the Empire. Where you all rightfully belong," the General replied, giving Bruno a friendly squeeze of the shoulder. His eyes seemed hollow. "Cheer up, soon the people here will be singing your praises and rebuilding these ruins into a vision you can live with.”

“Sir,” Bruno began, hesitating, “before I begin, I would like to visit the residential district south of here.”

The General regarded him for a long moment. Bruno began to think he had said something wrong when the man gestured, “It's your city, of course.”

Bruno walked out. The marines, instead of following him, remained where they were. Bruno swallowed, looking out towards the loyalist militia. Should he order an escort? Or would that be seen as a sign of weakness? They had won, hadn't they?

Patting his sidearm, Bruno turned towards the southern residential districts, weaving around soldiers and the prisoners they were escorting. Waving his Imperial badge, he passed through three checkpoints before stopping. The Academy stood out, a large open area leading up to the massive building. It looked like an old shell, long ago hollowed out and broken.

He stepped through a crumbling doorway, his boots shifting on the broken concrete and metal. Desks were strewn about. He thought about how reckless this was - looking through a crumbling building is a quick way to get oneself crushed. He rounded a corner, looking out towards the courtyard, and paused.

There lay the burned-out remains of what looked to be a transport, its turrets blown open and curling like long nails bent by the heat.

His boots sank into the transition to snow, or maybe it was still ash. There was a form. Bruno froze, looking around before approaching it; it was small, a child. He thought, a chill running through him, no doubt the same age as... He fought back a well of emotion as he thought of the family he traded away.

For a future. He reminded himself hollowly.

There was a breeze. A feeling of danger suddenly crawled down his back like a spider. His skin began to crawl.

Bruno turned, his gasp dying in his throat. The operative. She was standing beside him, staring down at the body in front of them.

“We can’t just leave them there,” Bruno found himself saying, despite his inner voice screaming danger at him. “We should, bury them.”

She turned, staring at him for a long moment from behind the veil before gliding forward. There was no sound as she moved. As she knelt next to the body and gently ran a hand along the ground beside it.

“Frozen by winds,” she said smoothly, her voice sounding remarkably regal yet young. “The army has excavated several sites for-”

“Not the mass graves,” Bruno whispered, not realizing she could hear him. “What if their family needs to find them?”

“You seem very kind,” she said, gently cradling the frozen form as she lifted it off the ground, “I wonder if a man like that will survive in a place like this, or if your conscience will wither like the rest of us.”

Bruno watched as she passed him, taking the child off towards the city where her ethereal form vanished in the approaching snow.

Maybe. Bruno thought bitterly. But he owed it to everyone, especially his people, to be the leader they needed to survive this.

And to survive the trials to come.

[the-bar-sinister]

Sandstorms and Starfall (48038 words) by VickytheSnake, thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 11/?

Summary: When Vivi makes a midnight escape from the palace of Alabasta and flees the country in an attempt to get stronger and rejoin the Straw Hat pirates as a full crew member she finds herself unsure of her path forward. That is until a chance meeting brings her face to face with her former enemy, and former hero, Sir Crocodile who agrees to help her on her quest to find a devil fruit for herself.

It's surprisingly easy to make peace with the former warlord, if not to forgive or trust him. But the longer she spends around him, and the former Baroque Works agents helping her find her way through the Grand Line, the more she finds that the troubles in her heart are not the simple ones that she expected to be facing.

catch up here

-

The incident that had interrupted Vivi's heart to heart with Captain Crocodile was as serious and potentially deadly as it was stupid. She had heard about the insane weather the further on the Grand Line that one sailed, but this was her first encounter with it.

A rain of frozen fish, some of which were the size of a person.

Vivi had been absolutely awestruck. Like, yeah—outside of Alabasta the weather could get weird, randomly changing from calm to a hurricane in mere moments. But this was something on a whole other level.

The fish had sent the boat rocking, and damaged some of the woodwork here and there—but when the men had gotten on it, they'd done all they could to intercept.

Marianne had made the deadpan crack that 'at least they didn't have to worry about refrigeration' 

Crocodile had come up on deck and immediately took over from Daz, barking orders at the crew. They'd already taken in sail, and were navigating across the short end of the storm. There was no way to dodge individual fish, so all they could do was mitigate the damage.

It was the first time Vivi saw Crocodile using his devil fruit powers to any serious degree since Alabasta. Torrents of sand smashed huge blocks of ice out of the sky and away from their ship.

Vivi wasn't sure what she could do, but she was set on doing something, even as her eye was drawn to Crocodile's powers' flow and decimate the projectiles falling their way. When smaller ones came falling, Vivi used her peacock slashers to slice through the ice and reduce the possible damage. Zala fell in near her, projecting spikes to stab into the ice blocks and using her surprising strength to use the 'icepick' like holds on them to toss them off the ship or into her captain's blasts of sand. 

The storm, thankfully, vanished as quickly as it had appeared leaving the crew on deck breathless and surrounded by quickly melting ice and slush– and quite a few dead fish.

Marianne ran out onto the deck and lifted a particularly large one with a muted smile and declared rather firmly. "Dinnerrrrrr"

Vivi pressed her hand to her face, laughing. The whole thing was absolutely absurd. Only in the Grand Line—only in the grand line would they be assailed by literal frozen fish. 

Crocodile laughed. "Alright, crew, grab the big ones and I'll sweep the minnow's off the fucking deck. I can't believe I was interrupted by another goddamn rain of fish."

"Interrupted, eh Captain?" Zala asked with a casual smile as she leaned on the wall.

