#is him smiling a symbol of him giving up? becoming part of defiance? hes not running away anymore. he doesnt have to.

[im-smart-i-swear]

coming back home.

@barrenclan

[weclassygirl]

visions

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: the high king makes his judgement, a new path opens

warnings: none

word count: 2,3k

author’s note: here we go, part two for bound… and soon more to come, let me just get their story straight. enjoy!

”The Woodland Realm has exiled you, why should we aid and welcome you in Lindon?” no greeting, no smile, you already feel that this conversation will take a toll on you.

“Did you believe me to be dead? Or did you wish for it?” you ask and curse yourself for your tongue speaks quicker than your mind. Gil-Galad looks at you with disdain. You try to calm your growing anger. “Whatever Oropher told you is not true.”

“Is it not?” he questions and steps closer. The guards watch your every movement, waiting for you to slip up, to give them a reason to attack. “Were you not the Elf that nearly killed a fellow companion because her anger grew into rage?”

An accident. A mere accident that decided the fate of your life.

“I never meant for—“

“But you did.” he cuts you off. You look to Galadriel who stands next to Elrond, he turns away from your sight but the Commander watches the scene unfold.

You wrote to her, countless times to seek her aid. Elrond as well. All of your letters went unanswered and you thought that perhaps an order was given to burn any passage written by you.

Gil-Galad regards you. “You sought out that which is forbidden. Lindon, Greenwood or any other Elven realm will not stand by it.”

You look up at him, the golden crown that adorns his head, gleaming in the sun. He looked like an emissary from the Valar themselves. Your eyes travel to your hands, so much harm they once caused. Gil-Galad waits as you try to gather your words.

“If you wish to punish me, do so when the blade at my neck is yours. I will not be humiliated. Not again.” you say through your teeth.

The Elves whisper around you.

Witch.

Traitor.

Morgoth’s servant.

Banish her.

Send her away.

You hear another whisper, so quick you almost miss it. Almost.

“Defiance does not suit you.” Gil-Galad states. He looks down at your hands, the dark fingertips as if dipped in black ash. The marks on your body, some symbols and some written in Black Speech. The sight disgusts him and for a moment he pities you and what you’ve endured for centuries. “You will fulfill your punishment in Eregion.”

You gawk at the High King as he makes his decree. “Eregion?”

He returns to his place by the Tree and the guards flank your sides, ready to take you away. “Be glad it’s not my blade at your throat. You will be confined in chains at all times, ones that will subdue your magic. Lord Celembrimbor will see to it. He makes them as we speak.”

Chained once again. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, perhaps it’s best not to show any emotion while the others are looking. You let the guards take you away and you cast one last glance at Galadriel and Elrond. He meets your gaze finally and bows his head. You don’t know when you will see them again.

The guards chain you and tie your hands to the reins as the company gathers. You in the middle while four of them surround you. Most of the supplies for the journey were given to you, to weigh down your horse should you try to escape.

The road goes ever winding and after a few weeks of constant travel you reach the gates of Eregion. The Elves gather on their balconies, look through the arches to catch a glimpse at you.

The word has reached here as well.

You wonder why they take such interest in you but it is quickly dismissed. You dabbled in the dark arts, once made a mistake that scarred your path and were a prisoner of Morgoth, but you never served him faithfully, only to survive. The Elves had become paranoid.

The spell you cast was an accident, your companion was alive, received a wound in the process but survived.

Your curiosity however, you could never contain it and the darkness was alluring. It’s a shame to admit to it but it's a necessary truth.

However you don’t think yourself evil, yes you were quick to anger but who wouldn’t be after years of torture?

Celebrimbor stands in front of the gates with a man by his side, he holds a wooden box. When the guards help you come down from the horse you think of making a run for it but that would only prove your actions further.

Guilty and convicted.

One of the guards gives Celebrimbor a scroll, he reads through the letter from Gil-Galad with further instructions. He nods and twists the scroll back. He looks you up and down, your dress dirty at the hem, your wrists bound in shackles once again. You looked clean, no blood, no dirt, you never attacked the guards that accompanied you.

“Well then, I assume you never were to Eregion?” he asks out of pure curiosity.

“Once. Merely passing through.” you say and look around cautiously, Celebrimbor notices.

“Be at ease. You’re here in a form of punishment but I would like to see it as a form of shared work.”

You raise an eyebrow at his statement. “What will my duties be here?”

“You,” he starts and grabs the wooden box from the man beside him. When he opens it you notice two identical bracelets made of silver. “You will be an aid in my forge, however some… requirements must be fulfilled.” he explains and takes the bracelets. He steps closer and silently asks you to give you his hands. You do so hesitantly as you cling to your magic one last time.

He puts the bracelets on your wrists and tightens them ever so slightly, you would have to cut off your thumb if you wanted to free yourself and you did not want to witness that sight.

“This will hold your magic, you can still heal yourself and others should the need arise but until the High King gives a different command, they have to stay.” he taps them slightly and you think back to the way Sauron tapped your chains so often when coming up with another ways to seduce you into darkness.

He was persistent but you were glad you had someone to talk to, even if it was Morgoth’s right hand.

A shiver runs through you and your head whips back when you hear Black Speech in your ear. Celebrimbor looks the way your eyes fell but sees no one. “What is it?”

You shake your head and slowly turn to face him. “Nothing, I…“ you look back to where the sound came from. “…thought I heard something.”

The guards look at you as they mount their horses, ready to return to Lindon. One of them stays as he awaits a letter from Celebrimbor. He gives it to him, previously written since he knew you would not resist.

The Eregion guards take over and lead you to your chambers, as you settle and clean yourself up. You stand under a stream of water and look over at the bracelets, you try to tear them away, bent them out but the metal is sturdy. A perfect craftsmanship, you would expect nothing less from the grandson of Fëanor.

A knock comes at the door, the man that accompanied Celebrimbor at your arrival.

“If you’re finished I’ll take you to the forge.” he informs you and you follow him through the halls. You’ve put on a newer dress, the old one was the only piece of clothing you were left with on your journey to Eregion. The darker shade of blue fabric clung to your body and flew behind you with each step you took.

You visited Eregion briefly, a stop on your journey to Greenwood. You used to craft as well but never bore the talent such as Fëanor’s. You used magic to create whatever your heart desired, you used it when building your home in the north of Greenwood.

The woodwork became your craft rather than precious metals and as you enter the forge you begin to miss the comfort of your home.

The Elven smiths glance at you as you enter but continue with their work. Celebrimbor comes down from the gallery to show you around. “I believe you’ll come to enjoy it, I heard you once tried to create something as well.” he asks and you look down to the beaten ring you’ve made centuries ago. The black stone inside it broken but still held within the grasps of the uneven metal.

“A foolish attempt.”

He places a hand on your shoulder. “Not foolish. Perhaps with a bit more practice…” he says, leading you to a desk where a few jewelry pieces lay. Ring with green emerald, a necklace that shone like starlight, a golden bracelet with the most detailed design you’ve ever seen. Weapons laid there as well, shining metal in the dim light, handle wrapping around the blade. You stare in awe.

“Are you certain you have not bested Fëanor yet?” you ask genuinely but think that a bit of flattery on your end might help get out of your chains quicker.

Celebrimbor smiles and gestures to the forge. “Come, we have work to do.” and you follow.

You work for years under Celebrimbor, the Elven smiths have taken to converse with you even if at first they were avoiding you like a plague. With time you have learned to enjoy the craft, a slow process but it kept your life steady. No Morgoth, no torment, a temporary home.

The only pain you felt was the lack of magic in your life. You worked as a healer from time to time but it never compared to the dark arts. Your hands trembled at times as if trying to contain the power from bursting within you. And the visions didn’t help.

They came gradually, growing more persistent with each month of your stay in Eregion. A shadow, always the same and always cunning. It whispered into your ear, showed you the power you could possess. You almost gave in the first night it came.

But you felt it the most one day in the forge.

The same piercing pain you felt when you left Forodwaith. You hold to the table you’ve been working on, the saw and the pliers forgotten on it. The sound they made drew the attention of Mirdania.

“Are you alright?” she comes to your side as you claw at the fabric above your heart. You don’t hear her and shut your eyes as the ringing in your ears grows.

Celebrimbor hears the commotion and quickly comes to see the problem. When he sees you with your hands covering your ears his sight falls on the bracelets that subdue your magic. Could they have weakened?

But there’s nothing that would indicate that you used it.

Mirdania steps aside as Celebrimbor replaces her. His hands rest on your shoulders as you open your eyes. His voice is muffled as he calls your name.

“What’s happening?”

You shake your head, unable to answer and for a split second you see the same shadow behind him, it seems to be smiling.

Celebrimbor sees your frenzied eyes and tries to point where you’re looking at. The Elvensmiths gathered look helpless as no one knows how to help you.

The shadow vanishes as quickly as it came and the ringing in your ears stop. A drop of blood flows out of your nostril and you hear it as it falls to the ground. Your hand goes to your mouth and wipes away the blood, it’s then you notice your fingers. Where once they started to fade from the lack of dark magic, the mark showed up again.

Celebrimbor looks warily, the bracelets he forged would contain your power, he would know you used it even if done so unconsciously. The situation troubles him, the High King must be informed.

You grab him by his tunic as he stands up, the look on his face telling you his intention. “Don’t tell him, please. I didn’t use it, I swear.”

“How do you explain it then?” he points to your fingers curled around the fabric.

“It’s not my doing.”

“Then who’s?” he kneels down at your eye level.

You think over his question and dread the answer. You suggest Morgoth but would his influence still remain after all these years? You think of Sauron but you witnessed his death. Forodwaith is the only answer, centuries you spend there have left a mark, for you it’s the only explanation. You could not escape darkness even if you wanted to.

“He must be informed.” he leaves you with these words and you storm out of the forge. The guards close behind you as you run to the gardens and cover yourself underneath the shadow of a tree. It’s nearly dusk and you curse under your breath in every language you know. Black Speech makes its way on your tongue unconsciously and the guards tense up.

You stay there for a while until the cold wind beats against your skin. You look down at your hands and notice the black starting to fade once more, your head rests against your knees as you look ahead.

You close your eyes when you see it again, out of the corner of your eye but ever so watchful. It takes a form this time, not of a shadow but a man. You look away and his hand slithers under your chin to make you look up at him. When you do, you see perfectly green eyes and the stubble adorning his face, he looks at you so gently you nearly forget he’s the reason for your hauntings.

“Let it in.” he whispers. “A witch should practice her craft.”He returns to shadow and passes through you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you wake up in your bed. You look around and hold your head in your hands.

What is happening?

next part -> deception

[4lexnilsen]

VERSE:   the hunger games.

we gather here,  we line up,  weepin’ in a sunlit room.   and if i’m on fire,  you’ll be made of ashes,  too.

early life. 

alexander nilsen was born in the part of district 12 known as the seam on october 11th, 50 ADD.   

his mother,  elizabeth nilsen,  was a teacher,  adored by the local children,  famous for her warm,  loving nature and ability to inspire hope even under the bleakest of circumstances.   however,  beneath all that kindness and sweet smiles,  she harbored a secret —   without openly defying the regime,  for years and years she’d attempted to subtly introduce her students to ideas of freedom,  resistance and critical thinking by encouraging them to question the status quo.   she dreamed of a better future,  but her life was tragically cut short when she died giving birth to david when her oldest son was only thirteen years old.

his father,  edward nilsen,  was a coal miner who picked up his wife’s rebellious torch after her tragic death.   ed was a quiet man,  but after losing elizabeth,  his defiance toward the capitol grew stronger,  fueled by a combination of grief and anger.   he secretly organized small acts of resistance in twelve,  recruiting fellow miners to join the cause.   alex,  a boy marked by his parents’ defiance,  grew up in a home that silently opposed president snow’s ruthless rule.

the murder of ed nilsen.

when alex was just seventeen years old,  another tragedy struck the nilsen family.   one of his father’s most dedicated supporters and closest friends betrayed him.    novels about the dark days as well as homemade weaponry were discovered in the shed behind their house —   ed nilsen was hanged the following sunday.   a public spectacle meant to break the spirit of any would-be rebels.   alex, who had inherited his parents’ sense of justice and resistance,  was devastated but not cowed.   at the tender age of seventeen,  he became the head of the family,  vowing to keep his three brothers safe regardless of the cost.

the 68th hunger games.  

less than a month after his father’s death,  alex’s life took yet another turn that would scar him forever.   as punishment for his father’s crimes and his mother’s silent defiance,  and to teach the younger nilsen boys a lesson,  ALEX NILSEN’s name got called during the reaping ceremony.   and the odds were surely not in his favor.   president snow’s regime had no tolerance for rebellious tendencies.   he was shoved into the arena right before his eighteenth’s birthday to become yet another pawn in the capitol’s power games,  a symbol of what happens to the families of those who defy the capitol.

against all odds,  the opposite happened.   alexander’s rebellious spirit never faded.   years spent hunting and knowledge that he’d absorbed from his father’s books gave him an advantage in the arena.   his good looks and witty sense of humor earned him quite a few sponsors as most girls from the capitol fawned over him —   he inherited his mother’s sandy curls and striking blue eyes,  and was rather fit compared to the other tributes.   the arena was a tropical forest with sweltering heat beaming down on the twenty-four tributes during the day and heavy downpours cascading over them during the night,  venomous snakes hiding in the bushes,  quicksand and wild cats,  poisonous plants.   alex quickly realized that brute strength wasn’t going to get him through it all —   he had to be smart.   he  kept his distance from the career tributes,  knowing that their bond was fragile and loyalty questionable and formed a brief alliance with a district 7 girl who’d taught him how to create traps from branches and sharpened logs and a kid from 10 who knew plenty about camouflage.   they huddled together to stay warm at night,  worked as a team during the day and split resources between the three of them.   

as the games progressed,  after the first five days,  his survival tactics focused more on endurance and mental fortitude rather than raw skill.   he’d witnessed the deaths of his allies and enemies alike,  eventually growing numb to the violence.   in the end,  he managed to outlast all others,  using a final trap to eliminate the last career tribute.   when the cannon fired and he was declared the victor of the 68th hunger games,  the capitol had unintentionally created what they had feared most —   a victor who despised everything they stood for.

life as a victor and mentor.

winning the hunger games did not bring alex the kind of peace that he had hoped for.   although,  he was celebrated back home,  he returned to twelve broken and desensitized,  haunted by the deaths that he had caused and the friends he had lost.   the capitol citizens wanted to shower him with wealth and attention,  willing to pay any price for his company,  but he saw right through the facade and refused to take part in that twisted pageantry.   to teach him humility,  his girlfriend,  sarah,  perished in the next annual hunger games and his brother,  bryce,  fell down a mine shaft in a strange, inexplainable accident.   reminded that he’s still got two beloved brothers left (david was only five years old and cameron had just turned twelve),  alex gave in and found himself pulled into the capitol’s spectacle,  returning every year as a mentor —   a role he both hated and excelled at.   his tactical mind made him an effective,  his sharp mind helped him form valuable connections,  but each loss of a district 12 child cut deep.

join alex on his journey from a rebellious child,  to a hardened victor,  to a mentor quietly working his way through capitol’s structures and elites to sabotage president snow’s regime from the inside.

[wren-of-the-woods]

Okay I was going to just let this lie but then I thought of how--

When Geralt finally brings himself to seek Jaskier out, when he finds Jaskier again, he's playing a ditty on their spoons. He's singing an absurd song of defiance and Geralt doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry, because Jaskier seems so much more carefree than Geralt dared to hope but he also seems to have completely forgotten that it's Geralt's spoon, and that shouldn't hurt as much as it does, but it feels like a symbol of all the gifts and kindness Geralt lost when he threw away Jaskier's heart on the mountain. It's part of why he hugs Jaskier back without so much as a second of hesitation -- he missed the bard and he loved the bard more than he knew and right now, he needs the comfort almost as much as Jaskier does.

But he doesn't have time for feelings like that, not while the world seems to be falling apart around him, so he gets Jaskier out of the cell and sets off and tries his best to forget about the messy feelings the bard is so good at inducing in him. He does his best to apologize, of course, but he knows it isn't as good as it should be. He'll make up for it later, he hopes.

Then the whole mess with Voleth Meir happens and he forgets about almost everything that isn't keeping his daughter and the rest of his family alive, at least as well as he can. He comes out of the battle in a haze of grief and bewilderment. He talks to Ciri and they go to bed, and he manages to doze a little bit before dawn. He stumbles into the kitchen with everyone else, sits down on a bench they managed to salvage, takes a bowl of stew--

And realizes that he doesn't have a spoon. Whatever cutlery might have been lying around Kaer Morhen has been moved or destroyed.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring into the stew as though it might somehow solve his problems. He is just about to give up and go back to bed when, to his great surprise, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He looks up. It's Jaskier, gazing down on him with a soft little lopsided smile.

"Here," says Jaskier. Geralt looks down.

Hesitantly, almost nervously, Jaskier is offering him his spoon.

"Don't you need it?" Geralt rasps. He's noticed, despite everything, that Jaskier doesn't have his lute. He does not want to deprive Jaskier of the only thing he has that resembles an instrument.

"You need it more," says Jaskier gently. He presses the spoon into Geralt's hand.

Geralt takes it. Jaskier sits down beside him. Wordlessly, he hands Jaskier a bowl of stew. Jaskier takes it, and his smile becomes a little bit more real.

"Thank you," whispers Geralt. Jaskier says nothing, but he shifts until their thighs are touching under the table.

And, when Geralt brings the spoon to his lips, the stew tastes almost like hope.

Okay but why did Jaskier have two spoons in the prison in season two? Did the prison meal just... come with two spoons? Did he barter with a guard for a second one? Has he been there long enough to have multiple meals with multiple spoons??

[slytherbun]

confession

pairing: jay halstead x reader

summary: you find yourself in some trouble while clearing a location with your partner jay.

word count: 2.8k

tags: @specialagentsoftie @fighterkimburgess @everythingaddictxx

note: different kind of pd fic then i'm used to but hope y'all like it! ☺

"we're eight minutes out. don't go in yet." voight said into the mic but you and jay had already entered a second too late.

jay's been your partner for almost a year now. the one he had before you was a blonde named hailey that took a position from the fbi.

when you first met him it was about a month after the previous detective left and you could tell he was obviously still in denial. you gave him space and only input your opinion about cases you worked on with intelligence.

it took about three weeks until he actually said anything besides the occasional comment. and he knew deep down that you weren't trying to replace her. but since you were together a lot during the week—jay couldn't help but make his own conclusion about you.

he started to open up more when he looked past the stubbornness after concluding that you were a decent person. for a moment there, you could have sworn he was having an out of body experience with how nice he started treating you.

jay started to invite you out to drinks on a periodic basis. he wanted to explore the possibilities of having you as his permanent partner. one night after a couple of drinks, jay was in a good mood and showed you a picture of his old partner.

the two of them were standing in front of their new work truck with bright smiles on their faces. he talked about her a lot after that night as a way of meeting you half-way. and by the end of that month—it was as if you physically knew her and who she was as a person.

the both of you hit it off pretty well and became friends. even as far as, having drinks every tuesday and thursday after work at molly's—the firefighter owned bar.

jay mumbled a curse at the order voight gave but it was already too late. "get behind me." he spoke in a hushed whisper. not wanting to argue in that particular moment you did as told.

detective halstead had his gun raised and in a firm grip around his fingers before stepping further into the house. you followed his position and warily stepped more into the creaky house.

luckily the both of you had vests already on and around your chests. the material easily gave you a visual view of his arm muscles around the freckles splayed across his biceps.

right away you spotted the cans of spray paint sitting on the concrete living room floors. crude words were traced along the four walls and you couldn't help but scrunch your nose at the horrid smell.

it only had you raising your pistol higher.

while you glanced around to survey the room closely, you couldn't help but notice the gang symbols that you were familiar with. due to the cpd database you knew at least three different affiliations drawn over the wood boarded windows.

the overused drug house looked like something out of a horror movie.

"clear." he grunted between paced cautious breaths and you continued to walk behind his careful steps around the garbage to venture into the main hallway of the house.

jay stopped at the entryway and you turned back around to double check the area once again while he scanned the front view where you and he needed to go.

both sides of the hallway were clear but he made sure his gun was raised and followed every inch of the hallway space that he inspected.

you felt a tap on your waist and turned back around to see jay was still facing forward. he probably hadn't noticed the spot he touched of your body but it still sent shivers down your spine with the intimacy of it.

but you pushed away the anxiousness to check and see what was bothering jay. the only thought you should be having right now is how to get out of the dangerous position.

the hallway was full of open and vulnerable space. a clear point of range that could be taken advantage of to take either you or jay out at any time.

jay was concerned for you. he couldn't help the anxious feeling that he had in the pit of his stomach. the unknowingness ahead in the crack house irked him greatly that he couldn’t predict what was about to happen.

the walls of the hallway smelled highly metallic and if that hadn't given it away, the walls were filled with fresh blood splatter. you gulped at the sight of the bright red handprints going down the length of the hall and glanced at jay from the corner of your eye with an eyebrow raised.

he sighed and nodded his head while pointing his gun to the left to signal the continuance of moving on. you bit the bottom of your lip and tipped your head to let him know you were ready to go.

turning your body in a three hundred sixty angle, you watched his back and felt the hairs on the back of your neck lift up in a static gesture. you could also feel goosebumps all over your arms and you just wanted to hurry up and get out of there.

it was truly the most awful scene you've ever been to. with everything you had—you kept yourself together and calm. your lips were in a straight line the whole time.

you should have known with the uneasy feeling that things were going wrong within a split second. and you were right because after jay turned just slightly he felt a gun being pressed against his forehead.

“put your guns down or else i’m going to blow his head off.” an angered voice said into the echoey hall.

not believing what was happening, you turned your body to survey the area and another man came into your view and held his gun higher. “‘tsk tsk’ miss. hand me that gun or else we’re going to have problems.” jay sighed from behind you and you rolled your eyes.

“i’m not putting down shit until you tell me your demands.” you said maybe a little too cockily but it was protocol.

voight had told the team plenty of times to stall and not give up your gun at first. in hopes that the other’s would show up and it would become a better outcome if you just continued talking to the person who was a threat.

a third one appeared and now you were officially outnumbered but you were still hoping they were dumber than they looked. the one that was pressing a firearm to your partner’s temple spit out, “listen lady. you either put your weapon down or else his brain matter will be just another body that was paved across the walls of this house.”

you tried to calculate in your head quickly if you should take the risk of surrendering. voight said they were eight minutes out. and if you’ve been in the house for almost four minutes now.

that was half the time left until they were going to show but then those few precious minutes would be enough time for literally anything.

sometimes you hated being a part of the police force. how could you ever know the correct answer and outcome within a split second of your life? could anybody be capable of that? whatever choice you decided to take would be the outcome.

you knew you wouldn’t be able to live without jay as your partner and in your life. and his blood would be on your hands if you didn’t surrender now. a shaky breath fell past your lips when you clicked the safety back on and handed it to one of them.

of course they used your gun against you and headbutted you with it. little black spots were in your vision before it completely knocked you out. you just hoped the intelligence team would be able to find you and jay.

it would be your fault and you’d feel guilty until your last breath if they didn’t.

you weren’t sure how much time had passed but a hard slap against your cheek woke you up. a blood trail still continued to trickle down your forehead and you winced at the feeling of an awful beating in your eardrums. “wake up sleeping bitch.”

you tried to speak but instead you coughed at the buildup in your throat. not being able to help yourself, in a snarky tone you replied. “i thought it was sleeping beauty?” that earned you another slap that ensured fingerprints across your cheek but you weren’t feeling any regret about it.

“now shut up and answer my next question.” he inputted before you could interrupt again. you looked at him with a devious grin and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. “what were you looking for in that house?”

when you leaned forward, you realized the reason why you couldn’t move was because your arms were tied behind your back. but nonetheless you leaned forward encroaching in his space enough to feel his breath span out against your red cheek.

“as if i’d tell you.” your defiance had him pushing your head back forcefully so you hit the concrete behind you, feeling as if a baseball bat hit your skull.

he smirked at your uncomfort. “perhaps a little visit with your boyfriend will help you come to understand that i don’t mess around. if you don’t give me an answer—my boys won’t hesitate to put a bullet straight through his head.” your only reply was a silent one.

spitting blood onto his shoes and he cursed before grinning again. “yeah that’s what i thought.” turning his head towards the door, he yelled. “bring the pretty boy in!”

your shoulders immediately dropped when they entered the room. the other two men from earlier were dragging jay into the room and disposed of his body roughly on the ground in front of you. if it weren’t for his chest rising up and down faintly then you would have thought he was dead.

both of his eyes were already swollen and you knew he would have two black eyes for weeks, dried blood dripped down his face and you didn’t even want to look at the rest of his body. despite the fact he was wearing clothes, you knew he had many internal problems that would need only the care a hospital could provide.

