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casvonriegan · 10 months ago

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Je te laisserai de mots.

CHAPTER 1

Warnings: Major Character Death Fandom: Fire Emblem Warriors: Three Hopes/Fire Emblem Three Houses Pairing: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra Characters: Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir, Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ladislava

War is raging across Fódlan, and the Empire must make a choice. Taking risks gets results, but of course, the consequences are not always worth it. In a mission gone wrong, one of the Empire's most esteemed generals pays the ultimate price in order to protect the ones they love.

And I leave you these words, my dearest Hubert...

Ladislava entered the room. Her clothes were torn and stained beyond recognition, blood and dirt caked deep into the fabrics. Bruises and scrapes covered every inch of exposed skin, and she walked with a lameness in her gait. She cleared her throat to get the attention of the two others in the room, unable to keep the despair from seeping into her face.

“Lady Edelgard. Lord Vestra.”

Edelgard looked up from where the two were scouring over some battle plans, her face immediately falling.

“Ladislava?” Edelgard abruptly stood from her seat. Hubert regarded her with his usual cold demeanor, his face devoid of any and all emotion, perfectly crafted to hide the swell of anxiety and unease he felt inside.

“We did not expect you back so soon. What has happened?” he asked cooly. But the fear bubbled beneath the surface, threatening to rear its ugly head and break through. Any breath, any sound could be the one to give him away. His skin prickled with discomfort, for too much, too much was out of his control.

Ladislava remained silent for just a moment too long. Edelgard continued in her stead, her voice laced with desperation.

“What of Ferdinand's forces? Have they returned? Why is he not with you?!”

Ladislava’s shoulders slumped, her composure crumbling.

“Your Majesty, I… must regretfully inform you that our reinforcements arrived… too late.”

Edelgard choked on a breath. “What do you mean ?”

…What?

Too late…?

Hubert's heart felt like it had come to a complete stop. He grunted in discomfort, but it was quiet enough that neither of the others in the room paid him any mind. There was no other tell that could yet give him away. He was still protected behind his unfeeling, unthinking mask.

“I am so dreadfully sorry, Your Majesty,” Ladislava continued, voice shaking. “Upon arrival we were already overwhelmed by Riegan’s forces. Ferdinand and his battalion were completely bested. It was all we could do to get ourselves back alive.”

Hubert trembled where he stood. He tightened his grip on the battle plans he’d brought to Edelgard for review.

“My own battalion suffered major losses. It was clearly Claude’s intention to entrap us in Alliance territory from the beginning. He and Lord Gloucester must have planned for this to happen exactly as it did.”

Edelgard cursed, falling back into her seat. “I should have sent another general with him… Damnit , I never should have let him go alone!”

“Please, Your Majesty. This is not your fault. It is mine. I could not move quickly enough. It was my duty to put a stop to this, and I failed.”

Edelgard was silent, quiet tears falling from her eyes onto the papers strewn across her desk. Hubert stood unmoving next to her, barely breathing. He stared into the nothingness of the ground, fearing that any attempt to speak, to move, to breathe would result in him completely falling apart.

“Ferdinand,” Edelgard choked out finally. “He's… he's…?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty…” Ladislava said solemnly.

“How can you be sure?” Edelgard demanded, slamming a fist down on her desk, the words thick with desperation.

“I watched as Claude himself delivered the finishing blow to General Aegir. I… I tried your Majesty. I moved as quickly as I could, but I… I was too late…”

Too late.

Reinforcements were called as soon as they'd received word from their stronghold against Gloucester territory that the Lord had retracted his allegiance. How did they not make it in time. How had Claude managed to pull together such forces in such a small amount of time?

...Ferdinand…and his battalion…bested��

His battalion? Sure. They'd been hand-picked by the man himself, but perhaps they were not as skilled as Hubert remembered. Surely even if none of the battalion made it, Ferdinand was absolutely skilled enough to best Riegan and make it out alive.

…

But the Ferdinand he knew would never abandon his men, would he?