Vivi turned bright pink, trying not to catch anyone's eyes as she directed some of the men to grab the larger fish. 

"My morning reading," Crocodile drawled, lifting his chin imperiously. He waved his hook with a smirk. "What are you lot looking at, get back to work!"

-

The rest of the day, work on the ship kept Vivi busy– too busy to have a moment alone with the captain, whether by accident or design. She'd 'joked' about it being some kind of act of fate that had gotten in the way of what was shaping up to be a passionate decision—but the longer things conspired to keep her apart from Crocodile the more she was starting to believe it.

She worked hard, as she often did, tending to the rigging and working with Karoo to run about making sure everything was properly secured after the storm. Karoo seemed—dubious of her. Maybe he could sense something was off, which was exactly why she was doing everything she could to keep the both of them distracted.

As she wrapped a rope around her hand and yanked it back into place—she wondered if she was growing the same as Crocodile. Her skin a healthier shade, muscles where the life of a princess had softened her….she hoped so. The train of thought didn't quite derail her from thinking about the way Crocodile looked during their training.

"Geeze…" she murmured softly, standing on Karoo's back enough to reach a higher rope.

Karoo quacked at her, as if trying to keep her on task. From the tone, it was easy once again to feel like he knew something was up. Could he smell Crocodile on her? She had no idea how sensitive a duck's sense of smell was.

Vivi looked down at him as she grabbed the rope and checked it for frays. "I'm grabbing it, Karoo! Gosh! What's ruffled your feathers?" 

He quacked again, tossing his head as if to say 'you should know'.

Vivi flushed and pointed down at him as her footing wobbled. The rope was fine—sure, a little banged up but not to any kind of level where it'd be a structural problem.

She held tight to it. "Maybe I should! But I've got no idea how you'd know, MIster! Nothing's happening!" 

"Weh!" Karoo did not seem to believe that at all.

Maybe it had something to do with the approaching bootsteps. Ones she was already becoming familiar with.

For the first time she almost fumbled the rope, flushing a little as she caught herself on Karoo's back. The supersonic duck was already up in arms over her just smelling like Crocodile—and now here he came.

Recent memories came back to the forefront, a bright flush crossing her face at the feeling of his lips against hers in the cozy but close-held cabin. Her face was warm—her stomach so full of butterflies that she felt almost dizzy with the way they spun and whirled inside her. But she gripped the rope tighter and looked over her shoulder with a smile.

"H-h-hey Captain Crocodile!"

"Am I distracting you?" He chuckled roughly as he approached. "Looking a little wobbly there."

Karoo's reaction to Crocodile's arrival didn't help. The duck whipped around to stare menacingly at the captain, further throwing off Vivi's footing on his back.

"N-no, I'm fine, you're not—Karoo you idiot, stop wiggling!"

Her foot slipped on his saddle—and she found herself falling backwards with a squeak, the rope going taut around her hand as she tumbled towards the deck.

She landed squarely in Crocodile's arms as he stepped forward to catch her, the rush of the fall leaving her breathless and dizzy.

Her head spun as she looked up at him with a shaky edge to her smile, sure that the ferocity of her flush showed through the mussed cerulean locks of her hair. For a moment, she couldn't think of anything to say—he was warm, solid, he'd caught her before she hit the deck—but she had to stop herself from staring.

She tried to catch her breath before she murmured a thank you.

Karoo had gone and made it worse, not that he'd acknowledge it. 

"Fine, eh?" He grinned down at her with his long smile, eyebrows raised in an expression that was certainly patronizing, but somehow still a little endearing.

Karoo quacked loudly– Vivi wasn't sure if he was going to scuttle away, or possibly bite the captain.

"I was fine until Karoo had a fit." She huffed, sticking her tongue out at him impishly. Somehow— she couldn't find the will to stand up and pull away. Not yet. "Careful, he might bite you." 

Crocodile showed no sign of putting her down anyway, and gave Karoo a dubious look. The two of them stared at one another for a long moment.

"Doesn't like me much, does he?"

"Weh." Karoo snapped and gave the former warlord of the sea a haughty look, as if the duck was above him.

She couldn't help but sputter a bit in amusement before she huffed and rested her head against his chest. 

"He's still pretty mad about Alabasta. Ducks hold grudges for 10,000 years you know." 

"I didn't know they lived that long," he drawled, not breaking his gaze with Karoo. "Or should I expect trouble from his descendants?"

Vivi laughed, finally letting go of the rope as she gave Karoo a long and warning look. "Probably. So hopefully he doesn't meet a nice lady duck to settle down with. You'd be haunted by angry ducks for generations."

She felt her heart beating in her chest, the feeling of his arms around her sending tingles of excitement through her. "Karoo, be nice." 

"Weh!" He snapped, but he finally broke the tense stare off between him and Crocodile. 

Croc laughed and shook his head, finally setting Vivi down on her feet. As he did, the back of his hook ran up her spine. "Well, he didn't bite me so that's something, right? I suppose I can't blame him for his grudge."

Vivi's body shivered at the brush of his hook, only thinly separated by her thin top from her bare skin. She bit her lip to keep from making a noise, and smothered it with another laugh.

"At least, right! I can't blame him either—but, w-well. Circumstances were circumstances. Things are changing. Besides, he gets along real well with Daz, so he must know you're all not THAT bad." 

"Maybe I should do like Daz does and fatten him up for dinner." Crocodile's grin turned a little feral, and for a moment Karoo looked concerned. Then he looked away in a huff. "I'm kidding, of course."