“j-jay?” you stuttered at the sight of him.

he kept blacking out and struggled to stay awake. jay had been counting his breaths to make sure he had enough air circulating through his body. cracked ribs were no joke and he could only groan to let his favorite person know that he was still holding on.

“you think beating people is the only answer? violence?” you glanced around the room and glared at the three with a venomous look. they shared similar smiles hearing how hoarse your voice was.

“i hope my team finds you all and you rot!” the two that brought jay in walked away and the one that talked to you a few moments ago stood and looked down at you. saying one more thing before walking out the door and shutting it. “and i hope next time i come in here—you’ll feel more generous and tell me what you were up to. if you don’t then our pretty boy here will die as promised.”

as soon as he left the room, you started rubbing your arms up and down the wall in hopes that the binds around your wrists would break off. “y/n.” jay mumbled. you didn’t even notice he had turned his face and you shushed him. “don’t open your eyes jay. it’ll be okay, i promise.”

he tried again. “y-y/n. i need to t-tell you something.” jay’s lip was busted and bruised. he hissed at the pain. “you don’t need to tell me anything. we’re getting out of here, detective halstead.” you stated with confidence and continued to run your hands up and down despite the sting of your wrists.

jay had a feeling earlier this morning that something bad would happen. his gut had told him something and he wished he hadn’t ignored it. but he can’t always follow everything, especially when they didn’t even have their case yet. but of course after finding out the hard way, this case was bad.

he knew it and it still put you in harm's way but jay had to tell you how he felt just in case it did go the way he was hoping it wouldn’t. “i don’t care if i need to keep my strength right now. listen to me please.” he pleaded and you finally stopped, turning to glance at his face.

jay was squinting and the visual of his state had your stomach churning.

“y/n i haven’t been completely honest with you and i need to tell you this. i’ve wanted to for a while now, but i just couldn’t find the right moment to.” it was getting to the point where you were desperately trying to keep together. and now that he wanted to confess a deep secret that he’s held close to his chest, the whole thing just had you hysterical.

jay frowned when you started laughing. he tried to scoot closer but the pain he felt was significant. it was just one of those situations where it wasn’t an appropriate response but you couldn’t help yourself either.

he noticed the tears falling down your cheeks while watching you quiet down. a reaction like this didn’t surprise your partner so he didn’t blame your outburst in the least. “i’m s-sorry. i’m sorry.” you muttered and tilted your head to both sides.

you looked back over to jay after successfully wiping more than half of the tears on your sleeve. and for a moment he just gazed into your eyes with his blue ones. a look that you couldn’t decipher nor describe appeared across his face but he seemed to snap out of whatever he was thinking.

jay cleared his throat and continued with what he was about to say earlier. “it’s okay y/n. but i need you to know that i don’t blame you in the slightest for what went down in that house. i would have done the same exact thing because i love you.”

it was like time stopped and you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. after all of that time you spent with jay. him wanting nothing to do with you, then becoming your acquaintance, somewhat of a real friend and he loved you?

“you really love me?” you questioned. not being able to believe what was coming out of his mouth. you wondered if the three men drugged him and he was high or delusional. a grunt came out his mouth at the current aching pain he felt all over his body.

“yes y/n, i love you so much. if i could, i’d be over there right now and giving you a hug. then i’d lean down and give you a kiss that i’ve been wanting to give you for months now.”

that honesty from him had you laughing, “months? me too. i’ve wanted to kiss you for almost the whole year that i’ve known you.” you replied with the same amount of honesty he had given you.

“yeah, y/n. it’s probably going to be a year soon but i meant what i said. i really do love you and i’m sorry we’re in the situation that we’re in now. i wish i could protect you from this.” before you could reply the two of you heard gunshots outside of the room. “shit! i hope that’s them.” you mumbled and jay nodded as best as he could.

the door banged open and hit the wall. you almost peed your pants with how happy you were to see kevin and adam surveying the room. “clear!” kevin announced and then walked over to you and jay. adam spoke into the radio, “5021 ida. we have officers down and need two ambos rolled to our location.”

after kevin ripped the binds from your wrists, you crawled over to jay even though your arms were killing you. another tear fell down your cheek when you got up and close to him. he looked awful but now that the two of you were safe, he could begin to heal soon enough. “jay.” he made a ‘hmm’ sound due to the exhaustion he was feeling.

“i love you too.” you finally said and he smiled. you leaned down to brush your lips against his carefully. “after all of this is done. i’m going to give you a proper one.”

you winked and he grinned and responded while the medics rolled in. “we have plenty of time in the world now.”

[shiversdownyerspine]

15. Confession

Ladies and gentlemen we have The Kiss.

The raunchiness is going to Ramp Up.

18+

The passing of time finds you curled up in bed with a little journal, carefully perusing the information you've gathered on this new side of you. The scowl on your face won't go away.

You stare down at the top of the page, at the two little words that are the source of your ire.

Heat Cycle.

Isn't it just fantastic. As if you needed another weird little condition in your life. Well, it probably isn't right to consider this unusual. So far your cycle lasts six days total, with the first three days being the absolute worst. You can definitely believe that this is something you were meant to experience ages ago, but staying away from people severely delayed it. No, this is supposed to be natural for you. 

You can't bring yourself to appreciate the irony of it all. Natural. What a joke.

Well, maybe if you just give it time it'll become like second nature to you. Your eyes fall once more to the pages.

You'd bet that the attraction you feel towards the Swedes is the catalyst for triggering your cycle; when the men returned from their first mission, your fluctuating emotions probably set it off. Who knows, maybe because your attraction isn't singular but multiple, it's affecting the severity of your symptoms. Ohhh the symptoms. You dearly hope they get better with time.

The handful of experiments you've done to see what would offer relief have yielded poor results; hot water helps you relax, so showers and baths are good. Cold water is too much for your skin. For the first couple of days you had tried masturbation to gentle your 'flow', but that didn't really make a difference. You wouldn't even consider fingering, you're too wary of the sudden sensitivity to penetration, and strangely enough, you feel on an almost instinctual level that it wouldn't work.

There is some comfort in the fact that you could tell when your cycle was starting, the tingling and prickling caught your notice pretty quick. With the reliable timing, making yourself scarce won't be too difficult. Theoretically. But you're fairly certain the Swedes will eventually notice your missing presence.

It was a miracle you didn't have to explain your disappearance that first night to Otto. He'd been on the verge of sleep when you got up and luckily you hadn't really disturbed him, he just sank right back into slumber. Maybe the mission had tired them all out. Maybe time travel had its own sort of jet lag. Maybe both? Whatever it is, thank goodness.

A month later the Swedes are out on their second mission when your cycle returns with no sign of gentling. Your desperation leads you to throw caution to the wind and try penetration. In the bath your sex was fairly successful with tolerating light strokes and caresses. Carefully rubbing your clit, you breathe and push a finger in deep. Keeping it still and just letting the stimulation to your clit do the work, you push yourself to the edge of orgasm. Feeling a little more confident you let your hand move, slipping that finger in and out. By the third stroke you had slapped a hand over your mouth to smother your loud noises. By the tenth there were tears in your eyes, hips jumping and jerking almost uncontrollably as you came. Unfortunately, nothing changed for the better.

In fact, you were utterly crestfallen when you discovered your attentions had actually made things worse for you; late into the night you could still feel the phantom sensation of a finger inside, your walls weakly pulsing like a heartbeat as you ooze continuously into the gusset of your panties. You continuously drifted in and out, and in the wee hours of the morning with restless nerves taut enough to snap, you listened to instinct and headed to the dryer where Otto's shirt still lay folded and waiting. Retrieving the article of clothing, you curled up in bed with it clutched to your chest and promise you'd make an effort to remember to put his clothing back where you found it. But at the moment you didn't really give a damn about the possible consequences.

The effects of your cycle lessened as the lingering scent soothed you, and though you had to fight this bizarre urge to collect...like some kind of Magpie...eventually you were able to fall asleep.

After that cycle ended, you seriously considered stashing the shirt away. You're just...borrowing it. They'll never know.

The Swedes returned from their second mission after a handful of days out in the field. This time you were in the living room when they came trudging through your door. 

Oscar was in a huff, cheeks a bit puffed with frustration. "Jävla hala jävel."

Mildly concerned you watched as he headed to their guestroom, presumably to drop off his pack, before you turned your attention to his older brothers. Otto appeared to be untouched, if a little miffed. Axel on the other hand looked roughed up, hair out of place with light bruising and a couple of scrapes about his face.

The two men give a curt nod to you as you rise from the sofa to join them as they make their way into the kitchen. The first aid you had relocated to a cabinet under the kitchen sink, which Otto knowingly retrieves for you. "So...I'm guessing there's been some complications?"

"The target escaped." Axel solves the mystery for you, eyeing the kit in your hands before raising a brow at his quiet brother. Otto ignores him in favor of removing his pack and tossing it to Oscar as he joins the rest of you. The youngest catches it before giving Otto an annoyed look, seriously considering just dumping it on the floor for its rightful owner to take care of, before compromising and leaning the hefty bag against the wall. Oscar jerks his chin up in stubborn defiance, leaning back against the wall as well. Allowing it, Otto folds his arms and watches you make your way to their older brother.

"And took a couple swings at you on the way out?"

Sitting at the kitchen table with a slight scowl, Axel touches a finger to a small abrasion at the corner of his eyebrow to examine a bit of blood. 

Their target was a stocky man who had managed to break free of Otto's hold, had even cracked their older brother's head back into a wall with a wild adrenaline-fueled swing before tearing towards the exit like a bat out of hell. Of course Oscar had left him a parting gift, namely a wickedly sharp serrated knife buried in the meat of the unlucky man's upper leg. They had thought he wouldn't have gotten far with that wound impeding him, but he was nowhere to be seen. However as they began searching, Otto had surprised them by insisting on returning to you.

Taking the initiative you reach forward, brushing the loose strands of Axel's hair back off his forehead for a closer inspection of his face.

"Well...you don't look like you're on death's door, but how do you feel? Headache? Nausea? Blurry vision?"

Otto answers immediately, "Unsteady."

Indeed, as the brothers started tracking, Otto had noticed Axel stumbling a little every now and then, his steadfast gait not quite the way it was supposed to be. After a moment of consideration, the largest Swede had intervened, concerned about a concussion. Oscar had hesitated but once he saw his brother sway after coming to a complete stop, he too was on board with the change of plans.

"Concussions can get worse, you should take it easy for a bit. Let me see..." Before Axel can denounce any concerns, your hand is on his shoulder while the other is cupping his chin and tilting his face up to see how his pupils adjust to the light. Your touch is soft as your fingers slide over his skin, encouraging him with careful pressure to follow your direction. His hands twitch as his gaze follows a curl of hair sweeping down to your collarbone.

He breathes in slow when you once again push your fingers through the pale strands atop his head, your lips quirking fondly. "I think there's a little plaster in your hair."

Oscar's eyes flit between you and his eldest brother before he slips to Otto and elbows him, jerking his head towards the hallway to indicate that they should make themselves scarce. Otto walks to his pack and hefts it up with ease as an excuse of 'putting things where they belong' justifies their absences.

As you tend to the rough marks left behind on Axel's skin, you remember the mark he himself had left on your knife. You had meant to ask about it earlier but you've been rather distracted lately. The man shares his knowledge of the Algiz rune and some of the other Elder Futhark runes; the one on your knife handle represents an elk, a symbol of protection, defense, and guardianship.

"I'd love to hear about what other runes you know, but I don't want to keep you up all night...alright that should do it." You trail your fingers gently over his cheek, fascinated by the texture of his scar.

Axel hums, catching your wrist and holding your hand still. He turns his face into your palm and presses his lips to the skin. Pink dusts your cheeks at the gesture of appreciation, your eyes flicking from your hand to him as his mouth leaves your palm. With his grasp loose on your wrist you gather your nerve and slip your fingers lightly under his jaw, thumb dangerously close to the corner of his lips.

Brow creased with faux concern you lean in a little, eyeing his cheek. "Wait..."

Before he has the chance to react you lean in the rest of the way and press a lingering kiss to his cheek, right on his old scar. After pulling in a heavy breath, he goes very still.

You pull away with a soft smile, trying not to blush at the way his gaze is very focused on you. Chalking his stare up to confusion you murmur, "You've all been giving me so many and..I...I really wanted to give a kiss back. To thank you for the rune carving."

A strange look crosses the eldest Swede's face as his eyes flick down to your lips and then back up to your eyes, your wrist still in his grasp. He makes a decision.

The chair scoots across the floor as he rises from his seat and crowds you against the kitchen table, hand on your side guiding you back. He releases your arm as he dips to lift you up to the surface to sit, your wide-eyed stare and softly parted lips urging him to slip between your thighs. He needs answers. You've been driving him and his brothers crazy, and he has plenty of reason to believe the pining is mututal.

"You like us?"

"...? Of course I like you three, what..!" Your breath catches when he leans in, his fists resting on the tabletop to the left and right of you. Caged in, you're rendered silent as he stares intently at you.

"Do you want us?"

Mind blank and cheeks hot as your brain catches up with the meaning behind his words, your eyes dart over his handsome face. You know you're meant to respond, to say something but there is nothing, not a peep from you. This frustrating silence of yours, unintended as it is, does nothing to deter Axel. If anything it's an incentive to be a little more specific, a little more direct.

His head dips, lips lightly sliding against your cheek for a moment as he moves forward. Your ear tingles as his breath warms the sensitive skin before he questions you, voice lulling and suggestive as it rumbles from his throat.

"Do you like us touching you? Teasing you? Kissing you?"

One of his hands moves to yours, gliding up your arm and shoulder to sweep up the side of your neck. He rubs his thumb lightly over your bottom lip as his mouth presses minutely to the soft skin under your ear. At the sound of your whimper, his lips leave you as he draws back to peer heavy-lidded at your dazed visage.

"Red cheeks, squeezing thighs, pretty sounds..."

He cradles the side of your neck, thumb stroking along the curve of your jaw as he nonchalantly lists some of the reactions to him and his brothers that he's noticed. That they've all noticed. Your lips drag a shallow shaky inhale into your throat at his words, nearly breathless at how sweetly cruel he is to lay your attraction out so neatly before you. Axel's mouth hovers a hair's breadth away, his lips lightly parted as if hoping to catch the slightest taste of you on your exhale. The scent of pine and something heady floods your senses, pulling you under.

Vague recollections flutter in the abyss of your mind, specific memories of the younger brothers floating in the dark just out of reach. One was smothered with the comforting smell of laundry while another one dripped with zesty ginger, both slipping through your fingers. In their place earthy tones engulf you instead, entangling you in the present situation, in him.

This awareness does nothing but remind you with overwhelming intensity that you are helpless to the whims of the man who is tenderly interrogating you, pulling piece after piece away and leaving you bare before him.

When you finally give a verbal response, he's delighted to hear his name uttered so soft and sweet; begging for him to spare you yet also tempting him to give in and sink his mouth against yours and taste.

But...you haven't answered his question yet.

The hand cradling your neck slips back to cup your nape, tilting your head to expose your throat. He dips to the offering, leaving kiss after kiss as your hands shakily grasp his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric as he peppers your skin with lazy affection.

Your breath comes quick in light puffs and quivery gasps, stuttering with a weak moan when warm lips softly suck at your pulse. Emboldened by the results of his attentions, Axel strokes the feathers that tickle his fingers at the base of your skull.

Electrifying sensations entwine, spiraling into a cutting clarity and desperation that demands you reveal the truth. "I..I want..."

The gentle wet sound of his mouth releasing your skin distracts you for a second. He allows you a moment to collect yourself but has no qualms with encouraging you to continue should you hesitate too long.

"I want more."

Your greedy admission is rewarded with contemplative silence as he savors your words. The quiet lingers a moment longer before slow ticklish kisses trail back up your neck, your cheek, and finally to your ear. A shudder ripples through your body as the man softly nips your earlobe with a hum. "And?"

With the lull in teasing you discover the fog in your brain has receded a little, at least enough for coherent speech to return. You accept defeat.

"I want all of you. I do."

It feels good to recognize what you've been hiding inside of you for so long, to acknowledge that you wanted this with them. Axel plants one last lingering kiss under your ear before resting his forehead against yours, "Are you scared?"

You take the opportunity to catch your breath; the revelation that there had been more behind their attention, that they want you just as much, was as invigorating as it was nerve-wracking. But you know how you feel and you trust the three men.

"Maybe a little...overwhelmed? This is new."

The brush of his lips against yours is featherlight, the sensation potent enough to send a shiver through you. You marvel at how badly you want him to do it again as he murmurs, "Not all new. Some new, some different. We will still touch and kiss but more."

The final word in his sentence he chooses to punctuate with another kiss, warm and firm as it demonstrates his point perfectly and steals your breath for the frustratingly short amount of time it lasts. His words sink in. More. And not with just one, but all three of the men you so adore. Delight warring with shyness, you bury your red face in Axel's neck as his hands slip down your sides.

"We will go slow, give and take, share. Would you like that?" The heat in his voice is both reverential hunger and alluring promise. You press a kiss under his jaw, receiving a squeeze to your hips in turn.

Yes, you would most certainly like that.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jävla hala jävel. - Fucking slippery bastard.

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - iii (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The reader confronts King Steven. 

Warnings: nothing really... just really wordy. pretty uneventful. 

Word Count: 2.1k

Note: This originally had 4K+ (+ because i’m still writing) but I opted to cut this chapter in half because it felt overloaded. Forgive me.

I hope you enjoy!

Bring Me Light Masterlist

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

Tensions quickly rose after that night. Even those without eyes could see that you steadily avoided the king. Any time King Steven entered a room you previously occupied, you found a reason to leave.

Rumors had begun to swirl.

Some told the tale of how you were displeased with the king – displeased with the arranged marriage. You were seen as the fiery princess of York, defiant and headstrong like your king father who was at war with their nation years ago. You were unwilling to settle down even if it meant you would be queen to a respected nation and the wife to a revered king. Your actions proved to be a rejection – a rejection of Brooken, of their king – and the people began to resent you even before you took your place at Steven’s side.

Some spun a story that further supported the rumors you heard in York and even in Brooken itself. Some said you saw the king’s cruelty firsthand and have plans to flee. Perhaps you ignoring the king was a ploy to get him to dismiss you, send you back to York, so that you did not marry him. Some said that the king would kill you for your defiance and instead of giving their king a son, you would give him another widow.

You heard the rumors. Every whisper, every mutter, every side eye and glance – you saw and heard it all. But you paid it no mind. As you did the king, you simply ignored the rumors. It did you no good to entertain them.

The king’s words still hung in the air every time you managed to look at him. The threat still as vibrant. It frightened you. Who was the man that smiled with you, entertained you, commissioned you a bow, and called you my love? Was he the same man in the dungeon – ordering the torture of a prisoner?

You hoped they were different people. That the king was not cruel as the rumors painted him out to be. Were you just naïve?

Visitors have started pouring into the castle. Nobles, royalty alike ready to bear witness to your marriage. It was a promising union. The north finally putting aside their years of discord and hostility to unite for peace – to unite against the Mad King who continued to claim more land. It was a treaty between York and Brooken that was symbolized by rings wrapped around yours and King Steven’s fingers.

You stared on as the servants brought in your throne. “Pivot!”, “Up!  Up!”, “To the right! The other right, you imbecile!” the man in charge ordered around. You chuckled to yourself at the man’s frustrations.

In York, your father’s throne stood tall and proud with intricate designs of red and gold – your house colors displayed proudly. Your mother’s had the same overall aesthetic and elegance but was much smaller – “dainty,” she called it, “as a queen, as a lady should be.” It was a decorative piece made to compliment the king’s seat like how a queen was to compliment a king.

It didn’t seem as if Brooken shared the same ideal. You didn’t know this, but King Steven believed that a queen isn’t just an accessory or a figurehead or a birther of heirs. He liked to believe that a queen was an equal to a king – that they were partners working together to make their kingdom great.

And it was made visual by the elegant bronze thrones whose heights were equal. They were tall and daunting. Terrifyingly beautiful.

“Do you like it?” You nearly jumped out of your own skin. Steven had snuck up behind you while you were lost in your admiration. You made an attempt to walk away, but he grabbed your upper arm gently and prevented you from fleeing. He leaned in and whispered, “we need to welcome our guests.”

“I believe that is your duty as king.” You simply responded. You tugged your arm out of his grip and with servants, lords, and other witnesses around you both, he let you go without struggle.

“I believe as Brooken’s future queen, it is your duty as well.” His voice was low. You couldn’t quite make out where his tone was. Was he angry? Was he teasing? You weren’t sure. It seemed as if Steven had a hidden talent for acting. One second he was charming, kind, and laughing with you the next he would probably snap at you, send you away to the dungeon to get your teeth ripped out. “And I’ll introduce you to the nobles you do not know. Acquaint yourself with your people.”

You wanted to retort that Brooken’s people were his people not yours – that York was your home and its people were your people. But you decided to remain silent and nod because he was right. As Brooken’s future queen, it didn’t matter where you were born or where you grew up or what blood ran through your veins. Upon your marriage, Brooken’s people will become your people too.

»————-　⚜　————-««

As the last of the guests left, Steven ordered everyone in the throne room to leave. Everyone slowly started to file out and you were making your way through the doors as well when he grabbed your hand and asked you to stay. You glanced over at Natasha, whom you confided in of what you heard in the dungeon, who gave you a reassuring nod.

“I know what you heard.” He muttered as soon as the doors shut. You glanced around the room. You were completely alone with the king. You felt a chill go through you. You didn’t like his tone, but you weren’t a pushover. You were a Stark.

So, you stared at his eyes, your voice strong like you, and said, “Does the man still have his teeth?” You cocked your head to the side. That caught him off guard.

He assumed you would deny it. He prepared for the confrontation. He imagined you’d argue that rose was a popular scent among women because of literature that described their heroines with that very scent. He’d counter and tell you that servants admitted to seeing you flee. He wasn’t prepared for you to come clean.

Steven raised his brows at you, amused. “This isn’t a joke, Steven. What does that man know that you need to? And would it kill you to show compassion to someone whom you’ve already imprisoned? He begged water and you denied him that. Perhaps if you listened to his needs, he’d provide you with the intel you’re desperate to know. Perhaps if you showed a little restraint instead of playing a power card like a king and listened like a good man would, then others wouldn’t paint you with such cruelty.”

“He’s a traitor. I needed him to tell me who else in my court, in my country that plot for my downfall.” You weren’t expecting that… Of course, you knew that others plotted against their monarchs. It’s how King Thanos gathered support and was able to infiltrate countries in the rate he does.

The king seized your hands, catching you off guard. His thumb gently grazed the finger where your wedding ring would be placed in two days. “I want to wash the toxicity away from my country, my court. I want to quash the unrest. I really do. I want my kingdom to be happy, stable, to flourish. I want to do it with you by my side. I trust you. And I understand this marriage isn’t what you may have wanted, but I want us to grow to tolerate one another, to find happiness in one another. I apologize if I frightened you. I understand my reputation on the battlefield is rather… unwelcoming.”

“It’s frightening, yes,” you agreed with a nod and swallowed. “I think I do need to stop listening to servant gossip. I apologize for my part in our current unhappiness. I do want that though. I may be of York and a Stark, but I do want Brooken to be successful, to be great. I want happiness and I want love. Two things I thought that I will not get in this marriage.”

“We might not be at the current position to love each other. We have only met nearly weeks ago.” He agreed.

“But perhaps, we can grow to it. We will be bound together for eternity soon after all.” You offered him a smile, one that he returned.

He was relieved to hear you say that you two were on the same page. It was refreshing. Steven glanced down at your lips. Your smile as enchanting and beautiful as you. He wasn’t sure if it was an overstep, but the glint in your eyes told him it might not be. So, he took the chance and pulled you closer to him.

You gasped as you lost your footing and crashed against the king, but he held you up and flush against his body. You stared up at him in surprise. His smile was still there. You wondered if the reason why he never smiled in his portraits was because the artist would be distracted. His smile was hypnotizing. You could stare at him forever.

And slowly, he leaned in. You remembered how he was with a bow and arrow. Quick, precise, confident. The man leaning down towards you was unsure – his movements slow but deliberate. He was so close that you felt his breath on your face. You held yours in.

“What are you waiting for?” You whispered.

He smirked. Outspoken and amusing. He would never get tired of you. Steven leaned in, closing the gap between your lips. Your eyes fluttered close, as did his, as you both moved in unison.