His mind was at war with itself, Hubert realized. Trying, in vain, to match sense and logic with desires and desperation. To look at all the facts that had been presented to him and promptly cast them aside, instead opting to believe what he so badly wanted to be the truth and make up evidence to support it.

Ferdinand… you fool. How could you do this…?

Hubert brought a shaking hand to his chest, willing his damned lungs to take in air. He couldn't breathe. But no, he was breathing too much, too quickly, too shallow. The oxygen couldn't make it to his brain. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think .

“Ladislava, you are dismissed. Please inform the others. And, please see to it that no one comes looking for us for a while.”

“Consider it done, your Majesty.”

…

“Hubert?” Edelgard asked softly. The man hadn’t moved an inch since he’d asked Ladislava why she was here.

Finishing blow… General Aegir…

Hubert choked on a sob and his body finally gave in. He fell to his knees, the paperwork he’d been desperately clinging to falling from his grasp and fluttering across the floor in front of him. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything else. He didn’t want to hear anything else. Damn it all , he'd heard more than enough.

Lies. It all had to be lies. Hubert could not stand the words otherwise. Ladislava was simply mistaken. There was no way that Ferdinand von Aegir fell to the likes of Claude von Riegan. The notion was laughable. Asinine. And this was no time for jokes, damnit, they were in the middle of a war!

“...ubert…!”

Claude was a devious schemer and a brilliant tactician, this much praise was due. But Ferdinand could never, would never fall to the likes of him. Ferdinand was a brilliant fighter, his quick wit and sound decision-making saving them on multiple occasions. His prowess on the battlefield was truly unmatched. Even the Empire’s most skilled fighters couldn’t best him in their training. Ferdinand himself had felled general after general of high standing in both the Kingdom and the Alliance.

“...Hubert!...”

…

It was Edelgard’s voice. Somewhere out there, trying to reach him. He wanted to grab for it, to latch on to it and never let it go. What he should have done when Ferdinand insisted that he and his battalion take the initiative to begin marching through Gloucester territory.

“Do you not trust me, Hubert?” Ferdinand had demanded, sporting his typical half-pout whenever Hubert had tried to talk him out of charging forward into enemy lines. Hubert had to give him credit, though, he was particularly motivated to get moving on this mission.

“You need to use that head of yours to think sometimes, Aegir ,” Hubert had scolded. “You’re a general; your topmost priority needs to be the survival of yourself and your troops.”

“I will be in Gloucester territory, Hubert. They’ve sworn fealty, and will undoubtedly send reinforcements should we require them.”

Edelgard had agreed then. “He’s our best chance to actually make some headway into Alliance territory while they’re still reeling from the split with Gloucester and Phlegethon territory. We have to trust him, Hubert.”

“Then let us send additional Empire forces,” Hubert had countered, his tone almost desperate. “One battalion won't be enough to counter Riegan’s army should the worst come to pass.”

“So that's it then, you don't trust me!” Ferdinand accused. “You don't think I can handle this!”

“Ferdinand quit spouting nonsense, you know damn well you're one of the only people in this world that I do trust,” Hubert bit back. “It is Riegan that I wouldn't trust half as far as I could throw him.”

Slight color had dusted Ferdinand’s cheeks. “Well, to be fair Hubert, you could probably throw him quite far.”

“Ferdinand, this is truly no time for your dreadful jokes.”

Edelgard stepped in then, resting a reassuring hand on Hubert's shoulder. “We cannot afford to part with more forces right now, Hubert, we are already spread so thin. We have to trust in what few allies we’ve made. It is the only choice we have.”

Hubert had finally sighed in resignation, dread weighing heavy in his heart. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He turned and walked away, having nothing else positive to say on the matter.

Ferdinand offered apologies to Lady Edelgard before running after him.

“Hubert, don't you think that this is a little ridiculous, even for you?”

Hubert had bit his tongue and kept walking. Ferdinand groaned in frustration, running to catch up to him.

“Hubert, for the Goddess' sake, will you slow down and talk to me?”

“I doubt I have anything to say that you wish to hear, Ferdinand,” Hubert bit back.

“Then will you at least stop and hear me?”