Vivi smoothed out her skirt, head still spinning from the drop—and the proximity to Crocodile. It was surreal wasn't it? The way they fell into this easy patter; even after Alabasta, now that she'd forgiven him. Even after that shared, intimate kiss.

Even after being interrupted before it became something more. The way they joked—even if it was at poor Karoo's expense. The handsome curve of his smile and the brush of his hook sent such a feeling through her.

It couldn't be love, could it? She swallowed, and flashed a smile. "Of course, I know you wouldn't eat Karoo, Crocodile. He's too cute to be a morning meal, right Karoo?" 

"Too fat for the morning meal, anyway. We can get at least two dinners out of him. Cute dinners."

Karoo's feathers pinned and his tail feathers fanned he turned around indignantly, showing his behind to the captain, who again, only laughed.

Crocodile shook his head. "Well, your duck's grudge aside, Vivi there was something I wanted to ask you."

Vivi turned her eyes from Karoo's antics and back up at Crocodile's face with a tilt of her head. "Y-yeah Crocodile?" 

He shrugged fluidly, but something in his posture , or the set of his jaw, told her he was a little bit tense. Nervous, perhaps. "If you wanted to continue our conversation from this morning, I'd be happy to have you in my cabin for a drink after dinner. Otherwise, I think we should postpone our training sessions until we make shore on Mystoria."

Continue their conversation… or postpone their training. That made Crocodile's thoughts seemingly very clear. He didn't think he could train with her without finishing what they'd started. which was… what exactly?

It was hard to say—they'd been practicing their talent for haki—but it became pretty clear that there was a distraction in the room. Eachother. She'd started… something… when she'd leapt up to kiss him to break him out of his spiral of self-doubt. But what was she trying to do? Woo him?

She felt herself flushing as she stammered wordlessly. "A d-drink huh?" she murmured. "...I could use a drink."

"I'll be in my cabin with one after dinner then." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a half smoked cigar, putting it in his mouth. "If you don't show up, I won't hold it against you."

His hook briefly brushed her cheek, and then the captain turned and started away down the deck.

The ghost of his hook lingered on her cheek as she reached out in a wave, calling out on impulse "I'm looking forward to it, Croccy!"

An invitation back to his room to finish what they started—maybe, maybe if she didn't chicken out, maybe she'd be able to figure out exactly what it was they'd started.

And where it'd lead. 

-

The rest of the afternoon had seemed to fly by in a haze, and dinner with the crew was the same kind of lively affair that Vivi had come to expect, and enjoy, since the beginning of their journey. Eating together in the cramped galley space had a familiar camaraderie to it, reminding her all too well of her time with the Straw Hats, in a way.

They laughed together, teased—Marianne had taken to drawing during dinner and showing off her doodles between bites of fish, and Zala was in high spirits enough to start joking around about her assassination career with Daz. It was lively, it was FUN—but her eye kept being drawn back to Crocodile and the promise of a drink after dinner.

She wasn't sure if she was imagining it or not, the way Crocodile's eyes seemed to return to her face more than they usually did, despite the constant bids for attention from Daz, and from Bentham, and all the others. 

Bentham had even put his feet up in Crocodile's lap!

Vivi felt herself flushing throughout, sure that the others had noticed as she leaned on her hand and cast glances to meet his eyes before quickly averting. Even through Bentham's flirting—very open flirting—he still seemed to notice her across the table.

But she did her best not to let it get the better of her. She joked and laughed—told stories of her own and prodded them out of Bentham and at least attempted to with Crocodile.

Anything to distract from the butterflies as they returned to her chest. 

Dinners usually lingered a while, and Captain Crocodile usually lingered a while after them with one of his cigars, but this time he excused himself almost right after the end of the meal. Vivi watched him shove Bentham's feet away with a grin– and pat his cheek– before giving the crew a wave.

His eyes met Vivi's one more time before he stalked off.

"Well! Croco-babe's in a mood tonight," Betham teased, giggling and glancing around the table.

Vivi watched him go for a moment as she nibbled the last of the bread on her face with a flush. "H-he certainly is. He's probably got something he wants to d-do tonight."

"Wonder what that could be." Ben grinned slyly.

Daz reached across the table to refill his mug. "Whatever it is, it's his business. Not gossip."

"Spoilsport."

Vivi ducked her head in embarrassment. "I ha-have no idea. No Gossip though, t-that's for the best. By the by—I think I'm going to be turning in earlyish tonight."

Marianne looked up with a tilt of her head. "To the ladies cabin?" 

Daz caught Vivi's eye. "Didn't you tell me you were going to spend some time with Karoo?"

He was giving her an excuse– if she wanted to take it. Which meant that he knew exactly what was going on. No surprise, given how close he and Crocodile were.

Vivi flushed deeper, giving him an incredibly thankful smile as she tried to shrink from the crew's scrutiny. "Yeah—I was going to go spend some time with Karoo . He's been grumpy lately. Hope you all don't mind."

"Not at all," Daz said immediately, forestalling any other objections. "Let the old grump know I say hello."

Zala raised her eyebrow at the two of them while Vivi stood with a lopsided smile "I'll pass it along, promise!"

She looked over her shoulder at them. "You guys enjoy dinner! I'll see you later!" 

After that, Vivi found herself alone in corridors of the ship's below deck, with the prospect of making her way to Crocodile's cabin– or the alternative of doing absolutely anything other than that.