You found your footing again, balancing yourself and melting into him. A bit shy and inexperienced – this was your first kiss after all – you tried to pull away, but Steven’s hands gently cupped your cheeks and held you in place. He grew intoxicated by your scent of roses, quickly becoming addicted to the taste of your lips. He felt a fire igniting within himself, the embers spelling out your name. You both got lost in the passion that neither of you expected to be there.

Suddenly, a cough caused you two to quickly separate. Wide eyed, you turned and saw your father’s entertained smirk. You blushed and looked down, curtsying to your king father.

“Tony.” Steven greeted. He wiped his lips as subtly as he could, but the older king saw it as did the queen at his side with a similar expression with her eyebrows raised. “You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”

“I grew impatient. Made our driver go faster.” Your father smirked as he turned to you. You bit on your lower lip as your eyes wandered around the room. “Did we interrupt something?”

“No.” You and Steven said in unison.

Your father had a knowing smirk on his face. “Daughter, you look lovely. I take it you’re enjoying your time in Brooken?”

“Yes, father,” you nodded. You nearly rolled your eyes at his teasing.

“My love, stop teasing.” Your mother chastised, slapping his shoulder. She opened her arms for you and you gave her a smile as you accepted her hug. “I told you.” She muttered in your ear low enough so only you heard it. You blushed even more as you pulled away from her and stood at Steven’s side.

“I’m sure the journey was tiresome. Shall I call for a servant to escort you to your rooms?” You asked, forcing a courteous smile. Your mother smiled and nodded. “Mother, is Morgan and Harvey with you?” You were eager to see your younger siblings – and honestly quite relieved that they hadn’t witnessed yours and Steven’s moment.

Her smile quickly faded as she glanced to your father, wordlessly asking him to help. The York King simply waved his hand and shook his head. “Morgan’s far too young to be traveling right now.” You found that odd. Your mother wouldn’t have simply left her months old infant in the care of the nannies. She would’ve wanted to supervise and micromanage them as she did with Harvey and undoubtedly with you. “And Harvey’s …” He paused for a moment. “Your brother’s exhausted from his constant training. We decided it was best if we left the children in our castle.”

“Of course.” Steven nodded. “Please,” he smiled and motioned for the doors. He offered you his arm which you smiled and took as you both led your parents out of the throne room and into the corridors. You asked one of the servants who passed by to escort the other pair to their chambers. After your parents left you two once again, Steven took your hand and brought it to his lips. “Two days.”

“Two days.” You agreed with a nod.

[fluorescencefuture]

Homestuck^2: How I’d write the Omega Kids (and the Candy timeline villains)

I haven't reread Homestuck nor the epilogues in a while so correct me if I'm wrong with anything here. This was all in one go, too, so I probably missed something here or there. I'm also not a native English speaker so pardon some grammar errors.

In General

I’d give them a five-letter name scheme. Names of a group being the same length was a big deal in original HS (human first names had four letters, troll names had six, Ancestors had eight-letter titles, Cherubs had eight letters too, etc.), so it’s odd seeing this new group have names of varying length

I’d also give them all shirt symbols. It’s odd that something so iconic to Homestuck isn’t present in the new kids, either.

I'll write for both the canon post-canon with evil Jane and for my own version with different villains. Evil Jane happens because a highblood troll who hears of the old ways of Alternia attempts to kill her and take her crown, as she's technically the heiress. Jane wins, but she starts to see trolls and Alternian culture in a different light from then on. At first she was only trying to prevent the worst parts of Alternian culture from coming back, but over time grew to despise trolls, and ended up trying to force human culture onto Alternians.

The other Candy villains are a dangerous terrorist rebel group that wants to overthrow the creators and destroy them. They say the creators made the people, abandoned the people for years, then suddenly came back and decided they control the people. The group is made of humans, trolls, carapacians, and even consorts. The mysterious shadowed leader claims to be doing this for the people, but really, all they want is to have control for themselves, and they don't care if any innocents get in the way.

Harry Anderson

Has nothing to fix, he’s perfect as is

Okay but seriously, the guy is the kid with the least questionable things around him. He has no baggage from sharing the same name as an established character (ICP Harry Anderson doesn’t count), and he didn’t come from infidelity.

He also has actual color to his personality. He likes musicals and sewing. He has a good relationship with his dad. Like many kids with divorced parents, he wishes his parents were together again. What do the others have? Vrissy is just a slightly less aggressive Vriska. Tavros is just OG Tavros and Jake combined. Yiffy’s thing is being a dog girl named Yiffany Longstocking. The others could be fleshed out eventually, but with the slow pace and meandering plot we have right now, I doubt it.

If Jane's the villain, things would mostly go the same way. If Jane isn't the villain, it goes two ways: he decides to join Vrissy's guerilla anti-anti-creator group and fight because he wants to protect his parents, or he's just very anti-conflict and avoids the fight because he doesn't think he's up to it. He's frequently threatened but doesn't tell his parents about the threats. Eventually, he gets convinced to join and fight.

Vrissy

So Vrissy’s in relationships with guys who are technically her cousins. At first I was like “well, they’re not biologically related nor were they raised as family so it’s not weird”. But then Tavros called Kanaya “Aunt Kanaya” and now I’m thinking “oh god, that’s really weird”.

Now she’s just a troll girl from school. She's just close to Kanaya and Rose, but isn’t their kid. She isn’t related to anyone. Anyone except Vriska, who she was named after. Vrissy’s new nickname is just Vriss.

Alternatively, her name is something completely different. Honestly, it just seemed like a way to shoehorn in a Vriska for the story. Only for actual Vriska to come back anyway.

Uhh, Eshtha (from Jyeshtha, a Hindu nakshatra Scorpius is associated with)? Oriona (from Orion, the myth where Scorpius is mostly attributed to)? Naiaka (from Manaiakalani, as Hawaiians saw Scorpius as the demigod Maui’s fishhook)? Oh wait, I’ll have to make nicknames for those names too. Uh, Eshty, Riona, and Naiah.

Maybe have her have a personality that’s rather opposite to Vriska’s than have her as Vriska 2. She's more a perky goth, more cheerful and sweet. More "I knew you could do it!" than "So you can do something after all." A beast in battle, of course. She doesn't like to use her mind control powers, because she finds them disturbing.

If Vriska had to come back, the conflict would come from their conflicting personalities. Vriska would pretty much act the same way she did to (Vriska), but this time, Vriss doesn't take any of it and stands her ground.

Whether the villain is Jane or not, she's the one who decides to fight back, and she gets her friends and others to join her. The creators have been nothing but good to her, and she cares about them a lot, especially Rose and Kanaya. Not to mention they're also her friends' parents.

Tavros

Yeah, we’re gonna have to rename that kid. It never made sense to me why Jake and Jane named their kid after some guy they don’t know that well. I don’t remember everything from the Epilogues, but I’ll assume the reason was Gamzee or something. Also weird that Jane, who’s supposed to be racist to trolls, would just...let her kid be named after one.

Something old-ish would work. Flynn? Silas? Avery? Clyde? Niles? Louie?

He's moirails with this Vriss instead of kismeses. The Vrissy/Tavros kismesis also felt like re-hashing the kismesis that Vriska and OG Tavros kinda had.

If we went post-canon villain Jane, he'd be reluctant to join the rebellion and is more of a pacifist who would rather try to talk his mom out of it.

Alternatively, Jane and Jake are separated (but not divorced) and he lives with Jake. Because Jane was never terrible to him and Jake doesn't tell him how bad she's gotten, he disagrees with her but still tries to justify and rationalize that Jane's really doing it from a place of good intentions.

If the villain isn't Jane, then Jane and Jake have been hiding him away, and his friends can only see him when they visit him at his swanky home. You might say he's...housetrapped. He joins because his friends are in it, and doesn't quite grasp how serious things are until the rebels try to kill Jane (the rebels try to kill Jane first because you always kill the healer first).

He's in contact with a mysterious guide who's kinda spacy and a little terrifying at times. His friends think the guide might just be some creepy predator. It's revealed to be Candy Gamzee, out of the fridge and legitimately harmless, but untraceable and doing mysterious things behind the black. Again.

Come to think of it, Dirk's missing too...

Yiffany Longstocking

Yiffy is now the ectokid of Dave and Jade. She looks more like a DaveJade kid than JadeRose, really. Dave and Jade are also either happily married or coming close to an amicable divorce. Yeah, the toxic shit Jade did and the erasure of Dave's bisexuality also don't exist here. Jade, Dave, Karkat, and Terezi are backing Vrissy's anti-anti-creator group.

Her new name is something unisex. Riley? Logan? Robin? Sloan? Salem?

She spends a lot of time outside doing sports and doesn't talk much. She's not very close to the other three kids, but she's surprisingly pretty close to her Aunt Rose.

While Jade and Dave are out on a mission for Karkat (this is the mission Candy Dave dies), she gets kidnapped by the opposing force (Jane/the terrorists). She gets a shock collar forced on her, then is hidden away in a Boarding School for Inconvenient Girls, enrolled under the name "Yiffany Longstocking". Jade comes home to find that her family's been taken from her. Again.

Yiffy almost escapes, but she gets knocked out and taken back to base, where they lock her in a cage and treat her like a dog. She's still defiant to the end.

If Jane's the villain, Jake is inspired by Yiffy's defiance, grows some balls, exposes Yiffy's treatment to the press, and sets her free. She beats up the guards trying to stop her. Jake gets surrounded by more guards. In response, he pulls out his pistols and a one-liner, and bam, cliffhanger.

If it's the terrorist group, Terezi picks up on Yiffy's scent when they're in a base, and she's saved by the other three kids, where she immediately turns around and beats the crap out of the guards. They become proper friends from there.

The reunion panel still happens and this time it's her reuniting with her loving mother and aunt instead of...y'know.

BONUS: Sadstuck

Harry gets his own “im not a hero” speech after trying and “failing” to be the hero that John was

Vriss is eventually forced to use her mind control powers. It’s either a “Katara using bloodbending" situation, or she forces her friends to leave her behind when they want to stick by her.

Tavros finally witnesses his mother’s true nature when Jake defeats all the guards, but is stabbed from behind by Jane and killed. In the other version, it seems Jane is finally safe and able to come home to her son. Then she’s killed right in front of him.

After the big hug with Jade and Rose, Yiffy pulls away. She smiles, looks around behind them, and asks “Where’s Dad?”

So, please tell me what you think!

[whitecatindisguise]

Resurrecting Demanitus

Guess what? Kitty mom got inspired! Again! By @wheredomelodiescomefrom​ ! This art was just too good to leave it without a background story.

Sooo... here we go again, I guess.

------

“Mine! They are finally mine!” Zhan Tiri laughed as she held both Sundrop and the Moonstone in her hands. 

“No!” Rapunzel cried, running towards the demoness. Zhan Tiri side-stepped and the princess missed her, barreling into Cassandra, both women landing on the floor. 

“With these I can finally resurrect Demanitus. And he will be completely under my control!” The demon laughed menacingly as her gaze moved towards the corridor. “And it turns out I have a perfect vessel right in this castle.” 

She laughed one last time before disappearing. Rapunzel and Cassandra pushed themselves up, both struggling to stand straight. 

“What’s… what’s going on?” Cassandra questioned, leaning over the wall for support, the princess doing the same. 

“It seems taking the stones forcefully has weakened us.” Rapunzel replied, gritting her teeth and pushing herself to stand properly. She wobbled a little but managed to not fall. “We have to go after Zhan Tiri.”

“We don’t even know where she is.” Cassandra pointed out, managing to stand straight too. 

“She said so herself. This ‘perfect vessel’ is somewhere in the castle.” The princess reminded her, moving towards the door. “And the only place that holds people at the moment is the throne room.”

“Why the throne room?” The dark-haired woman fell into step behind the other, her brow raised in question.

“Varian is building a portal to send Zhan Tiri back into limbo.” Rapunzel explained as they descended to the ground floor. “Hopefully, it’s ready and they will manage to use it before-”

A sound of rushed footsteps stopped them mid-walk. A group of people ran from behind the corner, led by angered Quirin, followed by Adira, Hector, Eugene, and the rest of the defenders. 

“Eugene!” Rapunzel called and ran up to her boyfriend. His eyes widened at her sight.

“Sunshine, your hair-” He said in surprise. 

“Zhan Tiri took the Sundrop.” She explained quickly and shot a glance at Cassandra standing not far away. “And the Moonstone. She said something about resurrecting Demanitus and finding a ‘perfect vessel’.”

“The Moonstone? That means-” Everyone now took notice of the dark-haired woman standing awkwardly several steps away. They pointed their weapons at her and she flinched and looked away. 

“I… I’m not going to fight you.” Cassandra said. “Not that I have anything to fight with…”

“As much as I’d like to resolve it now, we have more important things to worry about.” Adira pointed out, her face frowned. 

“Eugene, what happened?” Rapunzel looked at her boyfriend, remembering how the group rushed out from behind the corner. “Did Zhan Tiri take someone already?”

“Sunshine…” Eugene’s eyes turned into worry and he casted a glance at Quirin and the rest of the Brotherhood. He sighed and focused on the princess’ emerald orbs. “She took Varian.”

~~~~~~

Varian struggled in his binds, the chains that magically appeared around his body, tying him up with little space to move. They were completely surprised when Zhan Tiri suddenly appeared in the throne room. Before anyone could react, she grabbed the boy, the chains suddenly binding his whole body, and disappeared again, taking him with her. 

They reappeared outside, in a place Varian didn’t see before but knew exactly where it was, if only the big tree growing at the edge of the cliff was any implication. Janus Point, the place considered the most magical, where the barrier between the universes was said to be the thinnest. 

“Let me go!” The alchemist struggled again and yelped in pain, as the chains tightened around his body. 

“Hush, child.” Zhan Tiri said, her back turned to the binded teen. “Soon, you will serve the greater goal.” 

“I don’t want to serve any goal!” He shouted in response, glaring at the demon. “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work! Rapunzel will-”

“The princess will do nothing to stop me.” Zhan Tiri cut in, turning around and smiling in a way that sent chills down the alchemist’s spine. “Not without the power of Sundrop.”

With those words, she produced two stones, the gold one held in her right hand, and the blue one in her left. 

“With the combined power of both Sun and Moon, I will resurrect Demanitus, putting him completely under my command.” The demon went on, hiding the stones into her dress and closing the space between herself and Varian, bringing her hand to cup his cheek. “And you, my dear, will become his vessel.”

“N-no matter what you say, Rapunzel will save me!” Varian replied defyingly, moving his head away from the demon’s touch. “She’s too stubborn to give up.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of that, dear alchemist.” Zhan Tiri said and her grin grew impossibly wide. “But soon, there will be no one for her to save.” 

~~~~~~

“We can’t just rush in blindly!” Cassandra argued and Eugene sent her a death glare. 

“You can’t expect me to sit still while this demon has my son!” Quirin growled back, Adira and Hector nodding their heads in agreement. 

“By being Quirin’s son, he is considered part of the Brotherhood.” The white-haired woman explained. “And we don’t leave anyone behind.”

“I’m not saying we should do nothing!” Cassandra said back. “I’m only pointing out, we don’t even know where they are.”

“That’s why we need to spread out and look.” Hector growled and the dark-haired woman suppressed an annoyed growl herself.  

“They can be anywhere. And searching in a way you suggest can take days!” She pointed out. 

“It’s better than doing nothing!” Quirin argued. 

“Guys, guys!” Eugene stepped to stand between Cassandra and the Brotherhood. “I’m sure we can figure out if we stop fighting with ourselves.”

“Why is she even here?! She should be locked out in the dungeons, or whatever this kingdom does to criminals!” Hector grumbled and Eugene let out a tired sigh. 

“As Rapunzel already said, we can deal with it AFTER we save the kid.” The man reminded and shot a pleading look at his girlfriend. “Any ideas, Sunshine?”

“What about… Janus Point?” The now-brown-haired princess suggested, looking at the rest of the party. “It is considered magical. Some even say the barrier between the universes is the thinnest there.”

“And if Zhan Tiri is planning to summon Demanitus, this place could be our best bet.” Queen Arianna nodded in approval and smiled at her daughter. 

“Okay, we have a plan. Can we go now?” Hector asked impatiently and Rapunzel looked at everyone gathered in the corridor, before nodding in determination. 