Hubert stopped abruptly, Ferdinand nearly tripping over himself so he didn't collide into him. Ferdinand had muttered something under his breath as he regained his composure, moving so that he and Hubert were face-to-face.

“Look, I know you don't trust Claude. And to be truthful Hubert, neither do I. And I'm sure Lady Edelgard has her own reservations. But this is war, and sometimes we need to take risks.”

Hubert crossed his arms. Since when was Ferdinand the sensible one, leaving him to be the dramatic? He despised the way their roles had been reversed. “Risks that involve one of our most skilled generals practically throwing himself to the wolves?”

“Hubert, please,” Ferdinand had truly begged, his pleading gaze holding Hubert firmly in place in front of him. “I need you to trust me more than you distrust Claude.”

Hubert took a deep breath. “Ferdinand, of course I trust you. You know damn well you're the only one I think capable of pulling this off other than Lady Edelgard or myself.”

Ferdinand had smiled then. “My men are skilled fighters. Even in the case we do cross blades with Claude’s forces, I know that we can hold our own. Especially considering we've got you on the back swing.” Ferdinand gave Hubert a playful nudge. Had anyone else dared touch him, they'd be reduced to atoms. But, seeing as it was Ferdinand, Hubert could only fight the smile that threatened to make its way to the surface. In vain, of course. Ferdinand beamed brighter when he saw the small smile tugging at Hubert’s lips.

“This is going to work, Hubert, I promise.”

Hubert shook his head. “No, I need you to promise me something else.”

Ferdinand tilted his head in question. Hubert took Ferdinand's hands into his own, the latter blushing from the gesture and from Hubert's intense gaze.

“You must promise to return to us. Unscathed if you can, but you absolutely must return to us. To me.”

Hubert hadn’t entirely meant to include the last part, but he dared not take it back. Ferdinand was astounded by Hubert's serious demeanor, paired with such blatant, genuine concern for his well-being. Usually Hubert's care came in the form of snide comments and back-handed compliments. This was… uncharacteristic.

Ferdinand would be lying if he said it didn't unnerve him. But, steeling his resolve, he gave Hubert’s hands a comforting squeeze.

“There is nothing in this world that could stop me from returning to the Empire. Rest assured, Hubert, this isn't the last you'll see of me.”

“Hubert, please, look at me.”

He looked up. But he could not see. His vision was completely clouded, as though they’d been shrouded in the densest fog.

“You were right. I should have listened to you," Edelgard began, voice quivering. "Oh, Hubert, I am so sorry.”

He felt the warmth of Lady Edelgard’s embrace around him, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. He hugged her back, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He could not remember the last time he'd broken down like this in front of her. He could not remember the last time he'd broken down like this period.

Edelgard continued whispering desperate apologies to him as they both cried.

Eventually the tears stopped and they sat there, their quiet, ragged breaths the only sounds in the room. They were oddly grounding, in a way.

“Hubert,” Edelgard asked softly, her voice hoarse.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

He was shocked with the clarity of his own voice despite having just sobbed harder than he had in decades.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

Hubert’s head fell, the smallest hint of a chuckle on his lips. “Oh, Lady Edelgard, there is nothing to forgive.”

“It is my fault-”

Hubert immediately stopped her. “You made the call that you believed was best for the Empire. You mustn't begin to doubt yourself now. Ferdinand surely didn't. And neither do I.”

Hubert looked up, and his heart cracked at the sight of her. Her eyes were red and wet with fresh tears. He hadn’t seen her this broken since… since she'd come back from Those Who Slither in the Dark all those years ago.

He failed to protect her then. He must protect her now.

“Hubert…”

“Lady Edelgard, you have spent your whole life fighting for what is right. You inspire all of us to fight with everything we have, to see your vision come to pass. Ferdinand was surely honored to fall fighting for a better future for the people of Fódlan. He would not resent you for this.”

“But what about you, Hubert?” Edelgard asked desperately. “I didn't listen to your concerns, and now, the one you held most dear, he’s…”

Without thinking, Hubert took Edelgard’s face into his hands.

“My Lady, there is not a thing in the world you could do that would make me resent you. He… Ferdinand is not the only one I hold most dear.”