She waffled for a moment. On one hand, logically she knew she should take a step back. She was obviously emotional, drawn in to his charms. She should take a step back and remember why it was that she was shutting down that old crush in the first place.

It was sensible. That was the logical, responsible thing to do…so why did she find her feet leading her towards the man's cabin?

One foot after the other. It wasn't a long walk, just all the way to the stern of the ship, the end of the long, narrow hallway. The only sound was her footsteps, the groan of the ship's timbers in the rocking sea, and the gentle murmur of continued conversation from the galley.

Her good sense or her heart? Which should she follow? It was the question that played over and over as she wandered the bowels of the ship.

It seemed the answer had come to her when she found herself standing outside Crocodile's door, knocking gently upon it. 

There was a flutter of activity from within, and then the door clicked open. Captain Crocodile stood framed by it in front of her, tall and imposing as always, his coat discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled and pinned. There was a trail of dark hair up each of his forearms, interrupted by old puckered and shiny scars– but none so visible and obvious than the one that peeked just above the polished shine of his hook.

"I wasn't sure if I'd see you or not this evening, Viv. Come in."

"I was kind of going back and forth, myself." She smiled shyly as she stepped into the room. Her eyes lingered on him—on his arms, the scars marking a long history of memories, and the place where his hook set over his arm.

It was a rare sight, but one she wasn't unhappy to see. She bit her lip "I heard you had a drink ready for me." 

"Sure do." He gestured to the table in the small room where a couple of glasses with ice and a large bottle of whisky had been set out. "Can't wait til we upgrade ships. On Mystoria I hope. Missing my old ship's state room just about now."

Crocodile chuckled, and as she stepped inside he closed the door. She felt his eyes lingering on her from behind her.

She shifted, letting herself pose a little to catch his eye despite herself. Was she trying to attract him? 

Of course she was—she certainly was attracted to him, even if her good sense still grumbled that it was a bad idea, she still couldn't quite keep herself from trying to draw his eye to her as she slid into one of the seats.

"I'd bet. I never got to see it, what was it like?" 

He slid into the other chair- more beside her than across from her, but angled so that they were still facing one another. He tugged the cork on the whisky out with the tip of his hook and poured a generous measure for both of them.

"Had a bed about the size of this whole room for one thing," he said with a wide grin, his dark eyes narrow. He slid one of the glasses toward her. "Big map table. Desk. The wardrobe was a piece we hauled out of an old mansion, all carved with roses. Used to have a big stuffed gator sitting on top of it."

His grin turned soft— nostalgic certainly, as he talked about his old ship. Vivi had never seen it. It must have been at least fifteen years since Crocodile had.

Vivi took the whiskey glass from him with a smile, tilting it back and forth in her hands as she listened. 

"It sounds like it was beautiful, Croccy. I mean—that wardrobe sounds like something straight out of a palace. And that bed sounds—gosh." She giggled as she took a sip. "...did you catch the gator yourself?" 

The amber liquid hit her lips, rich and smooth and warm like honey, with a finishing burn of alcohol. Crocodile had broken out the good stuff.

It really was the good stuff—high quality and delicious. The kind that could sneak up on you because it was nice enough to drink. 

"You're picturing me wrestling one?" He smirked, lifting his glass in a little salute before taking a long sip himself.

The image did come to mind easily—his coat off, wrestling the crocodile with his bare hands as—

She felt herself burning bright with embarrassment as she tilted back another sip to hide it.

"Maybe." 

"Then maybe I did." He chuckled, and leaned his chin on the top of his hook. "Once we get a good ship, I'll have to start collecting furniture and shit again. Haven't done that in a long time."

The way he said it had a sad nostalgia to it, and Vivi could guess why. Crocodile had lost everything, and in his bitter cynicism that had grown up in the wake of that loss, had rejected the idea of holding on to things. At least, that was how it seemed to her.

Holding onto objects, holding onto people. It was all the same to Sir Crocodile when the despair had hold of him. Maybe because he'd been scared of losing it all again.

SHe leaned forward to look him in the eyes with a smile "You should, Croccy—I'll even help. When we have that ship, we'll make it just as nice as your old cabin—maybe even nicer." 

"Maybe. Can't tell what the future holds, eh?" That was a big admission from him, and it came with a smile. "Like for instance, I never predicted having you in here with me over drinks. You like the whisky? It's not a bad one."

Vivi flushed and she sipped it again to prove her point when she murmured "it's maybe the best whiskey I've ever had actually. Or maybe it's just the company?"

She laughed quietly "to be honest, if you asked me only a month or so ago if I ever thought I'd be sharing a drink with you—I'd have assumed I'd gone insane." 

"Most people you know would probably say you're crazy, Viv." He leaned closer to her.

Vivi huffed softly, still not breaking the contact with his eyes as they slowly drifted closer together. "Would you call me crazy, Croc?" 

He grinned, looming over her as he scooted his chair even closer to hers. "No question. All pirates are insane, Viv. Just some of us are the fun kind."

"That's a pretty good point, isn't it?" She laughed. Memories of the Straw Hats—of the Baroque Works agents too—flashed through her head "well, it sounds like I'm in good company then, so I'll take it as a compliment!"

She chewed her lip. "One insane pirate to another."

He clinked his glass against hers. "One insane pirate to another. So. Pirate to pirate– I got something on my mind, doll."

The ringing of the glass still in her ears, she raised it to her lips again to take another sip. "...me too, but you go first." 

Crocodile smirked and sipped from his glass. "No, no. I'm a gentleman, remember? You go first."