“Let’s save Varian.” She said. 

~~~~~~

Varian struggled against his binds once again. The chains surrounding his body disappeared, changing into shackles that held his wrists together over his head, and his ankles separate. Each end of the chain was secured around the branches and roots of the tree, the teen facing the end of the cliff. 

“Stop struggling, boy.” Zhan Tiri huffed in annoyance as she shot a side glance at him. Once again, she produced the two stones from her dress and approached the bound alchemist. 

“You won’t get away with this!” Varian cried in defiance but was ignored. 

“Let us begin, shall we?” The demon grinned widely and pushed the two stones into the tree, each on one side of the tied alchemist. 

The tree lit up, and a white sigil appeared on the trunk, various symbols displayed inside the circle, the sun and moon corresponding to the stones’ arrangement. 

“ZHAN TIRI!!” A sudden cry sounded from behind. Varian couldn’t see from where he was tied, but the familiarity of the voice was enough to give him hope. Rapunzel was here. “Let him go!”

“A little too late for that, princess.” Zhan Tiri laughed and turned to the alchemist. “It has already started.” 

The wind suddenly grew stronger and the demon grinned widely.

“Sun and Moon unite, 

Listen to my plea.

Bring the one I want,

Make him obey me.” Zhan Tiri started chanting, her voice booming over the sound of wind, eyes glowing green. 

Varian felt a sudden pain overwhelming his whole body. He cried out, the blood-curdling scream freezing everyone on spot.

“Varian!”

“Son!” 

“Kid!” 

Everyone cried at the sound, Quirin and the Brotherhood already rushing towards the demoness. 

“Now, at my command

He will rise once more.

Never leave my sight

We will rule as one.

Rule as one!” The incantation finished and Zhan Tiri laughed maniacally. 

Varian squirmed in his binds, screaming and yelling. If it was even possible, it sounded as if his cries grew even louder, even more desperate, even more terrifying. Over the cliff, a portal appeared, a white hue exiting it and reaching for the teen. When it touched his skin, he cried out once more, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes. 

“Stop it! You’re hurting him!” Rapunzel cried, as she tried to somehow unchain the struggling teen. 

“Give up, Princess!” Zhan Tiri laughed from where she was levitating several feet over the ground. “Once the process has started, there is no way to stop it!” 

“There is always a way!” Eugene shouted, pointing his sword at the demoness. “And if anyone can find it, it’s Rapunzel.”

The princess smiled slightly at that and turned her face back towards the tree and the alchemist. He was still screaming, but, with horror, she noticed his voice was slowly dying out, strengths leaving him far too quickly. Her eyes shot around the sigil, looking for weak spots, anything to stop this. 

Her gaze fell on the symbol of the sun, noticing the golden glow right in the middle. She shot a quick glance at the moon symbol, taking notice of the blue glow there. The Sundrop and the Moonstone. If she managed to pry them off…

She reached out her hand towards the golden stone and cried out, when the power shot through her. She retracted her arm with a pained cry, cradling it to her chest. 

“Raps!” Cassandra was next to her in an instant, shooting a concerned glance at the rest of the party, trying to deal with the demon. Then, she looked back at the sigil, understanding the intentions of her friend. “Let me help. You grab the Sundrop, I’ll take the Moonstone.”

Rapunzel calmed her breathing and nodded, her face full of determination. On the count of three, the two women both grabbed one of the stones and pulled with all their might, ignoring the shots of pain the raw energy caused. The sigil blinked in and out, and Rapunzel smiled triumphantly. 

“Keep going, Cass! It’s working!” She cried to the other woman and she nodded in return, teeth clenched in determination and pain. 

With a last cry, the both stones simultaneously were pried off the circle, the sigil ceasing its existence and the chains binding Varian disappearing in an instance. He fell forward, slumping unconsciously to the ground. 

“Varian!” Quirin cried upon noticing his son falling and ran up to him instantly. “Son, are you alright?!”

“D-dad…?” Blue eyes opened slightly, staring unseeingly at his father. “What…?”

“Shh… it’s okay. You’re safe now.” Quirin hugged his son closer and Varian leaned into the hug with a delighted sigh. 

“NoOoOoOoOoOoO!” A demonic cry sounded from behind. They looked up to see furious Zhan Tiri staring at the disappearing portal, the white hue being sucked back inside. “WhAt DiD yOu dO?!” 

“It’s over, Zhan Tiri!” Rapunzel cried, standing tall, the Sundrop in her hand. Cassandra stood next to her, holding the Moonstone. They shared a look and nodded their heads, staring back at the demon. 

Simultaneously, they both raised a hand holding the stone towards Zhan Tiri. A gold and blue energy shot out from the stones, mixing together and hitting the demon in the chest. She shrieked and then there was an explosion. When the smoke cleared, the demoness was gone. 

“Is she… gone?” Eugene was the first to speak as he looked around. 

“I… I think so…” Rapunzel replied, staring at the Sundrop still in her hand. She noticed a blue glow to her right and saw Cassandra holding the Moonstone to her. 

“I- you should take it, Raps.” The woman said, looking away. “I don’t- I shouldn’t have it. I’ve done enough damage already.”

Rapunzel nodded and picked up the stone, making sure she held it in the other hand. None of them wanted to risk the stones combining, seeing how they reacted just moments ago. The princess looked back at Quirin, standing up with Varian secured in his arms, the alchemist still too weak to stand on his own. 

“Let’s go back to the castle.” Rapunzel decided, looking at everyone gathered. “We have much to discuss.”

[cinaja]

Before the Wall Part 17

Summary: Five hundred years before Feyre Archeron is born, the world is much different from the one she lives in. Humans are slaves, seen as little more than animals by the Fae who rule. But things are beginning to change. Talks of rebellion is spreading and on the Continent, some Fae territories begin to consider the potential gain of War. All it takes is one spark and everything will explode.

Masterlist

----

Miryam should have seen it coming. After all, she knows Ravenia – she has seen the female slaughter entire families over minor insults. Sending an army to punish Miryam for her defiance is just the Queen`s style.

She takes a deep breath and turns to Mor. "I want you to winnow to the closest camps, see if you find anyone close enough to send help. Without support, we can last..."

"Two hours", Jurian finishes for her, "Three at most before the losses become catastrophic."

Mor nods sharply. "I'll do what I can. And try to be back before the battle starts." Without another word, she vanishes.

"I'll put up wards",Miryam says. It's the only complicated spell she is somewhat positive she can manage without getting herself killed. "Maybe it will buy us time."

"Do it, then." Jurian hesitates for a heartbeat. Then, he pullsher close and kisses her gently. "I love you."

It feels far too much like a goodbye. And if Jurian is saying goodbye, that means they likely won`t make it. But Miryam can`t accept that – she can`t.

"And I love you", Miryam says, "But we won't die today."

Jurian smiles slightly. "As my lady commands." He gives her a mocking bow and rushes off.

Miryam makes the most of the hour they have left. While Jurian rallies their army, she sets up a circle. This one is the most powerful she has ever created, the symbols lining the edges drawn in her own blood. Around the camp, she sets up markers to show the ends of the wards. She tries not to tell herself that every life in this camp may depend on her ability to set up functioning wards.

Back in her circle, she flips open the book and starts talking. The spell is long, spanning almost three pages in the book. It is by far the most complicated one Miryam has ever tried. Still, she does not allow herself to be scared. Fear, she learned, is the fastest way to lose control. She doesn't want to find out what will happen if her power slips her leash in the middle of a spell like this.

By now, at least, she knows enough to understand what the individual parts of the spell do. First, activating the circle and anchoring her to the ground. Then, drawing power from the surroundings to her. Calling up on the strings. And finally, carefully, weaving them together to form a line of protection. She is just finishing the final words, tying up the ends neatly, when the second alarm starts ringing, loud and panicked. Hastily, Miryam finishes the spell and runs out of her tent.

Jurian choose not to have their army meet the enemy on the field, but instead defend their camp as long as possible. It means that should the Fae break through, they will have nowhere to retreat, but in open battle, they would be annihilated within less than an hour.

Everywhere in the camp, soldiers are running around. Miryam pushes through the chaos until she reaches the middle of the camp, where the healers have set up their camp.

"Everything ready?", she asks.

The other healers nod. Miryam looks up at the sky and sees Kiel circling above. she raises her arm and the falcon comes shooting down to land on her arm.

"Good, thank you", Miryam says, "I'll take a quick look at the battle, please tell me when the first wounded arrive."

She slips into Kiel's body easily. Half a thought has the falcon taking off and soaring towards the camp's border. She makes sure to keep him high in the sky and well away from any stray arrows that might hit him. (She feels bad enough about using his body already, even though the falcon doesn't seem to mind. Still, the last thing she wants is for him to get hurt.)

The Black Land's army is huge. More than five thousand, by Miryam's quick count. Far more. There is no sign of Ravenia, Artax or one of the Black Land`s other witches, but it`s a brief relief. The army approaching will kill them just as quickly.

The soldiers take its time to draw closer. They don't immediately attack, but surround the camp in neat, organised lines. Their own soldiers are already in their defence positions, holed up behind walls, spikes and other protections.

Miryam watches as the enemies set up catapults. Strange. Fae usually don't use siege weapons like catapults - why would they, when magic is so much more efficient? They haven't even shot the first volley of arrows yet, or attacked the shields with their magic. Miryam considers having Kiel fly closer to take a look, but decides against it.

The Fae load the catapults with something. Something round. Stones? The soldiers fire, the projectiles bounce off harmlessly on the wards. Now, they are close enough for Miryam to see what it is they are shooting. Not stones, as she first thought.

Heads.

Hundreds of them. Close to a thousand. And through Kiel's sharp eyes, Miryam sees exactly who they belonged to.

Miryam snaps back into her own body. She stumbles a step to the side and presses her hand to her mouth. One of the other healers reaches out for her.

"What happened?", the woman asks.

"She killed them", Miryam whispers. She curls her hands to a fist to keep from shaking.

"What? Who?"

Miryam just shakes her head. This is her fault. She shouldn't have taunted Ravenia, shouldn't have thought that the Queen would let her get away with it. That she would let the insult of her former slave challenging her, of a half-breed like Miryam having a power that her people consider sacred, slide. Ravenia might not have been able to reach her - but there were thousands of others already at her mercy.

And from the way it looks, Ravenia chose to get back at Miryam through her people. By having the other half-Fae slaves killed. All of them, by the looks of it.

A thousand of the people she swore to free, dead.  Because of her.

Miryam focuses on her breathing. She can't break down, not in the middle of the camp where everyone can see. Most certainly not in the middle of a battle. So she straightens.

"I'll check on the supplies", she says, "Please excuse me."

She finds a bag with healing supplies and carefully begins to sort through it. Her hands move seemingly on their own, she barely notices what she's doing. She is almost glad when the first wounded arrive and she can focus entirely on her work.

----

Mor has spent the last hour winnowing from one camp to another. Trying to get the camp commanders to grant her an audience. Then, always hearing the same answer: They are too far away, their soldiers will not get there in time. They can try, but it will be no use.

So Mor keeps going. With each passing minute, her unrest grows. Have the Black Land soldiers already reached the camp? Has the fighting started already? She wants nothing more than to winnow back to their camp and help her friends, but her task is a different one. Much as she may hate it, she cannot return without hope for the others. She needs to find them an army.

When she reaches the Sangravahn camp, she knows it is no use. This camp is two days away from their army, any help she might find will only arrive in time to bury the corpses. But by now, Rhys should be here and maybe he will know what to do. He might have an idea.

She doesn't bother going to the camp commander. Instead, she goes straight to the Illyrian camp. The guards let her through without question, although they do shoot her annoyed looks. Rhys is just in the middle of dealing out a punishment - Mor flinches at the sound of snapping bones - but he stops and turns to her when she approaches. One look at her face has him frowning at her.

"What's wrong?"

Hastily, Mor summarizes the situation.

Rhys curses softly. "We're too far away. Even if I were able to winnow them all for a part of the way..." He shakes his head. "We would still be too late."

"But there has to be something we can do!", Mor says, "I can't return to the camp without anything to show for."

Rhys frowns. "Have you tried Prince Drakon's army yet? We met them a day ago, they were traveling north. They might be close enough."

"Where?", Mor asks. She has to fight the urge to winnow right away.

Rhys describes the place where they met as well as he can, then adds, "They were headed for Pelior's camp."

"Oh, that bastard", Mor hisses. Pelior's camp was one of the first she visited and the commander did not think to mention to her that they had an army incoming. If they survive this, she is going to have his head. "Thank you."

Rhys nods, face grave. "Be careful."

Mor gives him a brief smile and winnows.

Searching for an army without knowing where exactly to look turns out to be far harder than Mor thought. She winnows into thin air, looks around and vanishes again within the span of a heartbeat. This way, she can cover more terrain than she normally could, but it's also exhausting. Even for someone with Mor's considerable magic abilities, it's not something she can keep up forever.  And there is no sign of any soldiers.

Just when she is about to turn back to the camp and ask for assistance, she winnows into the middle of an army. She has to winnow again almost immediately or risk falling into thin air. The soldiers notice her and whisper amongst each other, frowning at the strange girl falling through the air. Someone gives the signal to land. Relieved, Mor winnows to the ground.

A male and a female land in front of her, both of them brown-skinned and dark-haired with startling white wings. Prince Drakon and the General leading his army, Mor assumes. She bows, doing her best to remember the Continental customs Miryam has been trying to teach her. Prince Drakon returns the gesture. (Mor is halfway sure he is doing it wrong, but that's likely just her mixing things up).

"Can we help you?", he asks.

Mor runs a hand through her hair, trying to straighten it. "I come from Jurian's camp", she says, "they are under attack. You are the only army that's close enough to help, you need to come."

Prince Drakon watches her for a heartbeat, then turns around, looking ready to give the fitting order. His general grabs him by the arm, stopping him.

"I assume", she says, "that you have the appropriate papers to back your claim."

Mor has to keep from cursing. She starts fishing around in her pockets and finally produces a letter. She holds it out to Prince Drakon, the general reads over his shoulder.

"The seal is broken", she point out.

"Of course it is!", Mo hisses, her temper slipping her leash, "because I already had to show it to a dozen different commanders! Now if you'd just come help us before all my friends end up dead, it would be really great!"

The general turns to Prince Drakon. "I hope you realize that this could easily be a trap."

"Yes. But if it isn't, we'll be responsible for thousands of our allies dying", he says, "We fly immediately."

Mor sags with relief. "Thank you. I'll pass the message on." She inclines her head to Prince Drakon and winnows.

----

Half an hour into the fight, the wards are still holding, but holes are beginning to appear. Some soldiers have been injured by stray arrows or Fae who managed to break through. Jurian doesn`t even want to know what will happen once the wards break. He doubts they will last long.

For the moment, though, their biggest problem is troop moral, which is not looking good. Having heads shot at you, it turns out, is even worse for morale than being surrounded by an army hell-bent on killing all of you. Jurian has been running around the camp for the past hour, trying to calm his soldiers - sometimes with reassuring words, sometimes by snapping at them to get their shit together. At least Miryam seems to be holding it together.

Jurian is just about to return to his post when Mor comes running towards him. She comes to a skidding halt in front of him.

"I got reinforcements", she says, "We'll only have to hold out for another hour."

"An hour." Jurian nods. Somehow, he doubts that the wards will hold out this long. He can just pray that they will manage.

"Good job", he tells Mor, "Now, go help out at the western side of the camp. I'll be east."

The wards don't collapse all at once. Instead, they slowly give in. Holes appear and grow bigger by the second. Their enemies' fire magic shoots through. Once the holes are big enough, the soldiers give up their attempts to shatter the wards and instead advance through the holes.

Jurian calls out an order to his soldiers and runs for the nearest hole.

----

Even though Drakon had his army fly as fast as possible without having them be too exhausted to fight, they almost arrive too late. By the time they reach the camp, the wards are already failing. From his vantage point in the air, Drakon can see tents burning like pyres and human soldiers trying desperately to hold the lines. They break out into cheers as they notice the approaching army.

Drakon orders his army to split up into two groups. He takes charge of the left flank while Sinna flies right. Below, the Bkack Land soldiers are already rallying against the threat. Arrows start flying, one buries itself deep into Drakons's shield. Fire magic follows, shooting through the air towards them.

The battle turns chaotic almost immediately. Drakon only barely manages to dodge a bust of flame, the heat singes his arm. Through the smoak in the air, it soon becomes hard to make out anything.

It`s at least as bad as the battle at the Callian pass. This one lacks the horror of being his first battle, but it makes up for it by being infinitely more chaotic. Drakon`s soldiers are at the disadvantage against the Black Land soldiers, who only have to hold their ground and kill as many as possible.

Drakon flaps his wings a few times and quickly soars higher to get an overview of the battle. On the far left, his soldiers are floundering and he shouts an order to have the lines reinforced. Then, he shoots back down into the fray.

Ever so slowly, the tide of the battle begins to turn. The Black Land soldiers retreat, but they make them pay in blood for every inch of ground.

A wave of fire rushes towards Drakon, his shields shudder under the onslaught. He banks aside, loses his shield in doing so. He frantically flaps his wings, trying to fly higher, but a burning pain shoots through his leg, making him sway in the air. When Drakon looks down, he finds an arrow lodged in his tight. Then, there is another burst of pain, this time in his back. Drakon roars in pain.

He tries to steady himself in the air, but his body won't obey. Everything hurts. Then, he is falling.

----

They win the battle. At least that's what Jurian says when he talks to the soldiers afterwards. Miryam has a hard time calling any battle that ended with roughly a thousand of their soldiers dead a victory. Saying that they "didn't lose" would be more fitting.

The losses are catastrophic. Even worse are the amounts of wounded soldiers. To the usual varying kinds of stab wounds and blunt force trauma comes a sheer unending amount of burns of varying severity. The entire camp, it seems, has been turned into a wasteland of burned tents and screaming wounded.

There are far too few healers to tent to the wounded. Since the Fae had to rush here as fast as possible, they left all non-fighters, including their healers, behind. Meaning that they now have to stretch out the human camp's healers to also tend to the Fae. Miryam has to snap and order at her healers to get them to distribute evenly, instead of only helping their own soldiers and leaving the Fae to die. In the end, she decides to head out onto the battlefield herself.

If Miryam thought the camp was bad, it is nothing compared to what waits beyond the wards. Some of the wounded, she notices, are enemy soldiers. There are already some of Jurian's soldiers walking around, dealing with them. On another day, she might have argued, but the image of the severed heads is still fresh in her mind. Still, Miryam looks away as one of their soldiers angles his sword over a wounded Black Land Fae.  She may hate these people, but that doesn't mean that watching them die brings her any joy.

The first three of their allies Miryam finds are already dead. The fourth is only lightly injured and Miryam hastily instructs him on how to bandage his own wounds and hurries on in search of one of the worse cases. The fifth soldier she finds doesn't have wings anymore. His entire back is an unrecognizable mass of burnt flesh.

Hastily, Miryam kneels down next to him. She has to fight to keep a curse in as she assesses the damage. The bleeding isn't too bad, but there is little Miryam can do to fix burns this bad. She carefully cleans the wounds, glad that the soldier is unconscious and doesn't have to endure the pain. Then, she apples a soothing salve and wraps bandages around the male's back. She finds a soldier that can still stand and orders him to carefully bring the male back to the camp.

Miryam is just about to hurry on when she hears someone calling for a healer. She shoulders her bag and runs towards the voice. She finds a female in a dirty armour kneeling on the ground next to a male. When she sees Miryam, she jumps to her feet.

"You're a healer?"

Miryam nods. She kneels down next to the male - and nearly drops her bag when she recognizes him.

"What's wrong?", the female asks. There is something like panic hidden behind the sharpness in her voice. "Do something!"

Miryam doesn`t answer. How is she supposed to explain that this is the male who freed her from slavery almost three years ago? She certainly couldn't put what she is feeling into words. But she certainly will not let him die, so she carefully begins to examine his wounds.

"What happened?", she asks, if only to give the female something to do other than stare at her with a mixture of panic and mistrust.

"He was hit by an arrow and fell out of the sky." She shakes her head. "I was too far away to do anything.”

Miryam nods. She can see the tip of the arrow poking out of his back. She prays that it didn't hit anything vital.

"Will he make it?" This time, the female doesn't even try to conceal her worry.

Under normal circumstances, Miryam would not answer a question like that at this point - nothing is worse than giving someone hope only to rip it away. But this time, she nods.

"Yes, he will."

Miryam applies a salve to numb the pain before she draws her knife and begins cutting out the arrow. Still, Prince Drakon thrashes in her grip almost as soon as she begins. Miryam curses.

“Help me hold him”, she tells the female who is still sitting next to her.

She proceeds carefully. The arrow is pretty damn close to lots of vital organs and the last thing Miryam wants to do is hit any of them accidentally. To make matters worse, it`s made of ash, so she has to be absolutely sure that no splinters remain in the wound.

Miryam is almost done when Prince Drakon jerks awake. He stares at her wildly, eyes unfocused.

“You…”, he whispers, breathing hard. “You can`t be here.” Then, he slumps again.

“I´m sorry”, the female says, wincing slightly, “He`s confusing you for-“

“No”, Miryam says. She turns back to her work. “No, he isn`t.”

----

A/N: I`m so sorry for the delay in the updates. I was busy the past days, and kind of unmotivated. But I promise the next chapter will be up faster!

Tags: @sjm-things @herpowerisdeath

[jarienn972]

Bloodline

From the OUAT Winter Whump 2018 event

After being inspired by @wyntereyez​ live-blogging her rewatch of OUAT S7 last night and her post reblogs today, I was originally going to just reblog this story which was my re-imagining of Season 7 episode 19, Flower Child, but I decided to create a new post so that I could attach the art work that today’s birthday girl @cocohook38​ graciously surprised me with! 

This story does feature violent situations as it was created to fix the wasted potential of the episode for those of us who enjoy seeing a little bit of whump. Please Note: Gothel is the featured villain here so fair warning as there are some vague mentions of her history with Rogers.

Also on FF.net and AO3

So little had made sense for weeks now in the Heights and Detective Rogers’ inquisitive mind was in overdrive.  Every time he thought he’d guessed the next move correctly, he’d found himself face to face with his often condescending partner who was all-too-happy to remind him of his failures.  It wasn’t as though Weaver was giving him any answers either, just more cryptic questions and general annoyance. Granted, a fair portion of his frustration was his own damned fault.  Weaver had warned him not to pursue his search for Eloise Gardner, but obsession had gripped him, forcing him to investigate every clue to hunt her down - although they’d likely never know exactly how or why Victoria Belfrey had imprisoned her in the tower.  He’d managed to uncover bits and pieces of a story about how Eloise was evil and needed to be kept locked away from humanity, but he hadn’t really believed any of it.  Not until bodies started turning up all over the Heights - Belfrey’s included.

Maybe he should have listened to Weaver’s advice, but he just couldn’t help himself. He’d been so driven to find the girl who had haunted his memory for years, only to discover that maybe she wasn’t really the person he’d imagined her to be.  Maybe if he’d heeded his partner’s warning, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament, not that it would matter for much longer. He’d be able to hang on a little while…

Maybe, just maybe, someone would come searching for him or maybe Tilly would spring back to her senses?

But the reality was - who would be looking for him?

One hour earlier

She was mad.  Had to be.  How else could he explain it?

Maybe he was mad.  How had he allowed this woman to gain so much power over him?

He felt manipulated. Used.  Hell, part of him felt downright violated, but yet he was still inexplicably drawn to her.

Weaver had warned him that she was a powerful witch, but he honestly hadn’t believed in witchcraft - at least until now as the realization struck that she had pulled him right into her coven’s waiting trap.  He’d been so gullible, but it also struck him as odd that he had no idea why she’d sought to ensnare him.  All he had wanted to do was help Tilly, and then - there she was - Eloise Gardner and her coven of witches hidden behind dark, heavy, hooded cloaks.  He and Tilly had wandered straight into the witch’s wicked web and despite knowing that they were both in grave danger, a voice in the back of his head kept telling him to protect Tilly.

“Please, don’t hurt her,” he’d pleaded with the witches as one of them grabbed Tilly from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth as they led her away from him, disappeared down what must have been a staircase.  He was at the wrong angle to be certain, even as he strained against his captor, struggling to get a better view.  “Tilly’s an innocent here…please, don’t harm her…”

Eloise approached him, drawing close as her minions restrained him.  He continued to struggle, trying to free himself from their grasp but despite their diminutive appearance, the hooded figures were far stronger than he expected. The witch pressed her body uncomfortably close to him, an air of triumph in her icy gaze.  His own eyes clung to defiance, even as her hand raised up to meet his face, fingertips lightly tracing the shape of his jaw while she stared at him with a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her lips - the way he would imagine a predator admiring its prey.

“You’ve got this all wrong, Captain,” she insisted, never breaking her evil grin as she spoke. “Tilly isn’t the one I intend to hurt.  I need her.  You, on the other hand, are far more expendable.”

He had no idea what she was plotting or why she’d called him Captain - and she wasn’t the first to do that either.  All of his senses were screaming at him.  There was no doubt he was in way over his head, but no matter how much he struggled, there was no breaking free.

“What do you want from us?” Rogers demanded.  Hell, if he was going to die here, he at least wanted to know why.

“Oh, you’ll prove useful to me yet again.  You’re going to help bring my creation to life,” Eloise purred cryptically as she pulled her hand away from his face. “But first, I need you to stop being so uncooperative…”  Her right hand unfurled once again before his eyes, this time, revealing a clump of what appeared to be sparkling pink dust resting in the curve of her palm.  With one quick puff of her breath, the colorful particles were swirling around him and somewhere within that cloud, Rogers lost his will to resist, his body dropping limp into the arms of his captors.

**********

As his senses gradually returned, Rogers immediately knew something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know yet just how precarious the situation actually was.  His head throbbed and his recollection of the events that got him here was a tad cloudy - a sensation he’d experienced far too many times when he’d lost control of his indulgences. Only this was no mere hangover.

His eyelids parted slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the surroundings, seemingly illuminated solely by flickering flames.  Ruddy hued rocks comprised both the floor and the walls of what must have been some sort of a cave but as his sight became clearer, he discovered that this cavern held far more sinister secrets than he could have imagined.  He’d also come to the realization that he was suspended in the center of said cavern, his upper body bound tightly with vines.  Vines? It certainly wasn’t rope that secured him and as he tried to wiggle himself out of his bindings, he learned - rather painfully - that the vines were covered in thorns. Dozens of thorns, sharp as needles, jabbed into his bare skin with even the slightest movement on his part. He’d clearly been impaled a few times already as he could feel the tickle from the little rivulets of blood making a path down his leg to drip off of his big toe.