Edelgard visibly melted in relief, falling back into Hubert's arms as fresh cries tore their way from her lips. Hubert held her tight.

“His death will not be in vain. We will continue to fight for the Empire. For Fódlan.”

#cas writes #ao3 linked in Chapter 1 text!#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem warriors three hopes #fe3h #few3h #ferdinand von aegir #hubert von vestra #ferdibert #edelgard von hresvelg #ladislava #based on events of golden wildfire/golden deer route few3h

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mellyssageversee · 8 months ago

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Noble Hearts - Chapter 3

Zosan Royal AU - AO3 Link

I just posted Ch 2 on AO3 yesterday, but Tumblr followers get to read Ch 3 before I post it next week.

Summary: The threat of famine looms over the Kuraigana Kingdom as resources dwindle. Suspicion grips the royal Mihawk family when the prosperous Germa Kingdom offers aid by means of a transactional alliance. As tensions rise, the unforeseen connection between two princes may decide the fate of their kingdoms.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Sanji hurried quickly through the halls, searching for Zoro. Despite the prince's assurance of meeting at the training grounds post-breakfast, Sanji found himself waiting for ages, the minutes stretching into what felt like an eternity, with no sign of that moss-headed prince anywhere.

Yesterday's encounter had been unexpectedly delightful. Despite Zoro's serious demeanor, Sanji had been pleasantly surprised by the swordsman’s humor. Somehow, the other prince was able to break through the usual tension that surrounded Sanji. Zoro was even able to elicit genuine laughter from him, something Sanji had not been able to do since his mother’s passing.

Their spar had been exciting, especially the look of admiration in Zoro's eyes after Sanji's victory, and there was a rare moment that filled Sanji with pride. A foreign feeling of warmth spread within his chest at the sight of Zoro’s eagerness to fight, a pleasant sensation planted its place in his heart and he couldn't quite shake it free.

Zoro's unwavering concern for his people had only deepened Sanji's admiration. The prince's genuine interest in Germa and the potential alliance with Kuraigana spoke volumes about his character, painting a picture of a compassionate and thoughtful leader, someone worth respecting and, dare Sanji admit, someone worth... more.

Being treated as an equal by Zoro had stirred unfamiliar but welcomed emotions within Sanji. Yet, beneath the surface, there lingered a nagging fear. What if Zoro discovered Sanji’s role in Germa’s queenless state?

The thought sent a wave of unease through him, causing his chest to tighten.

Suppressing those self-doubting thoughts, Sanji pressed on with his search, his hands instinctively seeking refuge in his pockets as he attempted to quell the fluttering nerves in his chest.

“Slacking on your duties again, I see.”

Sanji's muscles tensed at the sudden presence of Ichiji's voice from behind, his steps faltered briefly before resuming his pace.

"I'm not 'slacking' on anything." Sanji retorted irritably, shooting a glare over his shoulder at his approaching brother. He turned his gaze back ahead, determined to ignore the looming presence behind him.

“Father wanted me to find you,” Ichiji called out, causing Sanji to stop in his tracks but he did not turn to face his brother. Ichiji approached Sanji and continued, “He was rather upset when he went to speak to Mihawk this morning and both of those mongrels were with him.”

Sanji's jaw tightened at Ichiji's words, his grip on his fists growing tight. The disrespect towards Zoro and Perona was unbearable, igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume his composure.

“Zoro is heir to the crown in his kingdom just as you are to ours," Sanji seethed, his voice low but brimming with conviction. He refused to turn and face his brother, he refused to give Ichiji the satisfaction of seeing his agitation, “You should be more respectful of our guests.”

Ichiji clicked his tongue in disapproval, the sound punctuating the tense pause that lingered between them.

"It's an insult for you to think he and I are on equal grounds due to our titles." Ichiji sneered disdainfully, he circled around to invade Sanji's line of sight. The intensity of his gaze bore into Sanji's, challenging him to refute his claim. "I was born to be King. He is nothing more than a filthy usurper."