He looked at her expectantly. Vivi felt her heart pulse in her chest, and she had to avert her gaze for the first time since they'd started talking. Of course he'd ask her to go first—which meant she either had to lie, or be honest.

And being honest meant telling him exactly what was on her mind—'finishing the conversation from this morning'. Talking about the kiss—and what it meant. "Uhm…"

He waited. Patiently he waited. With that wide, thin smile on his face, strands of dark hair escaping his slicked back style and falling over his eyes, swirling his drink in his hand.

"Mostly about what I want to say, Crocodile," she laughed shyly, daring to glance up and let her gaze linger on his smile. "And about our training session this morning?" 

"Funny enough, that was exactly what I was hoping to talk about." He drained his glass and set it on the table, pouring another measure of amber liquid over the ice. "So it sounds like we're on the same page that we gotta talk."

Vivi laughed before draining her own glass. 

"Yeah, I'd say we're on the same page—I ah, I guess I sure did something impulsive, huh?"

'And that was stupid, please forget it happened' her good sense urged inside her head. 

"Sure did. And I escalated it." He poured more whisky into her glass for her. "I'm real good at escalating shit, doll. It's practically my specialty."

"And here I thought that was practical leadership," she teased with a little grin. "...bu-but yeah. You sure escalated it."

And she liked it. She liked the rough and passionate kiss he'd placed upon her lips—she'd liked being wrapped in his arms "but it's not the sort of thing former enemies really share, is it?" 

"Depends on the former enemies in question," he purred. She was very aware of how close he was to her. The warmth of his large body. The scent of his cologne and his hair oil mixing with cigar smoke and whisky. "Among pirates it's not exactly unheard of. Princesses less so, but thankfully we don't gotta deal with any of those, right?"

Vivi flushed again, her hair falling down off her shoulder as she shifted and leaned on the table between them with a shy smile. "That's right—not a princess in sight."

There it was again—him smiling at her, acknowledging her as a pirate rather than a princess. As who she wanted to be, not who her father and Alabasta said she was. 

"Glad we're clear on that." He chuckled and sipped his drink. "I'm more comfortable among pirates, to be honest. The machinations are usually a little more open. Usually."

"Usually. I've seen a few pirates who like to take the long and winding way around, but—" She bit her lip. "I'd like if maybe the machinations were out there in the open. A-at least between us, right now." 

"Saves me a whole lotta trouble," he nodded. "So, you got any machinations you wanna tell em about after that little surprise this morning? Or are you playing things by ear."

"You're going to be disappointed in me, Croc" Vivi laughed as she tucked her hair over her ear. "...I thought 'I need to distract him from feeling bad about himself' and my brain used it as an excuse to shut off and let something else lead the way."

"I wouldn't say I'm disappointed." He leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers. "Honestly, I'd say that's growth, isn't it? We've both let our head get in the way of our instincts in the past, haven't we?"

Vivi tipped her drink back, placing the empty cup on the table as their shoulders brushed.

In the past—Vivi had always had a problem with that, hadn't she? After a certain point. After her time running around with gangs in the streets and making life hell for Chaka and Pell, after her grand plan to infiltrate Baroque Works—she'd started letting her head block her heart.

That's why the Straw Hats left without her on her request. That was why she held herself back time and time again and did what she knew Alabasta 'needed' from her. That was why she never made an appeal to Crocodile when she figured out his plans. Crocodile had been the same way, hadn't he?

All those years when he let his 'plans' smother his instincts.

"I'd say we've had a pretty bad problem with it, yeah…" 

"Yeah. So, I'm glad you let your instincts take over. Might have spared us all kinds of problems." He put his hand on top of hers. It was large, and warm, and surprisingly soft.

"I like you, Viv. A lot. I might be kinda falling for you. But I'm not gonna pretend to be somebody I'm not any more, so we gotta talk about that."

He turned his dark, narrow eyed gaze on her. She'd felt it on her face many times before, but never quite so open, or earnest. Vulnerable.

A part of Crocodile he rarely let show—he was opening himself to her, just like she was hoping to open up to him too.

She smiled at him, her eyes lingering on his hand before she looked up to meet his eyes. Her other hand rested atop his. 

"I like you too, Crocodile." Nerves briefly tried to overtake her, to make her hesitate, but she continued "I liked you a lot in the past, but since we started spending time together again I think I'm falli…I might be falling for you too. But y-you're right. It's something we've got to talk about."

She laughed, self conscious despite herself. "We do have a complicated history, after all." 

"We do. And like I was saying before that little crisis this morning, we could make it even more complicated real easy. So before we do that. Let's talk, eh?"

[ciquery]

« 

At this time, in the early 1960’s, prominent Jewish voices criticized the racism and discrimination of the Israeli government. Israelis like Martin Buber assailed Ben-Gurion and noted that “At the inception of the state, complete equality with the Jewish citizens was promised to the Arab population.” Many influential Israelis realized their long term security and well-being depended on finding a just settlement with the indigenous Palestinian population.

In the United States, the Jewish community was divided and many were anti-Zionist. The American Council for Judaism was influential and anti-nationalist. The racist and militaristic character of Israel was not yet set in stone. Nor was American Jewish support for Israel. When Menachim Begin came to the United States in 1948 he was denounced by prominent Jewish leaders including Albert Einstein. They said Begin, who later became Israeli Prime Minister, was a “terrorist” who preached “an admixture of ultra-nationalism, religious mysticism and racial superiority.” Many American Jews had mixed feelings and did not identify with Israel. Others supported Israel but on the basis of there being peace with the indigenous Palestinians. 