What he couldn’t tell from his vantage point was that his nearly nude body hung directly above an intricate design carved into the stone below - one the same shape as the coven’s symbol he’d been seeing all over Hyperion Heights.  Surrounding him were the dark, caped figures, each standing at one of the eight points of the symbol softly chanting some unknown incantation.  One of those hooded beings broke from the circle to canter towards him, apparently having realized he’d regained consciousness. The figure raised her head as she neared, enough for him to recognize her face as his gaze locked with that of Eloise Gardner once again.

The expression on her face confused him falling somewhere between satisfaction and sublimation. If this was indeed the same girl he’d tasked himself to locate so many years ago, what had happened to her that led her down this path? To have become involved with such a devilishly evil cult that had obviously stripped her of the innocence he’d remembered?  Well, at least the innocence he thought he’d remembered… Had she been so offended by his failure to protect her as a child that she’d spent all of these years planning ways to make him pay for that failure?  Even after he’d rescued her from Belfrey’s prison?  Hadn’t getting shot and spending the better part of a decade searching in vain been penance enough?

“Captain…” Eloise purred into his ear, her lips so close to his skin that he could feel the warmth of her breath, sending his body into an involuntary, repulsed shudder. “Just what is going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

“Why are you doing this?” was the question that crossed his lips, although there were so many others demanding to be asked as well. “I tried… I tried to help you… I freed you…” he stammered, his mind conflicted by both a desire to fight his thorny restraints and a total lack of willpower to do so.

“Oh, Captain,” she said through that same salacious grin, “we’ve such a torrid history… Where would I even begin?”

“History?” He didn’t understand how their few interactions could be construed as history.  “Eloise, we barely know anything about each other aside from the fact that I spent years searching for you…and I did find you.  Why this?”

“It’s almost a pity that your memory didn’t return like some of the others, but maybe it’s for the better…” She stepped around to his back, her right hand trailing along the skin just above the waistband of his boxer briefs as she leaned in to address his left ear.  “How about I start by re-introducing myself?  My name is Mother Gothel, not Eloise, and we do indeed have some very interesting history.  It might even have been so much more… I could have helped you seal your revenge against Rumplestiltskin while we pillaged and plundered the realms, but no.  You surprised me.  You chose the brat over me…”

“Brat? What - Tilly?” His stuttered words barely made sense in his own head, but they seemed to increase her ire.

“If that’s what you want to call her,” she scoffed. “You gave her a different name back then, but nonetheless, it won’t matter for much longer.”

“You haven’t harmed her, have you?” he asked meekly, his voice cracking audibly at the thought as his eyes grew wide with fearful anticipation.

“No, I haven’t harmed Tilly.  As I said before, she isn’t the one I plan to harm.  I need her magic to help initiate my spell…”  She paused her statement as she ambled around to face him once again, the iciness of her stare prickling every hair on the back of his neck. “But I need something else from you first…” Her fingertips made contact with his thigh, the skin searing beneath her touch as he fought back a swell of nausea. If this was what she wanted, he wasn’t interested, but as her right hand slithered up toward his hip, she raised her left hand in front of her chest, making certain that he would witness her next move.  Out of thin air, what might only have been described as a giant thorn materialized from her palm.  It was at least the length of her forearm and his terrified eyes instantly focused on its razor sharp point - even more so as she ghosted that needle-like point across his chest, drawing tiny droplets of blood as she passed it through the course, dark hair almost indecently.

“Eloise…” His voice came out as a whimper as he tried his best to shrink away from her, but the brambles encircling him only seemed to squeeze tighter. “I can still help you…” The cop in him was still trying to reason with her, even if his efforts might be deemed futile.

“Yes, my dear Captain, you most certainly can help me,” she assured him as that devilish grin crossed her features yet again.  “I absolutely require your assistance to activate a portion of my spell. More specifically, I need your blood.” She refused to give him even a moment to process her statement before thrusting the pointed end of her oversized thorn into his abdomen, angling it upward, beneath his rib cage and into his vital organs, yet stopping short of his heart.  She drew her arm backward, retracing the blood stained thorn so that she could admire her handiwork for a split-second before repeating the stabbing motion twice more.

The coppery scent of his own blood filled his nostrils as his mind and body were both overwhelmed by the shock of the assault.  Blood mixed with his saliva as he coughed up a bubble that he couldn’t swallow back down.  Sanguine trails flowed from his torso to form a small puddle on the carved rocky ground below as his instinct to fight for his life finally kicked in and he gathered his remaining strength to try to free his arms so he could put pressure on the seeping wounds.

“Struggle all you want,” she taunted him as she dropped the bloody thorn to the ground as she cupped his jaw with both of her hands.  “My vines will only grow tighter, driving those thorns deeper into your flesh.  Since we’re going to be here for a while as your body is slowly drained of its blood, you may wish to spare yourself further anguish.  I need your heart to keep pumping as long as possible to keep that blood fresh and potent until the entire medallion beneath you is filled.  Then, I won’t need you anymore…”

His body shook from a combination of fear and pain-driven convulsions as his blood flowed from the trio of punctures in his gut, but even with the agony she’d already inflicted upon him, the witch wasn’t done with him quite yet.  New vines began to sprout from those encasing his upper body, spiraling lower to wrap the rest of his torso and both of his legs with the constricting brambles.  Every nerve ending in his body felt assaulted as dozens of newly formed thorns tore into his skin, drawing more blood.  Rogers couldn’t even remember if he’d screamed but a silent prayer kept reciting within his head that maybe someone would find him.  And that blissful unconsciousness would befall him soon…

**********

Rogers didn’t know what stirred him back to consciousness but the immediate wash of pain over his entire being reminded him that he was still alive.  The dead didn’t experience pain, did they?  He assumed he’d learn that answer soon  enough - as soon as his lifeblood drained from him, his heart would inevitably cease and his lungs would no longer need to draw breath.  He didn’t have the energy within him to fight against the tightening vines, still feeling their intrusions across his arms, chest and back, but scarcely able to feel his legs anymore.  He wanted to just go numb, to return to the peaceful, pain-free oblivion, but his mind apparently wanted him to be awake to bear witness to his own torture.

“I’m surprised to see you awake,” a voice rang out from his right. Or was it from the left? Clearly his head wasn’t thinking straight, the blood loss leaving him disoriented. “Perhaps you’re a tad more resilient than I’d thought…” The voice continued in a sickeningly sweet cadence that made him want to retch even before he sensed the warmth of fingers brushing against his blood-soaked thigh. “You still have so much more to give…” He wished he could pull his leg away as the sensation of fingernails drawing lazy circles through the dampness only increased his nausea.

“What do you want?” He knew he’d asked the question before, but in his weakened state, he didn’t remember the answer - certainly not the answer she was about to give.

“Oh, Captain, this goes back so far…,” she mused.  “Years ago, we met in a far away land, high in a tower where I needed you to provide the one thing that would allow me freedom from that prison - a new bloodline.  You were so, how should I say this? Eager? So willing to provide me what I needed, but then, you betrayed me…”

Tower? Betrayal? Her words were conjuring images that bombarded his psyche, but were they memories or hallucinations?  He didn’t know if he could trust his own brain right now.

“Eloise…”

“Not Eloise - Gothel,” she reminded him, her tone more annoyed than playful this time. “You really should try to remember me.” Her hand instantly snapped from caressing his thigh to clutching his throat, her thumb and forefinger pushing his head upward to meet her gaze.  “I want you to look at me while you hang there dying.  I want you to regret ever choosing that brat instead of me!”  She stabbed a manicured index finger towards one of the cloaked figures as he recognized Tilly’s profile beneath the hood.

“Tilly…” he whispered, not even certain if his voice was loud enough for her to hear.  

“She can’t hear you.  She’s caught in a trance that I placed upon her.  She’ll keep mindlessly repeating that incantation over and over until your blood fills the rest of the medallion here.  Then, as soon as she steps into the center, the mix of bloodlines will enact my spell and bring about the return of this land to its rightful ruler - Nature.”

“Why Tilly? If we have history, that’s between us,” he argued weakly, energy waning quickly, but still possessing a flicker of determination to protect his young friend from this madwoman. “She has nothing to do with this…”

“Oh, but you’re wrong there, Captain,” she laughed. “Tilly - or Alice, as you used to call her - has everything to do with this.  She’s our daughter - the blend of our bloodlines - possessing some of your spunk and some of my magic.  I need to draw that magic from her and it just so happens that her father’s blood is the perfect conduit to do so.”

“Wait - daughter?  Tilly… Alice… she’s my daughter?” he stammered, trembling as his already pain-wracked brain overloaded. “How can she be my daughter?  I’m not old enough…”

That statement brought an amused cackle from his captor. “Looks can be so deceiving, Captain, but then curses can certainly play such tricks with your mind… You really don’t look a day over two hundred.”

Images came to him once again in vivid flashes as his barely lucid mind struggled to make sense of them without any context.  A pirate ship.  A tall, isolated tower.  A small, blonde haired child.  Eloise, yet not Eloise…

A hook.

His sullen eyes drew downward, seeking out the prosthetic hand attached to the wrist of his stumped arm which suddenly didn’t feel right to him.  The weight, the fit - all wrong.

He’d lost that hand in a bad car accident, hadn’t he? He questioned his own recollection, no longer sure if anything he knew about himself was real. He was hanging here, slowly bleeding to death at the hand of a woman he’d thought he’d rescued and yet he felt as though he was right on the cusp of an epiphany.

His eyes squeezed shut as his body convulsed involuntarily.  Why hadn’t he told Weaver what he was doing? The only other person who knew he was here was Tilly and she was lost to some hypnotic trance. He didn’t dare think what this witch would do to her once she’d served her purpose.  He fought through the impending darkness to take in Tilly’s features for what he feared would be the last time.  Could she really be his daughter? He’d likely never know now as a single tear rolled across his cheekbone, its saline trail finding its way to the corner of his mouth just as his lips parted.

One single word rolled off his tongue as his body fell limp against the imposing vines.

Starfish.

His voice was scarcely a whisper yet that single utterance reverberated throughout the cavern, reaching the single pair of ears it was intended for.  It echoed into Tilly’s ear as a plea and her eyelids flew open, the chanting instantly ceased.  Her hands raised to her head, tossing the hood off of her blonde locks as she lifted her chin.

She’d only been vaguely aware of her surroundings, but now, her senses were overwhelmed.  The voices of the other hooded figures were all she could hear and she just wanted to drown them out.  She tried to focus on something else - the crackle of the flames from the candles and torches positioned around the circle.  Focus, Tilly, focus, she told herself.  She concentrated on those flames, inhaling the scent of the burning wood, but she could smell something else too.  Something faintly metallic…bloody…

Only then did she realize that there was another person in the center of the ring of caped figures - a person whose body was nearly obscured amongst a tangle of thorny vines.  There was a pale, dark-haired man bound by those vines and while she couldn’t make out the majority of his form, she could see that his legs were riddled with crimson trails and there was a pool of dark red liquid beneath his feet.  And she could see just enough of his face to recognize that man suspended lifeless before her: the man she’d known as Detective Rogers. But she also felt an awakening within her muddled mind which reminded her that she’d known him far longer - and by a different name.

“Papa?”

The moment she uttered that single word, the rock walls of the cavern began to shake as if from the rumbling of an earthquake, showering her with pebbles and dust that rained from above.  A newly defiant Tilly shrugged off the heavy dark robe, eyes wide as she frantically searched for the monster.

“Show yourself, Witch!” Tilly hollered, bolstered with newfound bravado.  If he was still among the living, she had to save him.  Had to save her Papa from this monster witch.  It was all up to her and this time, she was determined to listen to the little voices within her head that assured her that she possessed the power to defeat this witch.

“I’m right here, Tilly,” the witch replied as she took a step from behind her nearly lifeless prisoner.

“Let him go, you monster! You’re hurting him and I can’t allow that!” Tilly shouted. “You said that if I helped you, no one would get hurt but you lied!  You always lie!” Both of Tilly’s hands clenched into fists as Gothel continued to stare blankly back at her, entirely devoid of any human emotion.

“It’s entirely too late for that, little girl,” Gothel snapped back confidently. “As soon as his blood fills that medallion on the floor right there, my spell will begin and there’s no one powerful enough to stop it.  Not the Evil Queen nor the Wicked Witch.  Not even the Dark One himself.”

“Then I’ll stop you,” Tilly responded as she stood her ground with equal confidence. “You took my Papa away from me once.  You aren’t going to do it again.”  Her blue eyes reflected a fierce determination as Tilly set her jaw and racked her brain to recall how to harness her magic.

“Please…,” Gothel dismissed her with a haughty wave of her hand. “You aren’t any match for me.  Just get out of my way and do as you’re told…” With a faint flick of her wrist, another new growth of vines sprouted from the cluster binding Rogers and jettisoned toward Tilly.  With only a fraction of a second to react, Tilly threw up her hands defensively in front of her face and instantly, the brambles froze mere inches from her, the thorns separating from the vines and falling harmlessly to the floor while tiny, white four-petal blossoms took their place.  Tilly blinked a few times until the realization sunk in that she’d used magic to defend herself.  She wasn’t mad - well, at least not when it came to the existence of magic.

“Impressive, but you’ve still so much to learn,” the witch continued to taunt her as Tilly attempted to move from the carved coven symbol beneath her feet.  Gothel smirked as she watched the rock beneath Tilly’s feet dissolve into mud that the younger woman sank into it, only to have it harden back into stone around her shoes, entrapping her in her position on the outer ring. “It would be rather rude of you to leave before my big performance - and I’m not done with you yet…”

Unable to step away, Tilly’s eyes flittered wildly between the nearly inundated medallion on the ground before her and the pallid, expressionless face of her dying father whose head was drooped against his chest, body clearly only held upright by the witch’s enchanted vines.  She watched in seemingly slow-motion as a drop of blood fell from his toe and splashed into the sticky, crimson puddle.

“It’s nearly time,” Gothel announced with a giddy chuckle as a tiny evergreen tree pushed its way through the solid rock to emerge in front of one of the remaining cloaked figures.  As the tree grew in stature, the cape worn by the nearest coven member slumped to the floor and the person who’d been beneath it seconds earlier vanished in the blink of an eye. “Six more to go… Then you.”

“No,” Tilly sobbed, cursing herself for ever agreeing to help this monster in the first place, but now, the witch had to be stopped. “No - I won’t allow you to do this!”

“You won’t allow me?” Gothel laughed off Tilly’s cockiness.  Apparently the girl had more of her father’s personality than she’d believed. “Then stop me.”  

The challenge was issued as an insult, but Tilly didn’t take it as such. She was going to prove that she had the strength to defeat this horrid person.

“Stay with me, Papa,” she called out to him, still uncertain if he was alive or dead. “No matter what happens, I love you, Papa…”  Silent promises now made, Tilly squeezed her eyes closed as her outstretched hands began to tremble.  Another low rumble echoed throughout the cavern as flames flickered, billowed by some unseen wind that swirled dust and rubble around the young woman.

“What are you doing?” There was a faint hint of alarm in Gothel’s voice this time as she feared she may have underestimated her daughter.  She’d long known that her child possessed powers, but with no one to cultivate them, she’d doubted Tilly’s ability to harness magic.  But it was Gothel’s discounting of that untamed nature to Tilly’s magic which might prove far more dangerous.

“Love is always stronger than hate,” Tilly stated as she clasped her hands together sending out a blast of powerful energy towards the blood-drenched medallion.  The ground began to shake, mildly at first then growing in intensity as the rock began to crack, fissures zigzagging across the entire coven symbol until they reached the stone that encased Tilly’s feet.  The rock holding her crumbled away, allowing her to hop out of the circle and sever the connection necessary for Gothel’s spell to proceed.  The evergreen tree that had sprouted within the cavern withered away to ashes as the magic sustaining it evaporated.

“You insolent little brat!” the witch shouted, seething with anger. “How dare you?! Now you’ve ruined it!  I should have killed you years ago - both of you!” She took a step forward, hands extended and prepared to unleash some new horror against her beleaguered daughter.  But so blinded by her hatred of her own offspring, she failed to notice that the cracks beneath her feet were widening from the tremors, opening into a chasm that swallowed the witch, plunging her screaming into the void.  Tilly didn’t know what she should feel as the monster disappeared into the earth.  She just stood there frozen until another voice roused her attention.

“Tilly?” she heard the voice call out to her, but was it merely inside her head?  “Tilly?!” came the voice yet again as she blinked her eyes trying to figure out where the familiar voice originated. She recognized it now - Weaver - but she couldn’t reply yet.  Her fragile mind was still processing all that had just transpired.  Everything she’d just made happen… And oh, no - Papa!  She saw the familiar face of Detective Weaver - Rumplestiltskin - emerge from the entry passage, weapon and flashlight extended before him. “Tilly, are you alright?” he asked as he ventured deeper into the subterranean cavern.

Alright? Was she alright? She didn’t even know but there were more important things to attend to… “Yes, I am,” she responded frantically as she hurried toward the center of the room. “But he’s not…” Weaver stopped short of entering the circle as he spied the huge, gaping cracks that transected it.  His focus was drawn to the cluster of vines at the center of the ring where he now spotted his partner hanging motionless and entirely encircled by those same bloody vines which seemed to be withering away as Gothel’s magic faded. Despite the fissures crisscrossing the ground beneath him which had drained away most of the blood, there was still enough visible on the rock for Weaver to know his partner wouldn’t survive long with this amount of blood loss.

“We need to get him down from there somehow,” Weaver stated. “The vines are dying and won’t hold him for long…”

“I know,” she insisted, trying to locate that magical trigger within her one more time.  “I’m trying…”  She’d never been particularly good at concentrating - at least not lately.  She had to try and push all of her jumbled thoughts away to focus on her most important task - rescuing Papa.  As the brambles crumbled, an invisible force caught Rogers, his limp form suspended in mid-air but seemingly with nothing holding him aloft. The unseen hand carried him safely across the fractured floor placing him gently atop a boulder beside Weaver just before the vines completely disintegrated to a pile of dust.

Without the bindings in the way, Weaver could see that his partner’s body was riddled with puncture wounds, some of which were still oozing blood - a positive sign that his heart was still beating.  Satisfied that immediate danger was over, Weaver tucked away his weapon, shining the flashlight’s beam onto his partner’s unconscious form as he felt for a pulse.  “He’s alive. He still has a heartbeat.  I’ll get the paramedics down here…”

A small smile crept across Tilly’s face as her resolve finally broke, but that smile rapidly faded, her eyes welling with tears as yet another realization struck.  His heart. Without another word, she bolted past Weaver and darted out of the cave.

She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t cause him more suffering…

**********

The next few hours were tense ones.  While her father was barely clinging to life, Tilly had vanished, leaving Weaver to be the one holding vigil in the hospital waiting room.  Thankfully, the trip from Gothel’s hideout beneath the old theater to the hospital was a short ride. Weaver had followed the ambulance in his own vehicle with lights and siren blaring to keep up with the paramedics. By the time he reached the Emergency room, Rogers’ blood pressure had dropped to dangerously low levels and his breathing was erratic, but his most life threatening battle was against the uncontrollable bleeding.  Something in his system was preventing his blood from clotting properly - likely Gothel’s work as well.

But as far as the Emergency room personnel were concerned, Detective Rogers had been a victim of the Candy Killer, attacked while investigating the cave beneath the theater. He answered the barrage of questions as best he could, not even attempting to create a plausible explanation for the multitude of puncture wounds from the thorns.  He just told them his partner had multiple stab wounds and didn’t elaborate. There would be no mention of Eloise Gardner in Weaver’s report, even though he had actually found his way to the cavern just as the witch plunged into the chasm, presumably falling to her death although one could never be entirely certain when there was no body left behind as evidence.

After the first hour of waiting, he’d called Roni and Henry to see if either had seen Tilly and filled them in on his partner’s condition.  Neither knew where Tilly might be but both offered to help locate her.  Roni left the bar in Remy’s capable hands as she left a message for her niece, hoping Tilly would seek out Margot’s company and Henry set out to search some of Tilly’s usual haunts.  Only Roni, Kelly and Weaver knew the truth of Tilly and Rogers’ relationship and while they understood her reasons for running, she needed to be aware of what was happening with her father, lest her fragile hold on her sanity be lost.

He wasn’t overly surprised when he heard Roni’s voice in the corridor, asking a nurse where she’d find the Emergency waiting area.  He lifted his chin and nodded a greeting to her as she passed through the doorway, walking quickly across the crowded room to join him on a bench positioned against the far wall, away from prying ears.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Roni asked in a hushed whisper.

Weaver shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Gothel?”

“Hopefully gone, like most of the objects she conjured. She fell into a giant crack that opened up beneath her.”

“Did Tilly do that?” Roni wondered if battling her mother had contributed to the younger woman’s unease.

“Yes,” was Weaver’s unpretentious reply as he slumped back against the wall.  Roni mouthed a wow as she copied his posture, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Margot thinks she knows where to find her,” she told him. “Henry’s taking a loop around the neighborhood too.  She’ll turn up.”

“She knows she’s Alice,” Weaver stated without preface.  “As soon as I said that his heart was still beating, I saw it in her eyes.  She panicked.”

“She remembered his poisoned heart…” Roni sighed. “That poor girl… She didn’t want to cause him more pain.  She must be devastated…”  Weaver didn’t answer; he already knew she was right.  Getting her memory back, watching her father suffering and then having to destroy her mother just might have short-circuited Tilly’s complicated mind.

But it was Roni who suddenly sat up straight, a quizzical arch to her eyebrow as she contemplated a thought that had leapt into the forefront of her mind.

“Did his heart stop?” she asked, almost a bit too loudly as it drew some unwanted attention from other people in the waiting room.

“What?” He’d heard the question, but wanted her to repeat it.

“Do you know if Rogers’ heart stopped beating at any time?” she inquired once again, this time keeping her voice low since their conversation was about to head in a direction that wouldn’t be easily explained to eavesdroppers.

“I couldn’t hear everything that was said when the paramedics brought him in, but I thought I overheard something about him coding in the ambulance.  Pretty sure that means his heart stopped, but he had a pulse when the ER took over.  What are you getting at?”

“Have you been out of the magic business too long, Rumple?” she asked, using his real name in public for the first time since they’d awakened from Gothel’s curse.  This was definitely Regina talking now, not her barmaid alter ego, Roni. “Gothel placed that poisoned heart curse on him a long time ago and we were never able to find a cure.  The only way to end the curse was death - his heart no longer beating.  Do you think there was a time limit as to how long his heart needed to be stopped before they brought him back?”

Weaver’s lips pursed in thought as he rubbed the hint of stubble sprouting on his chin.  He definitely needed a shave, but whiskers were merely a distraction as he tossed ideas around in his head.  “CPR isn’t exactly commonplace in the Enchanted Forest, nor are machines to shock a heart back into rhythm.  A curse such as that one should die along with its victim…”

“Then it’s possible that the poison died when his heart stopped beating the first time.  There’s no way a curse from our land would have a caveat built in for someone being brought back from essentially being dead.”

“There’s only one way to test that theory though…and Tilly is nowhere to be found,” Weaver reminded her.

“We’ll find Tilly and explain.  If your partner pulls through this, I’m pretty sure he won’t be going anywhere for a few days.  We’ve got some time.”

“There is still the matter of breaking the other curse,” he added.

“One curse at a time, please…”

Two days later

There was that pain again.  Maybe not as intense as before, but definitely still there.  Little pinpricks he could feel everywhere - annoying and even a little bit itchy but they were only the prelude to the dull, somewhat burning ache that radiated through his chest and abdomen. His head was still on the fuzzy side but he remembered someone stabbing him - Eloise.  No, not Eloise - Gothel.  The witch that Tilly had been correct to call a monster.

He struggled to force his eyelids open, his vision assaulted by the bright lights above him.  He remembered being in a dark cavern, completely bound by thorn-covered vines that were constricting him tighter and tighter until he’d blacked out.  Or maybe he’d blacked out from the blood loss…? Maybe both? But it was apparent that he wasn’t in that dank cave any longer.  He blinked a few times to allow his sight to adjust, turning his head slightly to get a look at a stark white wall that contained only a clock and a dry-erase whiteboard that was filled with incomprehensible scribbles.  

He started to become aware of additional sensations as he started putting the pieces together.  He wasn’t hanging from those vines anymore; he was laying down, presumably in a bed.  He could feel the softness of fabric beneath his fingers and thought he sensed something encircling his wrist, although not as painful as the witch’s brambles.  He raised his hand to a height he could see it without moving around too much and learned he’d been correct - some sort of rubber or plastic band was fastened around his wrist and there was some plastic tubing affixed to the back of his hand with tape that was irritating his skin.  An incessant beeping resounded in his ear, mixed in with other faint sounds he’d yet to make sense of, but it was enough for him to figure out his location.  

He was in a hospital - which meant he’d survived the witch’s attack.

And surprisingly, he discovered he wasn’t alone.

“It’s about damn time you woke up.”  He knew the voice instantly, recognition sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.  The demon masquerading as his partner.

“Crocodile?  Come to execute me while I’m vulnerable?” he asked his visitor.

“If I’d wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have waited until you awakened, Captain,” Weaver replied.  “I’m just Detective Weaver now.  I put the rest behind me to honor Belle’s wishes, although being caught up in Gothel’s curse hadn’t really been a part of my plan.  I’m just trying to do my best to help people so that someday, I’ll be able to join her - and that includes trying to help you and your wayward daughter…”

“Tilly - does she know?”

“She does.  It was her magic that defeated Gothel and her coven.  The witch was swallowed up by the earth she revered.  Alice is down the hall in the waiting room with Regina.”

“She’s here?  Alice is here?” Rogers asked, his voice growing agitated.  “But the curse…”

“Relax… She’s not close enough right now to disturb your poisoned heart, but Regina has a plausible theory that might mean you’re cured.”

“There’s no known cure for a poisoned heart,” Rogers scoffed, his eyes dropping with disappointment.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Weaver began. “Facilier was able to cure Henry’s heart with a bit of magic born from Lucy’s true belief and the remnants of Ella’s glass slipper.  While that same magic isn’t available for you, you may still have been cured in a much simpler manner - your death.”

“My death?  My head is muddled enough right now but clearly, I’m still alive - despite many valiant efforts…”