…

JFK personally supported Arab and African nationalism. As a senator in 1957, he criticized the Eisenhower administration for supporting and sending weapons to France in their war against the Algerian independence movement. In a 9,000 word presentation to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, he criticized “western imperialism” and called for the US to support Algerian independence. Algerian President Ben Bella, who France had tried to assassinate and considered far too radical by many in NATO, was given a huge and impressive welcome to the White House.

Kennedy frankly told the Zionists, “I cannot believe that Israel has any real desire to remain indefinitely a garrison state surrounded by fear and hate.” By maintaining objectivity and neutrality on the Israeli Arab conflict, Kennedy wanted to steer the Jewish Zionists away from the racist, militaristic and ultra-nationalistic impulses which have led to where we are today.

»

https://www.laprogressive.com/foreign-policy/from-dallas-to-gaza

[sinvulkt]

The Monster and the Child

The dragon has been trapped for years. It lost its name. It lost its body. It lost most of its memories of not being a dragon. It is everything its Master wanted.

Then, one day, its Master brings it a child. A sand-haired boy smelling of blood, grief and terror.

@whumptober-archive @angstober

Chapter 1: Meeting

The dragon slept, curled on itself in the cold cell that was its home.

It hadn’t always been so. Once, when the dragon hadn’t been a dragon yet, it had been free. It had a name and an inferno burning in its chest. It had a will with no one powerful enough to stop it.

It was different now.

Now the inferno was reduced to sizzling embers, doused by too many cycles of isolation and silence. Now its name was gone, devoured by the scales covering its new skin. Now it layed in chains, trapped behind bars no teeth or claws could break.

Read more on ao3 or bellow the line.

A metallic noise echoed further above.

The dragon raised its head, suddenly attentive. No one ever came into this part of the palace except for its Master, his guards, and the occasional food offering. As if on cue its stomach growled, the rumbling noise echoing on the closed walls of the room. The dragon had since long gotten used to the nausea hunger brought, but a reprieve from it always felt welcome. It was better to think about than the alternative.

For if it wasn’t food being brought to it… a shudder ran down the dragon’s spine, its mane flexing in remembrance. It still sported open wounds from its Master’s last visit. Between the dampness of the cell and the growing weakness of its body, injuries became infected more often than not.

Figures appeared beyond the red hue of the ray shield. A rush of fear overwhelmed the dragon as it recognised the Emperor, surrounded by his Imperial guard. Cold slowly filled his veins. The terror soon gave way to confusion as the dragon noticed a small sniveling form between the guards.

There was a child there, half pushed, half dragged by the faceless soldiers. A boy, with sandy hair dirtied by blood and a snotty face covered in tears. He was struggling weakly against their iron grip, though in vain. The dragon tilted its head, curious. The Emperor had fed it children before, but he seldomly assisted the feeding himself.

The group stopped in front of it.

"Hello, old friend," its Master began. "I have a gift for you."

His oily presence reached out to it, slithering inside the dragon’s mind, probing its reaction. Something about the boy he brought was special. His Master was excited today, the infantile excitement of a new toy discovered. The dragon curled on itself and tried not to fight the invasive presence, knowing it would only make it worse.

"Put him inside," Palpatine ordered the guards.

The ray shield dropped and the guards threw the boy inside. A pungent smell of piss, blood and ash assailed the dragon’s nostrils as the child collapsed on his front paw. Wherever the child had been, showers had not been an option.

The dragon's Master studied them. His presence was everywhere, filling the dragon’s lungs, dragging the dragon’s heart, pushing the dragon’s mind.

"Do as you please," its Master said. There was a lightness to his tone the dragon didn’t like. It felt like the warning ozone before the lightning.

The Emperor took a last glance at the situation, a pleasant hum on his lips, and turned away, faceless guards trailing behind. The dragon didn’t dare to move before the oily presence left his mind too - or as much as it ever would.

His Master reduced to an icy point in the back of its’ mind, the dragon turned towards the foul smelling child. He hadn’t dared to move either and was still sprawled on one of the dragon paws. When its immense head turned towards him, the boy scrambled to his feet, taking shelter in one of the corners of the cell. It didn’t take him very far away. If it wanted to, the dragon could snatch him in one snap, and get rid of the hunger plaguing its stomach.

The dragon hesitated. Its Master hadn’t exactly ordered it to eat the child. He had offered for it to do as it pleased, but the dragon’s wants were never of importance to its Master. It was always a trap. An open question with a single answer.

An odd feeling froze its body though; a whisper, a warning hanging in the air. It observed the child.

The boy stood as straight as he could, clearly trying to seem brave despite the terror shaking his bones. He was a shivering mess. When neither of them moved, the child's heart rate slowly calmed down. He began to observe the dragon in return.

He raised a timid hand. “Hi.”

The dragon waited to see what the boy would do next.

“Please don’t eat me,” the boy squeaked. “I wouldn’t make a good meal."

The human words hurt the dragon's ears. They were too loud, too high pitched, too fast. Most of their meaning got lost on the way, but the cold fire that burned in its chest translated for it. The child’s fire was strong too, the dragon noticed, as strong as the laser wielding soldiers, that his Master made it fight and sometimes eat.

It stepped closer, curious about the child’s fire. Curiosity was something it hadn’t felt in a long time.

The boy tensed and scrunched his eyes closed as the dragon approached, but he didn’t run away. There was nowhere to run to.