“Technically, you died twice,” Weaver stated. “Your heart stopped beating twice - once in the ambulance on the way here and once on the OR table while they were trying to stitch your insides back together.  From what we were told, you were technically dead for over a minute before they were able to resuscitate you.  Curses aren’t designed to survive death - even mine.  Generally, where we come from, if your heart stops beating, you’re dead.  They don’t try to bring you back.  The curse should have ended the moment your heartbeat ceased.”

“Should have?  That’s an awful stretch… What if you’re wrong?  It’ll only cause both of us more pain…”

“Then it’s a good thing to do it here in the hospital where they can treat you should we be wrong, but what if we’re right?  You can be with your daughter again.”

Rogers had to contemplate the possibility for a moment.  As much as he loathed trusting his long-time enemy, he also had the memories of being Detective Rogers and in this world, he actually trusted Weaver’s word.  He’d also become close with Regina, the reformed Evil Queen, whom he’d now entrust with his life.  What strange company he was keeping…

“What does Alice think?” This was going to affect his daughter as much as it would him so he wanted her to be involved in the decision.

“She’s frightened, naturally, but she’s also very curious.  She believes that Regina might be correct, but there’s only one way to find out…”  Weaver motioned toward the hallway beyond the room’s doorway as he stood up. “Should I go get her?”  Rogers swallowed back the lump in his throat, but nodded an affirmative.  Whatever would happen, he was prepared to face the consequences.

Seconds later, he smiled at the sight of his daughter’s unruly golden locks flashing past his window into the corridor before she bounded through the open door, although she stopped short of approaching her father’s bedside.  He suddenly felt horribly exposed, clad only in the thin gown the hospital had dressed him in, his truncated left arm bare, no hook or prosthetic to hide his deformity.

“Starfish,” he greeted her with her childhood nickname.

“Haven’t heard anyone call me that for a long time, Papa…,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment. This wasn’t how he would have wanted her to turn out, but she didn’t care anymore.  She wanted her Papa back more than anything.  “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you, too, Love,” he insisted as he shifted nervously on the bed.  “There’s only one way for us to know if this curse is really gone…”

“You think…?” she asked timidly, taking one tentative step closer to the bed.  

“Come closer,” he instructed, bracing himself for the onslaught of pain as she made her way across the room at an almost agonizingly slow pace.  He felt a few twinges, but nothing was any worse than the discomfort from the stabbing.  “It’s okay, I’m fine.”  He offered his reassurance with a weak, timid smile.  He extended his hand to her, eyes begging her to grasp it, eager for even that tiny bit of contact.  

Alice squeezed her eyes closed as she reached for his hand, awaiting the burning sensation from the mark emblazoned into her wrist as their fingertips touched for the first time in many years.  Neither knew what would happen, but there was nothing.  No burning.  No aching.  No magic driving them apart - and there was absolutely nothing containing Alice’s ecstatic joy as she nearly threw herself into her papa’s arms to hug him as tightly as she could.

“It worked! Papa, it worked!” she exclaimed gleefully, excited that she could finally embrace him after such a long time - almost so excited that she missed his pained grunt beneath her, turning her head expecting to see his smiling face but instead seeing an uncomfortable grimace and the dampness of tears around his eyes.  “Oh, no…” her mood turned somber in a split-second. “ I spoke too soon…?” She backed away, ready to run, but he held tight to her wrist.

“It’s alright, Starfish.  My heart is fine.  It’s just my other injuries…”

“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry!  I was so excited, I forgot what that monster did to you!  I hope I didn’t hurt you too much…”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he chuckled as he gritted through the ache in his chest, drawing his arms in tighter as if trying to hold his guts in.  “I promise, it will all be fine…”  There were more tears flowing now but all were tears of joy.  

“I love you so much, Papa.”

“And I - you, my Starfish.”

[detectivejigsawpines]

The Next Adventure

The Pines twins wind up in the afterlife-and not one they were expecting, either.

Here it is, folks-the weird crossover that nobody asked for, but that you’re getting anyway!  (Hint: you don’t necessarily need to have watched Pixar’s Coco to understand this, but it helps.)

Enjoy.

Ford opened his eyes and found that he was standing in the middle of a bridge made of glowing orange flower petals, with walking, talking skeletons passing him by.

This was extremely different from his situation the last time his eyes were open, so for a moment he just stood there, nonplussed.

The skeletons took no notice of him, except to step around him with the occasional “Excuse me.”  Some of them were in groups, but most were walking in ones or twos; when he took a closer look at them, he saw that they still had eyes set in their sockets, and brightly colored markings decorated their skulls-calaveras, yes, that was the word.  And most of them were speaking Spanish, or heavily accented English.

It was like no world he’d ever been to, that was for sure; and he’d been to some pretty crazy worlds.  What was worrying was that he couldn’t even tell how he’d gotten here, or why.

In an effort to clear his head, Ford looked down at the bridge, wondering how such a thing was possible, and if there was some structure underneath all the petals to keep it together (though considering the number of things he’d seen in his long life that defied the laws of physics, you’d think nothing would surprise him anymore)-and let out a small yell when he saw his hands.

Namely, the fact that they were all bone.

No, really.  Six phalanges attached to six metacarpals and eight carpals, without any skin or muscle covering them but still staying together for no apparent reason.  And, upon rolling up his sleeve, he saw that yes, his arm was all bone too, and then that his turtleneck was hanging so loosely on him now because underneath there was just a spinal cord and a ribcage.

Ford gingerly poked at the space where his stomach used to be, and realized he could reach all the way to his spinal cord.  While fascinating, it was a little disturbing that it was happening to his own body. Especially if it meant what he thought it meant.

With a slow, sickening clarity, Ford realized that Bill had been telling the truth about what would happen when he was ninety-two, after all.  But it didn’t explain where he was, or why he was a walking skeleton now. Because he knew there were some cultures who believed in that kind of afterlife, but his family had never-

“FORD!!!!”

********

Before he could consider the matter further, he was crashed into and sent flying.

Even though they were both much lighter on their feet now (he didn’t see his attacker’s face, but he would have recognized that voice anywhere) because they were all bone, he was knocked right into the petals by his brother’s tackle-hug.

As he blinked and struggled to collect himself (literally-he thought one of his feet might have become detached from his ankle upon impact, and was grateful that he still had his boots on), he realized that Stanley was babbling excitedly in his earhole, without seeing any apparent need to release him; in his excitement he sounded a lot like Mabel.

“Holy Moses I missed you so much, I’m sorry you’re dead but I’m glad ya finally got here, knucklehead!  You’re gonna love this place, there’s all kindsa cool nerd stuff to look at and lots of food and-”

“Stanley, can you let me up, please?  I think we’re starting to sink.”

Maybe it was just his imagination, but it felt like the petals were shuffling and closing around them.

Stan let out an annoyed huff, and growled, “I’m not tryin’ to leave, ya stupid thing!  I just wanted ta tell my brother hello, that okay with you?”

“Stanley,” Ford reminded him in a tone filled with fond scolding.

He felt his brother’s now equally-bony arms unwind from him a little, allowing Ford to push both of them up into a sitting position-where he promptly pulled Stanley into a tight hug of his own.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, closing his eyes and squeezing him so tight that if he’d needed to breathe, he couldn’t have in that moment.

They sat that way until someone coughed behind them.  Ford glanced over Stan’s shoulder, and saw two skeletons dressed like security guards standing there, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Um, sirs, would you mind moving off the bridge?  You’re causing a hold-up.”

Ford turned his head the other way (amazing; if he wanted to, he could probably turn it all the way around like an owl), and saw that some of his fellow travelers were standing in a cluster, watching them.  Several of them were saying “Awwww!” for some strange reason, and one appeared to have been buried with her phone, because she was using it to take photos.

If he’d still had skin, he would have started blushing.

“They can wait!” Stan said petulantly, not letting go of Ford.  “They’re not gettin' any deader, are they?”

“We’re sorry, officers,” Ford apologized, accompanying the sentence with an elbow jab into Stan’s side, and began pulling them both up; Stan grumbled but didn’t resist.  Once they were on their feet though, Ford stopped and held his twin by the shoulders so he could finally get a good look at him.

Despite his being just a bag of bones now, Ford recognized his brother with little trouble.  The same eyes, the same red beanie he’d acquired after surrendering the fez to Soos, the same wide huckster’s grin that he’d been missing.  His clothes hung more loosely on him now, though; had the circumstances been different, Ford might have joked about that diet and exercise regimen he’d tried to get Stan into finally paying off.  As for his face, the skull was decorated with its own calavera markings, in blue and gold-the blue ones were shaped like ocean waves, and the gold mini versions of the fish symbol that had been on his fez.  It made the scientist wonder what his own skull looked like. He wondered if he should be disturbed that that train of thought wasn’t disturbing him.

Then Ford remembered why they’d stood up in the first place, and released Stanley so they could keep moving.

********

They followed the security guards across the bridge towards what looked a bit like a train station during rush hour.

“Apparently it’s a lot more crowded during Dia de los Muertos,” Stan commented.

However, there was still a line of people at the gate labelled “Arrivals.”

When they reached the line, the security guards left them to attend to business elsewhere.

Stanley looked him over, eyes practically aglow.

“You’re lookin’ good,” he said finally.  “Way too healthy to be here, heh heh.”

Ford rolled his eyes, and said, “I didn’t know this was the afterlife everyone got.  I thought it was just for people from Mexican culture.”

Stan’s laugh sounded a little nervous or uncertain this time.

“Yeah, about that…”

Before he could give what Ford was sure was about to be a very unusual explanation, they reached the front of the line, where a pretty (as can best be judged of a skeleton) young woman in a blue uniform greeted them with a bright, beaming smile.

“You finally got him back!” she said to Stan, sounding genuinely happy.

Stan nodded.  “Yeah, about time.”  He glanced at Ford. “This is Carmela.”

Carmela turned to Ford, still beaming.  “It’s been years since I’ve seen twins so glad to see each other again!  It’s wonderful that you made it-we couldn’t even get him to leave the bridge when he first got here!”

Ford blinked.  “Wait, what?”

Stan, he saw out of the corner of his eye, had suddenly become very interested in examining his shoes.

The arrival agent put her hand on her hip.  “When he arrived and we told him that we had no way of knowing when you would be here, he just sat down by the gates, right over there, and said, ‘That’s okay, I’ll wait.’”  She shook her head in a way that was meant to imply exasperation but didn’t fit with her still-upturned mouth. “And he didn’t move an inch until he finally saw you on the bridge, not for love or money.  We were worried that he wouldn’t even leave for Dia de Muertos if you weren’t here by then.”

Ford turned to his brother with a scolding look.  “Stanley!”

“What?!” he demanded, jaw clenching in defiance.  “It’s not like I had somewhere ta be!”

He was still trying to come up with a good comeback to that, when Carmela said, “Sign here, please,” and held out a paper.

Ford looked down at it-and blinked in bewilderment.

“...I think there’s been some kind of a mistake,” he said.  “This lists us as being part of a...Ramirez family?”

“No, it’s correct,” she assured him.

Ford turned towards Stan and glared at him sternly.  “Explanation. Now.”

“Soos,” Stan replied.

********

“...Soos?”

“Yeah.  He put our photos on his ofrenda, so that makes us part of his family according to these jokers.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck with one bony hand, and did that uncertain laugh again. “Crazy kid, huh?”

This time Ford couldn’t speak because he was feeling a lump suddenly grow in the memory of his throat.  He’d known, of course, how devoted the former handyman was to Stanley, but he had never thought the same sentiment applied to him.

Slowly he took the pen from Carmela and, after reading over the paper just in case to make sure he wasn’t signing anything he might regret later, he scrawled his name on the dotted line.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it.  “Señora Alzamirano should be here any moment to bring you to your new home.”

“Soos’s grandma,” Stan clarified.

“Yes, I vaguely remember her.  Very...imperturbable woman.”

And together they walked through the gates.

[scoundrels-in-love]

Before you leave, Remember I was with you (You must know you are beloved)

Cassian Andor doesn’t believe in soulmates, despite words on his wrist. Jyn Erso thinks of them as symbol of death. Baze Malbus swears he’ll never say the words so they can’t take Chirrut from him. Chirrut knows all is as Force wills it. Bodhi Rook will never meet his soulmate, but he can see these bonds and he hopes his actions means one day, fewer will end in death and tears. Canon Compliant Soulmate AU.

Also on AO3.

I

There are surprisingly many things Cassian Andor believes in;

Steady blaster hand. His gut instinct. K-2SO. That every deed that keeps replaying behind weary eyelids in the dead of night was worth it, if it brings ends of Empire closer.

But the concept of Soulmates isn't one of them.

In a sense, he even resents the thought - his parents who died for one another, eyes on each other as eternal stillness settled in them, met and lived with no involvement of the great and mysterious Force.

No mark adorned their wrists, but was their love for each other, for him less because of that? There will be no memorial with their names (nor with his, he suspects) and yet they were a world, a home destroyed, too.

And, yet, there are lines on his wrist as if mocking his belief.

Having a Soulmate is asking for heartbreak. Loving anything is asking for one, in fact. That is why he loves nothing but memories - those have broken him already, there is no more to be lost or gained.

And for all that, the words on his wrist are simply a threat, even to his identity as a spy. And mockery, when he is tired and his grasp on hope is slipping, with his hands so slick with blood. No one is out there, they are on their own. A handful of desperate rebels against a galaxy on its knees and the laser rifle pressed to its temple. 

Yet, when he was still young, fifteen or sixteen, he used to lay awake and tried to imagine it, if only so he wouldn’t have to think about the things he had done that day. 

Maybe they are in a bunker, waiting for order to move or an extraction that will never come in time. Maybe they’re deep undercover. Someone's out there , someone tells him. And he strains his hearing, hears the shuffle of boots. Stands up and says something brave, no, maybe he presses a kiss that is more than duty to their lips first. Fights. Dies.

There would be no glory in it, but it could be a good death. No Imperial torture or taking a lullaby. 

In a few years, it felt childish and dangerous to dream of something so lofty and painted with softest hues of love.

So he stopped.

II

When Jyn thinks of Soulmates, she thinks of death.

She recalls the way she would trace the beautifully carved word Lyra! across her mama's wrist with her childishly chubby fingers again and again through the years, each time a new and persistent question on her mind.

What she never understood (still does not, her nails digging into the thin lines on her hand unconsciously) why would it tell you the very last thing your Soulmate will tell you.

"It is a promise, Stardust. Promise you will meet them, talk with them and spend a lifetime with them." Papa had told her with a smile as serene as first autumn's rain and somehow, just as sad.

He had lied. As he always did.

Mama never saw soft snow of age settling in her hair, the defiance imprinted on his wrist coming much sooner.  And his scream is embedded so deep into Jyn's soul it does not have to be visible on scarred skin to haunt her.

But she has a mark nonetheless, a frustrating inevitably she loathes and rejects. Why would she want someone to ‘complete’ her, when no one in her life has stayed or been truthful? 

This Soulmate of hers obviously doesn’t even know her. Jyn doesn’t want her father to be proud of her - his pride, his feelings matter not to her. He is dead. If not to the world, then at least to her. Even more so if he is actually out there somewhere, doing Force knows what. Never seeking her out, never looking back. 

So she hides the mark beneath gloves and wraps, curses it for its recognizability and even tries to cut it out once, just after Tamsye Prime.

And doesn’t think of it as almost lullaby when she wonders if survival is worth all this, if this can even be called surviving. 

Not at all.

III

Bodhi Rook will not meet his Soulmate in this life. Three inky teardrops his fate has cried on his wrist tell him that.

Instead, he sees the ones who are bound by Force's thread. And more often than not, it is a cursed chain, wrapping around his neck and pulling him under even though it is not for him to bear.

He remembers vividly one day when Empire's cargo for him to deliver were stormtroopers seeking out Force sensitive children to take with them.

He sees it still, imprinted on his soul; there is a mother, a dirty handed child pulled out of his imagery battle and now clinging to her skirt. His eyes sparkle green in curiosity, hers in defiant fear.

Bodhi does not see the trooper's eyes, but the faint glow around them has more color than Jedha has ever had. I found you. Finally, the ends of thread seem to whisper as they entwine.

"Not my Aslik, please!" she begs the trooper who is yanking at the boy's arm.

Something sputters in the man, he freezes like a droid that's been shut down, before everything shifts into new, painfully sharp focus.

"Run!" he tells her suddenly, the recognition flaring a sense of urgency in him like an all-consuming pyre. And as the trooper spins, his blaster rifle already trained on his comrades, she flees with Aslik on her arms.

It takes twenty direct shots to take him down and only three to mow down the woman. They never even knew each other's names.

Just one of many stories Bodhi could tell, just one of many pairs torn apart before they meet, passing by in corridor before one dies on another patrol in NiJedha, the other forever surrounded by weeping cloud of longing.

Perhaps it is the first thing he sees about Galen Erso - the dimmed colors of a broken bond, the hollowness of a man that has lost too much. (He does not understand how much until much later, when he stares at Jyn whose eyes burn with fire that will carry them all forward, or consume them.)

He has seen it often and yet, there are echoes, too, of such love and determination it almost knocks him down when he witnesses it in Galen’s eyes. It must be what draws him to the scientist, reverberating through Bodhi’s soul and guiding him out of the cave he has retreated to, hiding from everything. Everyone. Including himself. 

Funny, he thinks, just before Bor Gullet consumes him, that I came into the light, only to lose myself again.

When he, much later, comes to in his cell on Jedha, one of the first things he thinks, really thinks, is that he doesn’t remember ever witnessing an acknowledged, still living bond like the one that weaves around and between the two Guardians. It blooms so vividly he gets lost in it, as if it is living, breathing painting. 

He follows it, in dull-edged awe, through the dust that will someday softly cover the weeping wound on Jedha’s surface, follows through the rubble and rumbling whispers of death as horizon tries to swallow them.

And Bodhi doesn’t even need to look at them directly to know , when the Captain and the woman stumble in. In fact, he tries not to glance their way all the way until they are on Yavin IV. Or else he will say something, like don’t shoot him, Cassian . It is not his part. And yet, relief fills his chest like an emergency flare when they are back in the ship, his hands clean of Erso’s blood. 

They argue and yet, what had been clash of colors on Jedha becomes so bright and unified it almost hurts his eyes when he stumbles up the stolen ship’s ramp as it fills with more people and sees the two of them leaning in close. He cannot discern the words, but it doesn’t matter. They know.

And when he looks at his new friends (can he call them friends or would they recoil in disgust that an ex-imp would consider them as such?), once they’re aboard, he thinks - it was worth it, all of it. If he has to pay with his life just so that one other Soulmate story can have a happy ending in the future, it is a price well worth paying. 

Even in his last moment, he hopes it will be the stories of his friends, even without him and his ship.

IV

In some way, Chirrut knew. Knew from the day he met Baze, felt it like a soft tremor of a bell rung far far away. Knew it when he traced the lines on the other man’s wrist. Baze never told him what was written there, as if he could outwit Force itself.  

But the echo had been just that - an impression he couldn’t quite grasp, make sense of its texture or shape. Now, it stands before him, clear and simple in its monumental form, like the crumbling statues on Jedha. A few must have survived, the ones far from NiJedha. The thought comforts him.

So much has been lost. So much has been gained. Saved. 

In the Force, he will be with it all again. And that is what he tells Baze: “Look for the Force and you will always find me” . Smiles (tries to) as he hears his stubborn husband say the prayer he cannot chant anymore. 

Their vows are complete once more and all is as the Force wills it.

V

He does not think about the day he renounced his faith, turned his back to the Guardians. (But never Chirrut.)

Lies. He thinks about it when masses of people pass by them, Imperial forces peppered among them. He thinks about it at night when he wonders how many dawns they have until---

Chirrut knows, as he always does, but only smiles and tells him 'All is as Force wills it'.

Kriffin Force can will it anyway it likes, Baze isn't giving his soulmate up to it so easily.

And yet, each time Chirrut chants 'The Force is with me and I am one with the Force', something twitches in his Guardian's chest. What if this is the last time, the one imprinted on his left wrist?

So, he does not respond anymore, the line to draw a full circle of prayer stopping midway. If he does not say it, then it does not matter what any mark says.

Yet, when Chirrut's eyes are losing their indescribable light (light of galaxy's patterned chaos and faith in its order) in his arms, Baze knows. Knows he cannot deny his husband one final comfort of hearing the chant completed and perfect, as their lives, their love.

And as mere minutes later, he marches forward with gun blazing, straight into the embrace of death, he also knows that none of it matters - for he is one with the Force and the Force is with him.

VI

He doesn’t know how there is so much fight left in her still, that he can barely keep her from launching at the Imp, that she can hold him up still. That he can actually lean on Jyn, though Cassian tries not to put his full weight on her. 

He doesn’t know if there is any ship above the shield to even receive the transmission. Maybe it went directly into the hands of the Empire. His entire life has been built around knowing and knowing who to ask if he doesn’t.

Now he can only ask Jyn. And somehow, it’s enough.

“Do you think anybody’s listening?” 

She smiles, hauls him forward another step. “I do. Somebody’s out there.”

He crumples a little then, draws a breath that transforms into a bolt of pain. This is it, Cassian realizes. Not that he thought there was a way they could get off Scarif. But none of it fills him with fear or anger. Instead, he feels calm and straightens back up so they can limp into the elevator.

Maybe it’s because he’s spent so long with death’s hand guiding his own. Maybe it’s because of Jyn. Her faith, which had grown before his eyes, from a dormant seed into a jungle without an end in sight, shields him with its canopy. 

Cassian smiles just a little at her, in the fluttering light as they move toward the surface. Where the rest of his team fought and died. He only regrets K2-SO will be so far away, but soon they all will be nothing more than stardust, so does it really matter?

In the end, he had been right - it will be a good death. With more unsung glory than he ever thought. With more love than he could’ve imagined.

VII

They crumble on the beach and watch. She doesn’t remember much of those moments on Jedha, everything had been too much of a rush, too much of her father’s words breaking into the bunker she had hid herself away into. Here, the distance between them and the approaching horizon marks all the time in the world, infinite and a grain of sand all at once.

Jyn thinks of the others, wonders if there is even a single person who made it off in time. Doubts it. Thinks of Bodhi’s dark eyes and the determined light in them when he had said Rogue One , of the solid warmth of Baze’s hand and voice, of Chirrut’s chant. Somehow, in this moment, she believes it more than ever. 

She doesn’t have to think of Cassian, because he’s filling the rest of the space around them. In her. She feels his smile more than she can see it.

“Your father would be proud of you,” he tells her and oh.

Oh.

There is an odd sort of relief in her, so bright she can almost imagine the greedy green glow  is overshadowed by it. 

She had never thought much of fulfilling destinies in a good way, but it is somehow comforting to know this is where it’s supposed to end, that these are the calloused hands meant to save her, hold onto her. That Soulmates means warmth and home , and trust so warm it doesn’t matter she has had days in its shine. That her convictions have not been thrown in her face in the very last moment. 

They found each other and she thinks it means that the plans found their way into the right hands, too.

He really would be proud of me , she realizes and calm, content pride in herself, in Cassian and her Rogue team, washes over her. 

This peace carries her into the Force when it all ends, the words a sort of lullaby once again.

[wavesmp3]

before you jump; hansol x fem!reader dystopian au  wc. 1.9k

a/n: same world as ‘to infinity (and beyond) but this piece was meant to take place many years earlier and mainly unrelated to jihoon’s fic. this piece is just really not the best of my writing, tbh not even sure why i’m posting it but yolo ig a/n 2: the first part is the beginning of the fic but the second part is supposed to be towards the end of the piece like around the climax or maybe it is the climax

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

The chords of an old song echo from the depths of his car. It's an older model, a classic, they called these kind of cars Teslas. The first of its kind. Self driving, revolutionary. You had learned all about in classes you took. But now self driving cars were only used by those determined to hang on to the past and those who felt that they belonged in it. And of course those in the lesser districts. You were none. But he was one. 

You assume his fascination with the past (despite his future being right in front of him) began when he found his grandfather's tesla in his family's old house out in the brown district. They rarely visited. But it just so happened that the one time they did, it completely changed him. 

When he picked you up for primary class the next day in the outdated car, you almost puked out of embarrassment. You only agreed to step foot in the car once he confirmed that the car had gotten a cleaning. And a deep one at that.

(You realize now that the car had to be completely clean to pass the border wall screenings. You also know now the diseases from brown that you had been so afraid of weren't deadly at all. They weren't even real)

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

“It's so nice that you two could join us for dinner today,” your grandmother gushes her voice laced with a sense of formality you imagine isn't commonly held when speaking with one's own family, yet here you are, sitting across from your mother at the long cyprus table in the common dining room of the minister's quarters otherwise known as your grandparents’ home. “It's a shame your husband couldn't join us Corinthia.” 

Your mother sets down her fork and knife, wiping her mouth with a napkin before taking a slow sip of her wine. “Yes,” she answers, “it is, isn't it?” And with the look your mother gives you, you have to bite back a chuckle at her so blatant defiance of her parents, yet your grandparents continue on with their meal indifferent or blind to your mother's almost teasing smile you couldn't tell. 

The four of you continue in silence the only ambiance being the clinking of silverware and the crackling of fire. You don't mind of course. It had been so long since you were forced to join your mother to her weekly friday night dinners with her parents. And now especially, after what you saw in the yellow faction, after your fight with hansol, you don't mind the silent treatment your grandfather gives you and your mother. You'd take the almost hostile silence to his lectures and preaching any day. You have to hear your grandfather preach his bullshit about the grandeur of Callademe every morning, you could go without it tonight. You catch your mother's gaze as she makes a face at you swiftly replacing your surfacing anger with a lift to the corners of your lips. 

“So child, how are your studies?” 

And as quickly as your smile had appeared, it disappears as well. You wait a couple beats too long before responding to your grandfather that your studies have been well. And when the last syllable leaves your lips your mother seems to let go of a breath you hadn't realized she was holding. 

He hums taking a calculated sip of his wine before setting the goblet back down on the velvet table cloth. You don't have to look at him to know exactly how he stares at you. You do anyways. His grey eyes have methodical glint to them resembling the sparkle of black ice. Deadly in its own twisted way. The two of you end up engaging in a staring match of sorts. You don't dare look away first. So he does, acquiring his goblet of merlot and finishing it in one long gulp. He snaps his fingers, and a butler fills it anew. “Have they now?” 