The dragon assessed the human smell flooding the room. It was oddly familiar. The blood on the child’s skin woke up old memories, memories of a time with a name that belonged locked away in a box. It breathed on the boy's face, letting a few hairs billow. If it ate the boy, the silk-like threads would drag on its tongue and accumulate in its throat, making it cough for days. But the flesh would warm its belly, and the dragon was cold.

The boy stilled. Then slowly, very slowly, he opened his eyes. Clear blue eyes, as vast as the sky spreading beyond horizons.

‘I trust you,’ they said.

The dragon licked the boy. A small grain of sand rolled on its tongue. The boy tasted like blood and flesh and sun. He tasted like chains broken and forged anew, like golden dunes trapping feet in their embrace. He tasted like a small moisture farm lost in the desert, filled and yet empty for it lacked its most important person. Most surprising of all, behind the sand and the sun, behind the blood and the chains, he tasted like Naboo.

The child tasted like family.

The dragon licked him more, reveling in the various smells coming from him. The blood on the boy’s face woke up names in its mind. It swept them away. The grains on the boy’s skin tore open old scars in its soul. It rubbed them away. The bitter taste of the boy’s pain and fear made its stomach swirl with nausea. It wiped them away.

The dragon licked the child clean, until his only stench was the dragon’s smell. It licked the child clean until his fear was gone and it giggled against his muzzle, crying for him to stop because it tickled so much. It licked the boy clean until its stomach stopped rumbling, fed by the dead blood that covered him.

Vader licked the child clean, and decided there and then not to eat him.

[crow-aeris]

It’s been a hot second, but i’ve published the first part (linked below) of my Reverse Robins Wingfic on ao3 (To Brace Upon Benign Feathers), and it’s mostly Damian-Centric.

Of Acuate Talons and Venom-Coated Tongues | Ch 1: Fledgling Eagles

I have a habit of giving my fics long-ass titles 💀 it’s honestly kinda worrisome

Or you can continue reading. But be warned, ao3 has better quality, the emotions have more oomph to them, and it has the formatting in tact.

Without further ado, i present: Of Acuate Talons and Venom-coated Tongues:

Damian picked himself up from the dusty ground, his tail lashing through the blood-stained sand as he wiped away the crimson clinging to the corner of his mouth. The fledgling could feel bruises blossoming along his torso, legs, and face, but he at least made it out with his life.  

Damian's opponent didn't have the same luxury.

"Better," a voice commented in the League dialect. 

The harpy eagle straightened, folding his wings tighter against his back as he peered at his mother. The imperial eagle looked him over critically before nodding in approval, "After careful discussion with your Grandfather, we have designed you prepared for training beneath your father. We have forged you into a blade, Damian, and your father will sharpen you."

His mother turns away, beckoning Damian with a sweep of her elegant tail. The fledgling trailed after, carefully keeping his distance from his mother's blade-laced tail. Damian struggled slightly to keep up with the imperial eagle's strides, but he managed. Eventually, they reached Talia's private office- one of the few areas within the facility that was hidden from Grandfather's near-omnipresent eyes. 

Talia waited until Damian fully entered the room before shutting the door with a flick of her heavy wing. She beckoned him closer, and Damian obeyed- eagerly tilting his face into her clawed hands. His mother's palms always smelled like blood, which should've been disconcerting to some, but Damian knew she would  never  use her claws on him. 

The fledgling felt his mother gently brush her tail against his, and Damian returned the action. 

"Will you tell me Father's identity?" Damian asked, suppressing his purrs as careful claws combed through Damian's feathers. 

His mother hums in consideration, "No, I will not. Think of this as... a trial. All I will say is he lives in Gotham..."

———

Bruce swept between the buildings, his dark wings skimming past the apartments' walls. With a flick of his tail, Bruce made a narrow turn and latched onto the side of the building. With narrowed eyes, Batman waited a few seconds before diving.

The harpy eagle slammed into his target, avoiding his spine as he pinned the man's wings against the ground. 

"Where is he hiding?" Batman snarled, grunting as the man tried to stab a hidden knife into Bruce's side. Thankfully, the kevlar was enough to impede the knife, but it was enough to distract him. 

The man screeched, scrabbling in panic and somehow hitting a solid hit against Bruce's chest. His suit's flexible yet sturdy material absorbed and distributed the impact, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Bruce rattled out a low hiss, looming over the man with flared wings that seemed to suck the light from around them. The man froze in fear, and Bruce took the chance to knock him out, tying up the man for Gordan's men to collect and subsequently interrogate.

With a weary sigh, Bruce spread his wings and took into the sky. The harpy eagle glided over Park Row when a sudden weight  slammed  into his side. 

The eagle hissed, flicking his tail to reorient himself as the weight continued clinging to Bruce's side. A sharp pain stabbed into his side, slicing through the kevlar as Bruce twisted and slammed himself against the side of a building. Still, the assailant continued to cling to Bruce's side. 

He hissed, feeling claws sink into the flesh of his wings, dislodging the two from the side of the apartment. Bruce twisted, flaring his wings to slow their descent before allowing his assailant to crash into the ground. Bruce lurched away, carefully watching the other's movements before realizing that his assailant was a fledgling-

Narrowed emerald eyes glared at him through wild hair, lips pulled back to reveal sharpened fangs. Taking advantage of Bruce's shock, the fledgling lunged.

The black-clad vigilante flared his wings, barely dodging the child's blow before allowing a low, threatening rattle to escape his throat, his voice modulator struggling to keep up with the eagle's snarls, "Who are you?"