You don't respond scared the shaking in your hands might reach the tones of your voice. 

“Dad you should see her progress statistics and teacher evaluations,” your mother begins, and you can nearly feel the laugh boiling in the back of your grandfather's throat, “she has been doing exceptionally well this term.” 

You can't help but choke on your water when your grandmother says, “Isn't that wonderful, Corin?” 

He laughs. A loud bellowing sound. That fills the entire room like it's meant to be heard. Like it's meant to entertain. But it only fills your throat with bile and your mother and grandmother with bewilderment. You can't help but start choking more when he laughs at you. 

“Oh Corinthia, I don't remember raising you to be such a fool,” he spits and you can feel the hurt that paints itself onto your mother's face, “you've become so pathetic my dear Corinthia,” he taunts again venom seeping from the cracks in his teeth, “so pathetic that your own daughter can disobey you right under your nose.” Your mother's eyes turn to you. The same cold grey eyes as your grandfather but different, glassy and glazed with betrayal. You see the knife you've impaled in her back. She bleeds and bleeds, and with the pain that takes hold in you, you assume that somehow you've impaled your own back as well. 

“Corin! What are you-” 

“Thea can't you see?” your grandfather snaps cutting your grandmother off. He harshly stands making his chair fall to the floor with a dull thud and takes a hold of his cane moving behind your mother so that you can't avoid his gaze any longer. “We have a traitor sitting right next to us.” 

He points his cane at you. 

Three pairs of eyes watch your every breath, but you aren't sure if you're still taking any. 

“Tell them child,” he howls at you, “tell them how your studies are really going.” 

You feel tears threaten to fall, you don't want to answer but with the way your grandfather fumes you fear what'll happen if you don't. 

Your voice comes out smaller than its meant to be, more feeble than you'd hoped: “I haven't be-” 

Your grandfather throws his goblet, shattering it on the space next to your head. Your shriek is drowned by him screaming, “LOUDER!” Your grandmother doesn't even flinch. 

“I haven't been going to school,” you manage to cry over your grandfather's screams. The satisfied turn of his lips makes you want to vomit. Not only for the way your grandfather treats his family, but also for how he treats his so called people. You remember your fight with hansol, and it becomes apparent how right he was. Minister Callademe is no minister, he never was; he's a monster. And only you knew just how much. He had to be stopped, and because of who you are and the power your name alone holds, it had to be you to take him down. So you wipe the wine from your cheeks, and you continue. 

“No, grandpa, I haven't been going to school,” this time your voice has purpose dare say your voice has power, “but I've been learning more about Callademe then I've ever been taught in school.” 

Your grandfather scoffs, “Corinthia, I told you to keep her from that chwe boy. Look at the treason that spills from her mouth.” 

“Not treason, grandpa; it's the truth. Because I wasn't in school, I was in the yellow faction during the fires, and I watched as people burned and died and suffered. And I watched you do nothing. I am not the one committing treason, you are” 

“I'm afraid you don't understand-” 

“No, you're afraid I do.” 

He doesn't say anything. But he breathes as if each exhale contains fire. Although with the anger traveling through your nerves, you think it might. 

You wait for a response that doesn't come. 

“What were you planning to do grandpa? Let them die in the fires? Keep the other factions from knowing? And what'll that do for you? For Callademe? You aren't a minister. You aren't leading anyone. The only thing you are is a symbol. A symbol of why people should fight, should rebel. Your own people know that you're a monster.” The heat in your face only grows. The shaking in your hands is no longer due to fear, replaced with a bitter mix of anger and hate for the man who taught you everything, for the man you once idolized and loved, for the man you want to destroy. And it's because you've spent the last couple years avoiding your grandfather's rage, you're surprised to find him quiet but with a scathing scowl imprinted on his face. You're even more surprised to find that you aren't afraid. But you know your grandfather is like a grenade, eventually, with the right hit, he'll explode. 

“Dad,” your mother mumbles, “is this true? The fires in yellow? The-” 

“LISTEN TO ME CORINTHIA!” 

(boom) 

“YOU TELL YOUR CHILD TO BEHAVE PROPERLY-” 

“Corin,” your grandmother stands up, unaffected by the commotion, shutting up your grandfather with one word, “you should learn to keep your temper. The house keepers might hear.” 

You've known your grandmother to be the ideal picture of what a woman should be. You never knew if that was because she believed it or because she was taught to be so. But now, as she walks toward you with a manner perhaps more frightening than your grandfather himself, you think she's had you fooled all these years. Her face remains indifferent, but her eyes, which you knew to be kind and comforting, hold the brightest shade of venom. 

“Child,” she begins taking hold of your shoulder, digging her nails beyond the fabric of your blouse, “have you no sense? The fires were but a mere inconvenience. The yellow faction itself is no more than an inconvenience to our agenda. There will be no uprising. There will be no rebellion. The other factions will never be capable of such feats; they lack the means to do so. Do you think that because you and the chwe boy have seen the other factions, you understand Callademe? Do you think because you saw the yellow fires, you understand their oppression when you grew up in privilege? You don't know anything about Callademe, you are only a child. What makes you think that you and that chwe boy could lead a rebellion when you are the very thing they're rebelling against, when you carry the name they resent the most?” She pauses with a pitiful shake to her head, “You won't be doing anything in opposition to Callademe because you are one. You carry this name. It's time you acted like it.” 

“I'd rather live in brown, then be a Callademe.” You spit back at your grandmother. She doesn't move, keeping her painful grip on your shoulder as if waiting for you to take it back, as if waiting for you to repent. 

You don't.

“Well then,” she turns towards your grandfather, “Corin, you know what to do.” 

He nods, and you can see the panic settle into your mother's brows. She starts to beg and plead for them to stop; they ignore her. 

Your grandfather calls in two CouncilMen, and your mother's begging grows. 

He tells them to take you away. They ask where. 

Your grandfather gives you one last glare. “The chambers.” 

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

[coramatus]

So my brain’s been in overdrive as of late in terms of Lego Movie AUs and it’s come up with something like “what if human/no-meta au where Rex just ditched Emmet to suffer the same way he did in Undaar?”

Well I ended up with Desertpunk!Emmet and a de-aged Rex so take this as you will:

Basically Rex shoves Emmet into an escape pod and jettisons his past self off to Undaar while he slips away to bring hell on the heads of his once friends. Just like before, Lucy and the others have no way to find Emmet, but this time by god do they try. It takes four years of searching and blatant sabotage attempts by Rex, but they eventually catch a signal beacon out further than they've ever been.

And that's how they find desert wanderer Emmet, older, wearier, but still firmly Emmet, as he absolutely refused to stoop to Rex’s level. It was a hard 4 years and Emmet did his damnedest to survive, constantly trying to boost a signal beacon until it could be picked up and living off of poisonous sand worms as his only source of food and water on a planet lit in eternal twilight. He has absolutely no idea how long its been. But it’s enough know that when he sees his friends again, he starts crying and hugs them desperately.

When he’s finally found, Emmet is close to skeletal, tiny scars littering his face and body from bad sandstorm encounters. He’s draped in a patched and frayed canvas cloak, his clothes little more than rags and pockets filled with machine parts. His face is covered in a long scarf, though one of his eyes is covered in a loose bandage, sealed shut from a nasty eye infection (he suspects the eye itself still works). He’s surprisingly clean shaven and his hair cut short and jagged, a clear act of defiance to not echo Rex whatsoever. He keeps a weird set of goggles meant for a three-eyed alien, repurposed to wear in sandstorms. Always in his hands is an odd metal staff/harpoon he made for hunting, which he has a hard time letting go of. Unfortunately, he's also partly forgotten how to talk, not helped by his voice being reduced to a raspy whisper after a bad poisoning. But he's still his sweet, loving self and is far more tactile, soaking in as much physical contact as he can. And he is startlingly relentless in his positivity. When they ask him how he stayed sane, stayed himself, Emmet just smiles and whispers he did it because he knew it would make ‘him’ mad.

And he made absolutely certain that he could never become Rex, mainly by actually learning how to regulate his emotions and figuring out the whole ‘deal with frustration in a productive way’ by himself. Because he could bitch and moan and lose his temper all he wanted, but shit still won't get done. So he kind of starts disregarding his anger, tucking it away until there's an appropriate time to use it.

Any time he felt close to losing hope, he’d remember that horrible sneer on Rex’s face right before he jettisoned him. And by god did he want to wipe that smug look off his face with the most spiteful optimism he can muster. He ends up weaponizing 'kill them with kindness' to incomprehensible levels. (“I’M GONNA HUG AND KISS THAT GUY ON BOTH CHEEKS AND TELL HIM I FORGIVE HIM BECAUSE I LOVE HIM! HE’S GONNA BE SO PISSED!!”)

But things are still hard since Emmet has to relearn how to be around people and was clearly traumatized by the isolation, needing almost 24/7 physical contact lest he break down crying.

Not too long after Emmet returns home, he’s still adjusting to enclosed spaces and having to talk when the Systarians offer him something that could help ease the transition: An orb encasing a rare magical time spell that could rewind the clock on his life, making it so that the years he was lost never happened to him, physically and mentally. Emmet is hesitant about it, not really sure if he wants to do something so drastic, but the Systarians reassure him that even if he decides against it, they’ll understand. They just wanted to give him more options moving forwards and if he doesn’t need it, they’ll be happy to take it back and recalibrate it for someone else. Though uncertain, Emmet chooses to keep the spell on the off chance he changes his mind.

Of course, Emmet’s return doesn’t go unnoticed by a certain someone...

When returning from a day of therapy, Emmet is only half-surprised to find Rex already in his room waiting for him.

And Rex is pissed.

His ploy didn't work. Years! Wasted!! All of this in the hopes that Emmet would crack, but no! He was too stupid to!

Emmet just rasps he refused to give up, which was a lot easier when he realized what the simplest way to push Rex’s buttons was. With his warmest, happiest smile, Emmet just tells Rex: “I forgive you.”

The enraged scream Rex makes barely sounds human as he moves in to kill Emmet, knife in hand. But Emmet doesn't go down easy, raising his staff/harpoon up in defense and drive Rex away with it’s reach. Their fighting destroys a good portion of the room sending things flying, including knocking  the little spell orb loose. Emmet grabs it, but then Rex has him in a choke hold and is about to jam his knife straight into Emmet's throat.

So Emmet smashes the spell orb in Rex's face.

Rex has no idea what this is, but then magical lines and symbols spread over his body, lighting him up in a magical glow. Emmet gets released and he can only watch as Rex begins panicking because he can feel the spell affecting him, “What did you do to me?! WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME???” Rex starts looking younger and younger, his angular face turning soft, adult hairs falling away as he screams at Emmet, his eyes wide with horror even as the lines around it fade, “What is this?! What the fuck is this???!!! You can't do this! I am your future! I am everything you’re supposed to be! This isn't supposed to happen, why is this happening?! I c- I can’t… why? Why?? WHY???!!!”

Emmet tries to calm Rex down, but Rex is watching himself as his cheeks turn soft and rounded, the last of his jawline eroding away, his clothes sliding loose and baggy off his shrinking frame, his gloves and boots easily sliding off, his hands and feet missing all sign of wear, now unblemished, soft, and small. The years keep melting away as his mind fails him, his breath hitching as he sobs uncontrollably, his voice turning to a high-pitched childish wail. He feels everything slipping away from him, the world now looming terrifyingly large around him. He’s lost and confused and scared out of his mind, “Wh-Wh-why c-can't I remember?! I-I-I’m s-sup-supposed to… I-I want my mommy… no-! no... please... I-I… d-don’t wanna die…”

Then strong arms wrap around him and he hears a man shushing him, telling him it's OK, he's safe, he's going to be OK, it's going to be OK.

And the little boy, too confused and frightened, just whimpers his last hiccuping sobs as his eyelids grow heavy and slip shut, everything fading away to nothing soon after.

Emmet is left holding an unconscious six-year-old, horrified at what he's done. He didn't think the spell would work like this, he thought it'd only go back before he became Rex, but apparently just how far wasn't specified. He breaks down sobbing against the boy’s still body, begging Rex to come back, he’s so sorry, please just come back…

Lucy and everyone are just as baffled when they burst in on the scene and even more so when Emmet tells them what happened. While they run diagnostics on the boy that was Rex, Emmet is consumed with guilt. He never meant for this. Does this mean Rex doesn't exist anymore?? Is the boy just a young Emmet now?? He’s so sorry, he wouldn’t have done it if he knew. Emmet can’t stop crying. He forgave Rex, he was always going to, but now it doesn’t matter because he killed Rex completely.

Lucy reassures him this is probably for the best. Rex wasn’t willing to change, wouldn't compromise, not after how Emmet so thoroughly defied him. At least this way, Rex gets a clean start again.

Emmet goes stiff and grabs Lucy, insisting Rex can't go into foster care again, it nearly broke them the first time and he's not going to let it happen to him again. Lucy calms him down and says that's fine, but what? Are they going to take care of him? Everybody in the room turns to them just as Emmet says with his desert stubbornness, "If I have to, then of course."

How well do these idiots do raising a babby Rex/Emmet? Well that’s probably for a second part, because uh.... Rex isn't quite done yet...

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (20)

first | tag | ao3 | ffn

[co-written with @tsaritsa]

a/n not six months this time! but there’s so.... SO much to unpack. so lets jump in. 

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of post partum depression Words: ~8.6k || Rated: M - Royai

CHAPTER 20

Before him, Greta Flores de la Vega stands in all her scarlet-accented glamour.

The sight of her catapults him into the darker corners of his mind and the whispers of the devil on his shoulder rises in volume. The years they’ve been officially separated are eradicated with the unbidden nostalgia of her features. Her almond shaped eyes are still as rich in mischief as they were the first time he came across them. The subtly complex way she carries herself: arms framing her curvaceous torso as one hand holds her elbow to allow the other to slyly touch the corner of her painted lips. She’s made it into an art. And in that curling smile, entire histories are indexed and tucked away, conjuring up memories of a different time. Different skin on skin and -

“Well? Do I at least get a proper greeting?”

He swallows down the thickness in his throat and he moves automatically. It’s the way everyone says hello - a hug and air kisses on each cheek, but she leaves a mark on one of his. Roy knows it’s a deliberate move on her part, because her smell ruins him, like a dog trained to salivate on physiological triggers, on command, and it feels like a wrench purposely thrown into a sentient machine doing its best to work efficiently. It’s been used against him many, many times before and he’d be a fool to ignore the jolt in his gut and mislabel it for fear instead of involuntary lust. What haunts him worst of all is that the subsequent emotions he wants to feel is horror and guilt. Not anticipation.

He hates that it works so stupendously; loves that Greta knows what she’s doing one hundred percent.  

Clearly, old habits die hard.

Before it can do any real damage, before he steps in closer and assume the behavior of his former self… Roy calls her by her given name to break the trance. Something flashes in her chestnut eyes unexpected to her and it pauses for a moment. The literal miracle of speaking her given name.

She hums, amused, and reaches to cup his jaw to give it a little shake. “Jester that you are.”

There’s a beat before he collects himself, becomes aware of the way his jaw is slack. He should have known. He should have known.

“I heard you weren’t coming,” he blurts out inelegantly. Perhaps not the right choice of words, considering the way Greta’s expression flickers, but Roy is too shocked and too confused to care.

She covers her mouth to hide her short laugh. “From whom?”

“Maes.”

Greta doesn’t obstruct the wide smile this time. The laughter spills into her words: “For all his intel experience and information gathering, I can’t imagine how he was ever good at his job. I guess that’s why he plays househusband now.” She pushes her long dark curls behind her ears, cocking her head to the side. “What? At least he knows I’m honest where it matters.”

“And what’s that even meant to mean? He’s made his opinion on you abundantly clear.”

“Last-minute change of plans worked out in my favour. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Or you.” she says softly. “Especially not after I missed Elicita’s birthday party” She looks beyond him for a moment, smiling, and he follows her gaze to where Maes and Gracia are. “What kind of godmother would I be?”

“You’re not her godmother.”

She waves a hand in the air flippantly. “So I wasn’t there for the ceremony. The kid will have padrinos for basically anything in her lifetime.

“And Maes…” She scrunches her face, the roundness almost makes it cute. “He has always been so black-and-white about issues. The man never leaves any chance to consider any side that isn’t his own, something that doesn’t earn him many points on this side of the family.” She shrugs, looking towards Maes and Gracia with a familiar expression. “A falta de pan, buenas son las tortas… so long as Gracia remains happy.”

“And that’s important to you?”

Greta turns back to him and scoffs. “More than to you, leaving family and friends behind. Poor Chris left worrying about you.”

Roy counts to five. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, just begging to be uttered. He wills his reaction to simmer. He knows this game. She knows him well, which buttons to press - their locations, circumference, and how well it gives when pressed. How to tease and touch...  All this he’s memorised from the playbook of their relationship, where he gives and she takes and takes and takes.

Except that’s not entirely true.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Greta says; the sweet tone returns to her voice. “For my dear cousin, her family-”

“No. why are you here? Don’t you have other people to say hello to?”

She doesn’t exactly frown, but she’s no longer smiling. Greta takes a calculated step closer, careful of the cobblestone. “I heard you were in Central that weekend.”

He pauses, taking a moment to scope any sign of unwarranted contact that might come about. “As the actual godparent - “

“And you didn’t tell me?” She cuts him off with another step.

This feeling, low in his gut: simmering, roiling - it’s twisting and changing, manifesting in physical ways that have him shifting his weight. On a logical level, Roy knows he shouldn’t be feeling any iota of attraction to the woman before him. But it’s viceral, entirely reactionary, no bearing on -

Roy looks down at her; the aroma now wafting towards him and he could almost see it materialize in his vision -  tendrils trying to curl around him, ensnare him. The only predictable thing about her was that she was unpredictable by nature. For the longest time he was content to sit back and let her act how she liked. Now… well, it was different.

“Wouldn’t you know that I’ve been in Central more times than you’ve been told?” He can feel the defiance surge through his body like electricity.

All the condescending mirth is wiped from her face as she frowns, pouts. Her expression changes as if she’s been offended to the point of exaggeration and she nudges his shoulder back. What he doesn’t anticipate is the person behind him. Roy stumbles to adjust his footing, an apology dying on his lips as he turns.

Riza. She blinks slowly, raising two glasses of sangria.

Before he can respond, Greta brushes her off and tells her in Spanish, “Girl we don’t want sangria, there’s mezcal at the bar. Be a darling and bring us two.” And then she snaps her fingers to gesture it should be done quickly.

He hates this tone, the higher lilt in her voice; the drawn-out syllables, the concentrated power she commands in them, and yet he’s grateful Riza can’t understand them.

To her credit, Riza doesn’t say anything, and merely passes him the glass. She’s waiting for him to introduce them, he realises with a start, and Roy quickly clears his throat.

“Riza, this is Greta.” His arm slips around her waist. “Greta, this is Riza. My girlfriend.”

Greta’s smile freezes momentarily before relaxing. Her eyes are wide as she offers her hand out - the diamonds on her right hand shimmer in the light. “You never told me you got yourself a girlfriend, conejito,” she teases, drawing close to kiss Riza’s cheeks affectionately, bypassing Riza’s outstretched hand entirely. The whole picture in front of him is incredibly surreal - not to mention that particular nickname being brought up.

“I thought you were told,” he says before taking a long sip from the glass.

“Nooo, no one tells me anything.” The elongated pronunciation and melody she adds to her whine gives her more of an accent than the light one she already had; it makes her sound approachable. She lightly taps Riza arms with the back of her hand to get Riza’s attention. “Can you believe the nerve? How rude of you to keep her from the family.”

Riza says something that sounds demure and meek but his attention is beyond the women before him and across the terrace and meets Maes’ eyes, which have narrowed to almost slits. He mouths something to Roy - he can’t read lips at this distance, but he doesn’t need to with the way Maes throws his hands up, all sharp angles and stiff movements. Clearly Greta had done a good job of sneaking onto the island with minimal fanfare - which when he thinks about it, is actually rather impressive for her considering her love of theatrics and the spotlight.

It doesn’t take long for Maes to make his way over to where they are, and the unpleasantness of his countenance subdues as he nears them, replaced with a smile plastered widely across his lips which never quite meets his eyes.

“I wondered where you had gotten to, Roy. Trust you to sequester away the beautiful woman you have and leave the rest of us wanting.” Maes turns to Riza, and his smile becomes marginally more honest, drawing her close to drop kisses on her cheeks. “It’s been too long Riza. Gracia and I are so glad you were able to help us celebrate.” He pulls back and his expression locks into place as he addresses the other member of their company. “And you’re here too Greta. Wonders never cease.”

“What do you expect? The last party you threw, I heard there was only chicken dancing.” She laughs at Maes’s expense. “How does it go?” Greta butchers the tune to the “Chicken Dance” and somehow manages to move her arms like wings with grace, chuckling the entire time and completely comfortable.

Riza makes a strangled noise next to him.

“Is Gracia teaching you nothing? Pobrecito…” Greta addresses Riza, “Hopefully, he’s teaching you some moves.”

“That’s great,” Maes interrupts before Riza can get a word in, voice dripping with disdain. “Gracia and I have some speeches planned for everyone and I think-” he cranes his neck back to his wife who signs the okay symbol over some guests’ heads, “we’re gonna start about now.” His hand claps onto Riza’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you two later.”

His abrupt exit leaves Roy with a sense of unease; he’s not stupid enough to recognise that that entire dismissal of Greta’s prescence wasn’t a warning in of itself but if anything it seemed to bolster the woman’s defiant attitude.

“Come, let’s get some seats - Maes will take a good hour to sob through whatever speech he has planned and I want to save my feet for dancing.” Greta takes hold of Riza’s hand before he can protest and Riza can only turn back to raise her eyebrows in alarm before the two of them disappear into a small crowd of people.

Roy finds them not too long afterwards, just as Gracia stands to speak. Greta is pointing at various people who Roy vaguely recognises as members of the Hughes and Flores clans and Riza nods along politely; though she flashes him a grateful smile when he sits in the chair next to her.

In contrast to the measured speech his wife gave, Maes gets increasingly drunk throughout his own. A shot before. A shot to their first date. And their first anniversary and now their fifth which they celebrate this day. And honestly, it’s the most entertaining thing Roy’s seen in a while -  a buffer to the shitshow this entire day has consisted of. There’s the obligatory powerpoint with star wipes and Elicia cheers every time her face is superimposed on the white stone. By a large margin it’s the sweetest part of the evening.

And yet, there’s a chill that Roy can’t quite shake despite the balmy temperatures with the sun now completely gone and the light illuminating overhead. He contemplates whether another beer will solve that problem when Maes’ words drag him firmly into the present.

“... and that is why this woman, this forking angel of a human being-” Roy takes another swig instinctively at the utterance of the not-swear. It was an old game they used to play in the academy, substituting the litany of swears they usually dealt with in favour of cleaner versions. As it turned out, it was a wonderful way to practice for the three year old in their presence now.

Gracia is frowning at her husband but Roy is intimately familiar with the shit-eating grin on his friend’s face; whatever she wanted to stop had left the station long ago.

“-is being so good and following all that medical training even though we had this planned out years in advance: in honour of your brave sacrifice I will raise two shots in your name.” Maes winks at the crowd and Gracia’s palm covers her face. “Because she can’t drink for a while yet,” he hedges, a grin splitting his mouth wide open. “Because my beautiful and wonderful wife is pregnant again and Elicia gets to be a big sister and I have been literally dying to tell each and every one of you! So… por favor raise your glasses for us and Elicia and for the cutest bun in the oven that has ever been made.”  

Roy processes the information slowly, feeling the smile grow on his face wider and wider. He stops staring off into the distance when he feels the touch of another hand on his own and Riza meets his eyes with an endearing smile - he imagines its the smile he had when he found her reading in the library.

There’s whooping and shouting around them - something started by Maes no doubt - but Riza grips his hands in hers, her thumbs running over his knuckles, focused entirely on his face. “Do you get first dibs again?” she teases, leaning closer. “I don’t really get how this whole ‘godparenting’ thing works but-”

He kisses her then, and maybe now wasn’t the best time to do so, but god if it didn’t feel right. She laughs against his mouth, and Roy takes the opportunity to snake his arm around her waist, coaxing her into his lap with only minimal effort. Her arms curl around his neck, fingers drifting into his hair. It is one, shining moment where all he can focus on is just how unequivocally happy he is. He knows to not look too deeply into her reaction - but it is the nature of it that bubbles over, makes him feel giddy with untempered energy. She’s happy because he’s happy. It’s in stark contrast to how he’s been made to feel before, how any celebration of fatherhood, psuedo or otherwise, was wrong and shameful.

Curiosity also takes the better of him and he catches sight of Greta’s face. She’s eerily still, fingers blanched white against the champagne flute she holds, staring at the middle distance like she’s not trying to stare towards their direction.

All of a sudden Roy realises what’s going to happen before it does. Impossibly, the grip on the flute grows even tighter. Anticipation morphs into trepidation. He sees the transformation of an eerily empty canvas of Greta’s face deepen into a frustration, a rage.

It explodes like the flute she hurls straight down to the ground.

--------

He’s used to her hysterics. The practice he’s had over the years makes him well-versed in it. Her reaction was the piece of the puzzle that he was missing each time, conveniently forgetting that for each good moment they’d share, there would be a dozen bad ones to follow. It eats at him that it took the deliberate shattering of a glass when she thought no one was looking to come to this realization. That even if he responded on the most base levels of her, it couldn’t erase the treatment that followed and would never be justified.

He’s intimately familiar with her opinions on children, childbirth - and yet she couldn’t even restrain herself in a moment that should've been nothing but joyful for his best friend and her fucking family. Riza has shifted off him, but her fingers still drift over the fabric of his shirt, along the lines of his shoulder. She had remained silent throughout the whole scene, wide brown eyes blinking owlishly as Greta apologised and clutched her hand to her heart.

Oh, I was just so shocked. I couldn’t be happier for them, you know. Roy imagines the tears she managed to conjure and mask as happiness came from the anger he saw in her face. She couldn’t argue passionately without crying. And now, there were other surrounding her, coddling her from this “genuine display of joy”. Tan dulce, la Greta. He grimaces.

He scoffs under his breath. Yes, he thinks viciously. And Riza and I started fucking under completely ethical circumstances.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Maes over by the bar. The inebriation- and continued drinking - makes a lot more sense now.

Was he really so blind?

A rhythmic tune begins to play; Roy only notices because its a distinct difference from the slower song before. People from other tables around them stand and walk to the dance floor and their bodies start to sway in beat with song. He shifts towards Riza, a request for a dance dying on his lips as Greta walks into back into his line of sight.

She swivels gracefully through abandoned chairs, taking the one on Riza’s side. In turn, Riza turns to her and away from Roy to face her. “I am so, so sorry about before. I don’t think I could have been more embarrassed unless I purposely tried .” Greta covers her face briefly then sighs, placing folded hands over her knee. He has to hand it to her - she can really put on the act when it suits her. “The last thing I’d want to make anyone feel unwelcome.”

Roy makes some kind of noise but Riza doesn’t seem to pay attention. She smiles courteously to the fabled ex. “I don’t think it merits worrying over it for more than a few minutes. I think the few you spent since then are enough.”

The dry wit takes a moment to sink in for her before Greta grins in understanding. “Thank you, and if there’s anything you need during your stay just let me know.”

“It’s a beautiful island. Honestly, the view of the ocean if a treat in itself.”

“I know right? Daddy had someone kick the reservations set just so Maes and Gracia could have it for the weekend.”

“Is it your family that owns the island?”

She grins widely at this, winking furtively in his direction. “I can see Roy has been talking, but talking about that makes this all the less magical.” She slaps her hands lightly on her knees. “Are you two not dancing?” She addresses them both but only looks at Riza.

Riza releases something in between a guffaw and a chortle. “No, I don’t think so. We didn’t quite get through the last time Roy tried to teach me a dance lesson.”

Not my fault, Roy thinks childishly. There’s guilt though, festering deep down - he hadn’t really given much thought to her unfamiliarity with dancing beyond what he had shown her. Here, it was treated like… it was just something they did, was expected of them in the same way he was expected to know that the sky was blue, and that two and three summed to five. Music would play and he would dance, whether it was with his mother and sisters, or drunkenly with his academy friends on a night out on the town, flirting with girls who fluttered their eyelashes at the mere mention of rank. He certainly liked dancing with Riza, but they had the unfortunate habit of getting distracted with other things partway through.

“Ahh, but it’s not about the steps, but about feeling the music in your body. Non-latin styles like waltzes are so frigid and tight - beautiful, of course - but they allow less...fluidity. Freedom. Passion.” She rests a hand on Riza’s shoulder. “And, if you were invited then you’re amongst family now.”

It’s these kinds of declarations that make Roy pause and recollect himself, lest his shock show openly on his face. Who is this woman, who has replaced the one from his memory? This dazzling display of charisma and warmth is a far cry from the yelling and hysterical demands that he remembers - hell, the woman from ten minutes ago, who most definitely smashed a champagne flute on purpose. And once again, as the only witness, he feels there would be no use to recounting it to anyone but Maes.

“Perhaps later,” Riza answers meekly. He slips his hand under the table, resting it over her thigh, squeezing lightly. Her head turns back a little in response, and the slight quirk of her lips tells him she’s understood his message.

Greta presses on. “I find a drink or two helps loosen up and forget what other people are thinking. There are still some days I trip over my own feet.”

On cue, Riza takes a sip from her drink.

Greta smiles prettily, and Roy distracts himself with his own glass, contemplating the best way to get away from her without attracting a scene. “In the meantime, would you mind if I borrow Roy for a song?”

His fingers grip her thigh again - tighter this time, a silent plea for her to say no, to put her foot down and stop this woman in her tracks: but again, Riza makes no verbal confirmation seemingly nodding her head out of some compelled compliance.

“And if I say no?”

Simultaneously, they both pout - one more exaggerated than the other.

“I thought you wanted to save your feet for dancing?”

Roy tenses at the use of his own words against him. In a lower voice and through grit teeth, he says, “Yes, but I’d like to dance with you.”

She whispers back, “And with that display this afternoon, I don’t think I could do more than walk briskly right now.”

Maybe it’s the tiring trip or the emotional cost of all his interaction thus far, but he leans back a little with a smug look on his face.

“Go, I’m more of a visual learner.”

The smile splits into a wide grin that pulls back over Greta’s canines. “Fabulous, I’ll bring him right back.”

Greta wastes no time. Roy is taken aback as he’s lifted from his chair with surprisingly strong fingers digging into his bicep. He’s walked into the throng of people when the situation finally settles with him. He tries to pull his arm back to no avail and Greta pivots with it, gripping tightly.

Greta faces him, waiting for the current song to end in the middle of other dancers. And out of nowhere, she smiles - chuckles with her head thrown back as the next song starts. “Are you kidding me right now? I’ve been trying to have a moment of your time this entire time and this-”

“I thought you would get the message,” he intones.

“Silence isn’t a message. How was I supposed to know you wanted to play babysitter? I’d have let you get it out of your system. Or what, do you expect me to think you’re serious about a girl like her? That’s like going back in time and dealing emotionally with an early twenties me again. If so, your sense of humour needs work.”

It stings, it really does sting. He’s not wanting any sort of blessing from her - considering the context of their relationship. Already, this conversation alone is more than he anticipated. Any conversation with her today was more than he anticipated. Is it so hard to want to keep the drama to a minimum, to please everyone, at least a little? The guilt gnaws at him as he realises his way of going about this might not go how he intends. He had tried so hard to play diplomatic, to be bland and amiable enough that Greta would lose interest in whatever machinations she had planned. He should have warned Riza. Properly. As they move across the wooden floor in perfect time, Roy thinks he might need to acknowledge his limits in this strange, three-dimensional chess game they’ve found themselves playing.

Others now are caught in the crossfire.

Greta spins out from him, dark hair spiraling out in a perfect arc. She seems smaller than what he remembers, her nails digging into his hands with more pressure than necessary. She isn’t clinging to him, not quite, but he’s certainly given no leeway. Where he pulls back, following the beat and pause of the music, she mirrors him, reacting with ease.

“Roy...” she coos at him, one slender finger sliding along the bone of his jaw. He shivers at the intimate touch, desperately trying to think of a way to extract himself from this position.  “Mirala.” She cajoles, leaning closer. “Es una niña. A fetus.”

Roy clutches her hand and spins her - hard - as a warning and she needs a split second to orient her feet. “Milagros,” he says, low and dangerous. “Don’t.”

Her reaction is instantaneous: what serenity was present on her face from her spite and malice is replaced with displeasure, harsh lines forming around her eyes and lips. “Do not call me that. It’s Greta,” she hisses. “I let you get away with it once already. Today.”

“And her name is Riza, so I suggest you learn it,” Roy replies snidely.

“The night of the last dinner,” she starts, all the ferocity and bite suddenly gone. “Was she the one you were talking to?”

Roy doesn’t answer, but he figures it’s still an answer in itself.

Greta scoffs. “You’re a piece of shit.”

Roy chuckles at the accusation, of all people. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and he resists the urge to loosen his collar. “I’m the piece of shit? You-” he stops himself, tempering himself. “I’m not doing this here.”

“Doing what, amorcito? If there was nothing to talk about then you wouldn’t be so riled up. Months of zero returned calls and left on read, you really do have some balls on you if you think you could come here and think I wouldn’t do this here.”

“Call it wishful thinking.”

She makes him lurch towards her, inches from his face despite the difference in height. “I’m not fucking around.”

“I’m not either.” He backs away. “I said what I said the last time we saw each other.”

“You always said that, how did you expect me to believe you this time?”

He remains as stoic as he can. It’s only when she manages to push his buttons that she gets a good grasp on him before he can realize he’s done for. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me what you call two years of fucking on and off then? Organizing all those motherfucking galas with your department and attending as the gracious benefactor. You drop off the face of the earth but then you text me the address of your hotel when either of us were in town. We might not have been engaged Roy, but we were sure as shit still in a relationship.

“And if we are done, why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you give me a clear answer, Roy Mustang? Is it because you couldn’t? Is it because, deep down you wanted someone to fall back to in case your relationship went south? Don’t think me so stupid that I can’t see right through you.”

“Don’t bullshit me; I know you were fucking other dudes when I wasn’t available.” An acidic laugh escapes him - a freeing, cathartic laugh, to say these thoughts out loud, finally. “Is this grilling meant to make me fall back in love with you? Maybe that would’ve worked a year ago, sure. But you’re deluding yourself if you think you can be comparable to Riza.” It’s a cruel barb, tailored to hurt her feelings perfectly. But it’s the truth - what lingering affection he had for her has vanished as the blatant dichotomy of these two women becomes more and more apparent.

“Si, the barely-legal boba is the girl of your dreams. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you for bringing home a girl who hasn’t even had her quinceañera!”

His silence makes her slow the pace of their dancing. “Oh, Roy, don’t tell me you’re-”

“She is,” he answers quietly, voice barely carrying over the volume of the music. “I don’t care if you don’t like it, or understand it. I honestly wouldn’t expect you to. You push and push and push, Milagros, and you never care about how many people you hurt. You wanna know why we always fought? Because it’s what we do. You never inspired me to become a better person, or to think about how I could be a better partner to you - it was just about the sex, or making you look good in front of whoever or-” Roy cuts himself off, laughing bitterly. “We used each other because it was about ourselves and never each other.”

Roy can count the times on a single hand where he’s seen this woman - once Milagros, now Greta - look truly, properly shocked, and now he can add one more to that small total. He extracts himself from her grip, rubbing at the skin indented by little red crescents.

“Whatever you planned to achieve here, it’s... “ Roy sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. The dancers sway around them while they stand there.

She pulls him back into the rhythm of the dance and he moves to it instinctively and that's just it, he’s programmed to do so. “Do you think… she will settle for you?” She’s mocking him. “That she wants to have your precious little baaabies? That the supposed girl of your dreams will want to immediately settle her life down and put down roots for you?” She whispers in his ear. “Who’s being selfish now?”

Again, he pushes her back. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ah, so your bullshit reasoning only applies to me, is that it?[1]  Que funny.”

“There’s no point. I didn’t come here to waste my time on you, and Gracia deserves better from her cousin. They invited Riza here. Please respect that.”

Greta steps once more into his space, her right hand gripping his chin. He tenses his jaw, feels her near - but mercifully her grip weakens and he manages to jerk his head to the side, her lips barely grazing the edge of his own. Even six months ago, he would’ve killed for this kind of reaction from her. Now, skin crawling under the sensation, the need to flee is overwhelming; klaxons blaring in his head.

“This was never about me, amorcito,” she tells him, almost breathlessly. “When are you going to understand that?”

---

The whole scene unfolds before her eyes. They take to each other like flower petals moving effortlessly in the wind.

If it were only that innocent.

At first, Riza doesn’t know what to make of it, of them, the way they sway - to and fro, give and take. She’s hypnotised, captivated by the way their bodies flow with the rhythm of the music instead of the lack of distance between them. It’s quick-paced, almost choreographed, something she’s sure she would not have been able to pick up on the spot.

It’s intimate. More than she would have expected - should have expected. Their eyes never tear away from each other. Their hands use each other to help any growing distance become meager again. Her brow wrinkles because… this is just dancing, and she doesn’t know if it’s instinct or insecurity that’s whispering in her ear and telling it’s more than just than meets the eye. Common sense tells her that if she looks to any other couples dancing, they’ve either made way for them to watch or to give them the floor. The clapping and whooping from the crowd makes her ears burn, heartbeat thumps in her ear as Roy twirls her and Greta smiles brightly in turn.

Riza inhales. Jealousy, she concludes, is a normal human emotion; right now, an irrational reaction won’t help in any way. She’s been dropped into foreign territory without a means to isolate herself that doesn’t insult the celebrations. Later, she can examine the intricacies of the performance in front of her.

Riza exhales slowly. Right now, she needs a drink.

She doesn’t draw any attention as she skirts the gathered crowd, and for that she’s grateful. Leaning against the popup bar, she flags the bartender, who appears equally interested in the dancing pair, to bring her something familiar, rattling off the first wine name to come to mind. The first sip is cool and rest of the glass, and the two more after that, follow in quick succession. Anything to distract her from what’s happening in her periphery.

She’s nervous, it’s normal. There isn’t a familiar face here, she tells herself - thinking too soon.

A loud drop sounds next to her; impressively considering the enormity of the bass. He’s even less put-together than he was for his speech: he’s slouching over the edge of the bar and his glasses appear to be missing, giving Riza clear view of his glazed green eyes.

Maes lifts a beer bottle towards her. “Welcome to the telenovela, Riza!” There’s only the slightest hint of slur in her name. It’s impressive considering the amount of shots taken during his speech alone. She imagines he hasn’t stopped since. “Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

She smiles down at her drink and takes a sip before mirroring his greeting. “The island is beautiful. Congratulations on your milestone,” she says genuinely. She can’t stop complimenting the island. She doesn’t know what else to say.

But he doesn’t hear her and he leans his ear in closer. “What?”

“It’s great! Thanks! Congrats!” and then the clapping behind them stops. She can hear somewhat normally again.

From here, she realises that Maes Hughes is a lot drunker than at first glance - the way he leans against the bar, the flushing of his face. It occurs to her as strange that he isn’t stuck to the hip of his wife, but she’s rudely roused from her woolgathering.

“So why the fuck are you here? Where’s-” he does a full turn as if he’d step out of some mist form into a physical one “-where’s Roy?”

Riza points to the dismantling wall of people. “He’s dancing.”

“What? Why aren’t you dancing with Roy?” He cranes his neck up as if he wasn’t already tall enough and he groans loudly, the bottle hitting his brow with a thunk when he smacks his own face. “Why in the ever-loving FUCK is he dancing with her? Jesus fucking Christ.” He snaps at the bartender, motioning at some used glasses in front of them. “Oi, mate - tequila por favor. Don’t judge me it's the only word I know  with too many shots” He groans deeply, running a hand roughly over his face. “I should have known this spectacle was because of them. It always fucking is.”

“This happens regularly?”

The bartender goes to pour the shot of tequila, but Maes huffs, waving the man away and grabs the bottle roughly. “It used to. You would think they were preparing to launch their careers as professional dancers.” He offers Riza the other wedge of lime. “Come on, you’re gonna need this - we all fucking will if she gets her way-”

After the charming censorship in his speech, it’s jarring to hear Maes utter the original swears with such venom, but nonetheless she accepts the wedge, licking the side of her hand and offering it out to be salted.

The tequila burns deliciously on her tongue - clearly she was in the big leagues now, not restricted by college budgets and the want for quantity over quality. She watches with interest as Maes finishes a second shot in quick succession. “Do we suffer from the same gene that disables us from dancing as well as they do?” Riza asks, rubbing the remaining salt against the skin of her hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My dancing is top-notch missy. But if you’re talking about salsa, then no; I can’t dance salsa. But neither can Gracia so ha!” He adds, as if it physically hurt him not to: “And she’s still a perfect wife and human being regardless.”

“Of course.” Riza nods. Her tummy feels pleasantly warm.

“You know, I really thought I come up with the perfect plan. That she wasn’t going to show up because Llamapolooza or Bonaroo or...whatever Bitchella she usually attends. Never misses.”

Riza notes the change in his tone. It’s more aggressive, angrier, but not at her. Following his gaze into the crowd, she guesses, “Do you mean Greta?”

“Shh, shh. Don’t say her name. That’s what summoned the witch here in the first place.”

Riza bites her lip to contain the laugh. “I feel like there’s a lot history to unpack there.”

Maes scoffs and it's a whole body jerking affair. “They’re both a piece of work. But she-” he chuckles sardonically, narrowing his eyes “- she’s been forgiven for more than she should have been allowed to, talking about Gracia the way she did.”

“Sorry… I don’t really understand-”

Maes’ index finger is thrust out in front of her face. “Exactly! That is what everyone at this party should be saying because we asked and asked and asked her and it was always ‘oh no, I’m too busy skiing in Drachma, I couldn’t possibly, ex-oh ex-oh-’” he shudders at the nasal tone, picking up the bottle of tequila to pour them shots again.

“Even with all my reservations about you - don’t think I’m over that little stunt he pulled, and as a dad I should be giving my girl the best role models I can, but-” he dissolves into drunken giggles that err too close to hysterical rather than hilarious.

“It’s completely fucked up that the student is a better match for him than that she-devil. Completely. And I’m complicit now!” Maes throws his hands up in the air, stumbling against the wood of the bar as the gesture moves his whole body. Riza carefully moves her filled-to-the-meniscus shot out of his way, trying to figure out the best way to not spill the majority as soon as she tries to lift it.

Maybe it’s the tequila, or the three glasses of chardonnay she sculled before; but Riza in this moment feels emboldened, defiance surging through her at the crowd cheers for some reason.

Well, she knows the reason. It burns like the tequila does when she takes the second shot under Maes’ glassy gaze.

“Why do you hate her?” Riza asks bluntly, running her tongue over her fingers, savouring the drops that spilled onto her hand. “It can’t be because they broke up, because otherwise you’d be like Chris and be trying to get them back together-”

Maes chokes on his chewed wedge of lime. “You’ve met Chris?” he asks weakly.

“This afternoon,” she answers breezily. “She’s not a fan of me being here. For all her airs about having a private talk with her son, she sure as shit can’t tell him off without half the neighbourhood hearing.”

Maes wheezes, thumping his fist down on the dark wood of the bar. It’s entertaining to see him caught off-guard - even if she’s got an edge because he’s clearly sloshed and she’s only a little tipsy. But she’s tired of all these secrets, all these looks and the confusing behaviour of the woman herself compared to the men she’s been around. In her mind it doesn’t make sense - sure, Greta had been friendly, if a little too much, but Riza could easily put that down to her own awkwardness than any machinations of a more nefarious design.

So why the venom, the animosity? Maes strikes her as the kind of man who is reasonable when presented with all the evidence, and he would have had the best of both worlds: Roy’s perspective as well as that of his wife’s - who was cousin to Greta. Truthfully, a part of her trusts his judgement more so than that of her boyfriend’s, and that wasn’t just because when she turns back to the crowd, she can see him and Greta practically glued at the hips.

If Rebecca was here, Riza would feel bold enough to go and interrupt the two of them, snake her arms around Roy’s shoulders and smile bitchily at this blatant display of… whatever this was. But she’s alone here - on the other side of the dancefloor, Riza can spot Gracia, holding a dozing Elicia and talking with one of Roy’s sisters. For all the welcomes and hugs, the only person who is actually bothering to interact with her  is already halfway to smashed and requires something solid to lean against. The odds are not in her favour right now and it hurts to admit it.

She turns back to face Maes properly. “So, what’s the deal? Clearly it had to be horrible to get this kind of reaction.”

His mouth opens and then shuts, the man sighs deeply, pushing away the bottle of tequila. “I promised Gracia I wouldn’t meddle with you two,” he begins, and Riza feels her hackles start to rise, “but then Greta promised she wouldn’t be attending so I frankly don’t give a shit anymore.” Maes runs his hands over his face, roughly through his hair. He looks so tired.

“Okay. Let’s figure out what he’s told you so far. Do you know why they broke up?”

“Roy told me that it was down to her attitude about kids, and not wanting her own-”

Maes snorts loudly. “That man really knows how to play down an issue, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s not wrong - I don’t think that woman has got a single maternal bone in her body, but it wasn’t about kids in general. I…” he falters here, sighing deeply.

Riza frowns, but keeps quiet. Maes fiddles with his empty shot glass for a moment, and then sets it on the table with a little more force than necessary.

“Not many people know about this, and we want to keep it this way. We’re not ashamed - god knows I’m not, I couldn’t be prouder of her - but I know she’s always blamed herself for it, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not. Years of family pressure had a much bigger impact on her than what she understood logically as a doctor.

“After Elicia was born, Gracia really struggled. You’ve heard of postpartum depression before, yeah?”

Riza nods.

“It creeps up on you slowly. We were young, new parents -

Emboldened, tipsy Riza interjects, “It was three years ago…”

Flustered, he stammers out, “And we’re still young!” He breathes out dramatically. “Now can I finish telling this story?”

Riza chuckles to herself and nods.

“All the stresses could be explained away as us just adjusting to her, to our new routine. Gracia’s an only child as well, and there was enormous pressure she put on herself to present this front that we were fine, we were coping, the golden child had succeeded at motherhood. I was still working for the military at the time, but it got to a point where I either had to choose my career or my family. It was a no-brainer. Things got better for a time, but… it was still taking its toll on her.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Honestly, that’s the only reaction from someone that means something. I’ve heard every explanation from ‘she’ll get over it soon’ to ‘oh sometimes I get sad too’. Hell, she studied it as part of her work as a locum and we still weren’t prepared. Everything came to a head about… five months, I think, after Elicia was born.”

The cogs align in her head, and very suddenly, Riza realises just how deep these wounds ran. “Roy is the godfather.”

Maes nods. “He is. We didn’t ask him to do this - the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But it was the right choice to make. My wife needed help - beyond what I could do while simultaneously juggling a newborn. Giving Elicia to him is still the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Riza stays quiet. Of all the explanations she had been preparing for - this was not one of them.

“Long story short, Roy gave me the best option in the worst scenario. I think maybe five people, all up, knew what was happening. Greta, naturally, had to be keyed in because they were living together at the time.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen Roy with Elicia but it’s just - I know in my heart that that man loves my girl with every fibre of his being. He was the best choice for her - essentially worked from home, negotiated his contract with the military - made easier by his accident - to ensure that he could be around Elicia as much as possible. He sent us videos of her first words, and the first time she stood up on her own. He threw himself into godfatherhood and he did it perfectly.” Maes takes a deep breath here, rubbing at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t know what he’s told you about his aspirations for fatherhood or, at least, how he looks forward to it but it’s… I know it’s something he wants. Greta on the other hand…They couldn't be more different on the matter.

“They were already rocky when all this shit happened - his accident hadn’t been too long before that - and… I don’t know, maybe he came on too strong about this whole thing, but Greta just outright rejected this situation. It wasn’t even in like an uncomfortable kind of way - which I’d get, because you know, not her kid - but she was just so fucking dismissive and shitty about Roy doing the right fucking thing and-” he catches himself here, jaw tensed and jutting out slightly.

“Greta treated Elicia like she was the dirt on her shoe. Always complaining about how Roy never had time for her anymore, how my girl was loud. How my daughter was annoying and then she had the fucking audacity to say that it was Gracia’s fault that she was having relationship issues with Roy. If it wasn’t for Elicia fucking everything up, they’d be happy. But my wife was selfish, a bad mother, and it was her fault that Roy broke up with her.”

The chardonnay and tequila turns over uncomfortably in Riza’s gut.

“I don’t wanna know what she said to him that night: Roy’s never told me and I’ll never ask. But just before Elicia’s first birthday, he came by with her at like four in the morning. Said Greta was becoming impossible to deal with and he wasn’t going to let Elicia be in the middle of that. I just assumed they’d had a spat - not a new development for them - and it was getting calm enough at home that we were almost ready to have her back full time anyway. A few hours later his family was blowing up my phone because according to Greta, he had tendered his resignation from the military, abandoned the lease on his apartment and left her to cancel all the wedding plans. It was three weeks before he answered any of my calls.”

Maes blinks at her. He seems to be waiting for a response, but there’s nothing she can say that would be even remotely appropriate to respond with. This is what brought him out East? This was why she was called Axe?

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, Riza feels her immaturity in this situation. It’s no wonder Roy edited the story so cleanly for her when she pressed him for details - this is beyond messy, or the boundaries of any normal breakup.

“And yet,” Maes continues, picking at his chewed piece of lime, unaware of the maelstrom of emotions he’s conjured within her, “my beautiful, wonderful, unfailingly kind wife forgave her cousin, and gave her a shoulder to cry on when Roy didn’t come back.

“That’s the one thing I’ll never be able to wrap my head around. Forgiving others when they’re toxic or abusive or just plain unpleasant, just because they’re family. I know it’s common in other parts of the world but here, it’s like it’s amplified - expected to be accepted with the simple passage of time. And then they had to go and make everything ten times worse.” He nudges her arm with his shot glass as if her attention wasn’t already his. “I bet you he invited her here himself. He thinks his the sneakiest little fucker, thinking I wouldn’t know when he’d come specifically see her in Central or vice versa... he’s like some kind of junkie. Pah.”

She hears the words but the context doesn’t make sense. “Sorry, who?”

“Roy.”

Riza feels her expression freeze. For all intents and purposes, she never imagined it would round the conversation back to him. Riza looks back up to Maes who is glaring in the general direction of the dancefloor. She thinks herself, does she dare ask? Something inside her hardens and plummets with the weight of a metric tonne. “What do you mean?”

The shot glass slams back on the counter and he stands up properly, easily towering over her. Still, he needs the bar to stand without swaying. “Oh did he- did he not tell you?” He rubs his chin pensively. “Like, I thought fucking his ex-fiancée was bad enough to keep secret but then, our boy, decides to raise the stakes by fucking his student?” He turns to her, his face somber. “No offense, Riza. You’re great but you’re smart enough to understand how stupid it’s all been. I can’t forget that nor can I forgive him for it right now.

“And you wanna know how I know?” He taps his temple. “Because I know things.”

Riza stares at the ground as the gravity of his words hit her all at once, then around, then to the dancing couple. Her automatic denial manifests in an unchecked sentence: “That was before my time.”

Maes snorts. “Are you sure about that?”

Riza opens her mouth to refute him because the insinuation of any infideilty and how it doesnt make sense; the trip, the everything - why would he even be stupid enough to have both of them on the same island? All this she wants to argue back to the drunk Maes.

And then, the picture sharpens; hazy fog in her mind gives way to clarity for the crisp lines and captured images from her memory.

She’s seen Greta before. Not in the picture. Not in magazines. It was in his office at Eastern, in the days leading up to spring break - the well-dressed woman from all those months ago.

That was her.

my soul takes flight (miklós radnóti, rain shower)

You were right to run! The stream is swollen with grief. The wind shudders. The clouds have torn their moorings. The rain pounds the surface of the lake with its fist, The raindrops turn to dust. I watch as you go.

The raindrops turn to dust. My body longs for yours, my muscles, my sinews, that guard the memory of our wild couplings, the crush of our unruly love! Flesh remembering flesh, tortured by sorrow.

I long for you, torn and tormented by grief, my soul takes flight, fluttering after you, and before you; and then nothing matters anymore! for not even rain can wash away this fierce and raging desire.