The fledgling narrowed his eyes, and faster than Bruce could react, there was a blur, and Bruce's back slammed against the concrete. He could only struggle upright when the fledgling unsheathed a katana and pointed it at Bruce's throat. 

The wicked blade gleamed in the pale light, a mere centimeter away from the eagle's jugular. 

"Hello, Father," the fledgling sneered, emerald eyes gleaming as the clouds momentarily parted to illuminate the young child with a threatening halo, "My name is Damian al Ghul, heir to the Demon Head, and I expected more from you.

———

Bruce paced back and forth in the Batcave, his tail lashing as Alfred stood a few feet away, his impassive expression betraying nothing as Damian watched silently with sharpened eyes. 

Once again, the Batcomputer beeped an affirmation, and Bruce couldn't help his frustrated hiss.

"Sir," Alfred said, interrupting Bruce as the eagle made to run the sixth test, "perhaps it would be better to show young Master Damian his new room rather than obsessing over the computer."

"She said she lost him!" Bruce snapped, frustration and betrayal swirling in his chest, "She LIED TO ME!"

"As if you don't lie as well," the owl sniffed, tilting his head to side-eye Bruce disapprovingly.

Bruce snarled, his atavistic claw unsheathing with his anger. 

"Master Bruce," the butler's voice took on an edge,  "don't  you take that tone with me, lad."

"It's different," Bruce plowed on, "Talia said she'd miscarried! I- I can't-"

"You need to get some sleep, Master Bruce."

"I do not! What I need are answers!" Bruce screamed in frustration, his feathers bristling as he snarled, whirling around in time to see a flicker of fear enter Damian's eyes, and he saw Alfred subtly position himself protectively in front of the fledgling. 

"Mister Wayne," Alfred snapped, and Bruce felt himself freeze, "I think it best you take a shower and calm down. Meanwhile, I shall show your son to his new room. Good night, Mister Wayne."

Bruce watched as his father butler escorted Damian upstairs.

His wings and tail drooped, brushing against the cave floor as exhaustion and defeat filled Bruce's chest. What was he going to do? Bruce was 26- he wasn't... he didn't want to involve a seven-year-old in his crusade against crime, but it seemed like Talia didn't care. 

Bruce grumbled, his heart clenching painfully with an emotion the eagle tried desperately to shove away. Bruce had grieved for the child he'd thought he'd lost, grieved for the relationship broken over the loss, but here that child stood.

How was Bruce supposed to cope with that? It's not every day a child you presumed dead comes back to life... 

Bruce sucks in a tight breath, yanking off the cowl before tossing it haphazardly off into the darkness of the cave. He'll find it later- but for now, Bruce had an appointment with his shower and then his bed. 

He can continue dealing with this mess later...

...How has his life ended up like this?

[tieflingkisser]

Columbia University Apartheid Divest coalition statement on chemical skunk attack

On January 19, a protest against the Israeli genocide in Gaza was attacked by counter-protesters using the chemical agent, known as "Skunk." The university bears full responsibility for all violence against the pro-Palestine movement on campus.

On Friday, January 19th, 2024, at 1 p.m., the Columbia University Apartheid Divest coalition (CUAD) held an emergency protest outside of Low Library against U.S. attacks on Yemen and the ongoing Israeli genocide in Gaza, which has killed over 25,000 Palestinians. A group of counter-protestors, some of whom were affiliates of the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF), gathered in opposition, verbally harassing and provoking the students. Both internal security from CUAD and Columbia Public Safety officers, including John Murillo, the Director of Public Safety, were present. However, Public Safety turned their backs to the counter-protestors and faced the CUAD protest, a clear indication of who they intended to keep “safe.” Around 1:30 p.m., an IOF-associated counter-protester attacked a Palestinian student and issued a death threat. Instead of responding to this serious attack, which they witnessed, public safety officials surrounded and initiated a physical altercation with the Palestinian student, accused him falsely of pushing them, and allowed the assailant to disappear. Around 2:00 p.m., two students sprayed an odorous chemical at CUAD protestors. When the protest ended around 3:00 p.m., the smell remained strong and was clearly noticeable on protest signs, students’ hair, clothing, backpacks, and jackets. Following student and community attempts to find the deployers of the chemical agent, known as “Skunk,” we identified them as two former IOF Officers who are current Columbia School of General Studies (GS) students. While these two students seriously endangered the campus community, they are but two members of a larger imperial project. Their actions are a result of Columbia’s complicity in the ongoing genocide in Gaza and refusal to protect its Palestinian and Palestine-supporting students.  Since Friday, students impacted by the Skunk spray have reported abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, shortness of breath, and excessive coughing, with four students ending up in the emergency room. Over the past 24 hours, at least nine impacted students have been sent to the hospital for electrocardiograms (EKGs), chest X-rays, and respiratory and digestive system stabilization. Their medical reports upon discharge all state “exposure to chemical agent.” Despite these frightening physical symptoms, we are extremely grateful and privileged to have access to healthcare when those in Gaza do not. The Israeli blockade restricts medical care Gazans are entitled to receive under international law, and since October 7, the Israeli occupation has bombed all thirty-six hospitals in Gaza. This has forced doctors to perform C-sections and amputations without basic anesthesia. We must highlight that Israel attacks the people of Gaza daily with bombs, white phosphorus, and bullets. In the West Bank, the IOF deploys Skunk spray not only against individuals protesting but against entire Palestinian homes as a method of collective punishment. We cannot pull our eyes from the genocide in Gaza and Israel’s settler-colonial regime.