Sanji's resolve hardened as he finally locked eyes with Ichiji, refusing to cower under his brother's oppressive glare. With steely determination, he squared his shoulders, unwilling to yield an inch of ground.

"I wouldn't dream of calling you equals," Sanji retorted with a smirk, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I've only spent one day with Zoro, and already I can tell he will be a much better King than you ever hope to be."

Ichiji reacted strongly, his hands closing around Sanji's shirt and forcefully slamming him against the unforgiving stone wall. Pain bloomed at the back of Sanji's head upon impact, but he gritted his teeth, hiding his discomfort.

"It doesn't surprise me that someone as pathetic as you would think throne-stealing commoners like them have a place in the monarchy." Ichiji spat, his face contorted with rage as he pressed dangerously close to Sanji's own. "Father expects you to stay in line, and I'd be too eager to beat that lesson into you if necessary."

Sanji's pulse raced. Instinctively, he pushed Ichiji away, asserting his own authority in the face of his brother's aggression.

"We both know you're not going to try anything without Niji and Yonji present." Sanji challenged, his tone laced with a hint of daring.

Ichiji hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty betraying his facade of superiority. Although he’d never admit it, Ichiji knew he lacked the strength to challenge Sanji alone. Straightening his posture and smoothing out his rumpled attire, he adopted a more composed demeanor.

"Father has postponed any negotiations set for today with Mihawk," Ichiji abruptly changed the topic, shifting to a curt and businesslike tone, "A banquet is being arranged to introduce Mihawk to Germa's nobles."

Sanji's expression soured at Ichiji's words, frustration clouding his features.

"Let me guess: Judge does not want Zoro and Perona to attend?" Sanji asked exasperatedly.

"On the contrary, he wants Mihawk to see his children being included in the festivities." Ichiji replied casually, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Sanji's eyebrow arched in skepticism at Judge's ulterior motives. "He just wants you and Reiju to ensure they don’t mingle with anyone important. We have an image to uphold, you know."

Sanji's scowl deepened, but Ichiji seemed to revel in his brother's discontent, his grin widening at Sanji's visible irritation.

"Feel free to entertain the mongrel until the banquet tonight. They should be finished talking to father in the foyer by now." Ichiji remarked, turning to leave. He paused, a mischievous gleam in his eye, before adding, "I suggest you find him before Yonji does."

Sanji's anger dissipated in an instant, replaced by a sense of urgency as he hurried towards the foyer, determined to shield Zoro from Yonji's unbridled cruelty.

Sanji arrived just as Reiju was leading Perona away from her family. He could already sense some tension in the room. Mihawk and Zoro stood nearby, engaged in conversation with Judge, their expressions mirroring displeasure.

“There he is!” Judge’s voice boomed with forced joviality as Sanji approached. Sanji stiffened when Judge placed a firm hand on his shoulder, but he forced a polite smile, knowing he had to play along. “We were just discussing the banquet we have planned for our esteemed guests. Reiju has already taken Perona to prepare her for the evening's festivities. I was just telling Mihawk how you would do the same for Zoro.”

Sanji met Judge's warning gaze with a tight-lipped nod. Judge's hand remained planted on his shoulder, unwilling to let him go. Sanji reluctantly joined the conversation circle, resigned to his role in the charade to make Judge look good.

“You’re majesty.” Sanji bowed his head respectfully towards King Mihawk, acknowledging his presence before turning his attention to Zoro. Despite the seriousness etched on Zoro’s face, Sanji noticed a subtle gleam in the swordsman’s eyes when their gazes met. “I thought you would be meeting me on the training grounds.”

"That would be my fault," Mihawk interjected with a heavy sigh, diverting Sanji's attention from Zoro. "I pulled Zoro and Perona away for today’s negotiations, which seem to be postponed... again."

When Mihawk emphasized the word ‘again’, his gaze bore into Judge with unmistakable annoyance.

Sensing the need to diffuse the tension, Sanji quickly stepped in with an excuse to cover for Judge’s mishandling of the situation.

"This is just a small part of the bigger picture," The lie flowed smoothly, but Sanji found his throat constrict under Mihawk’s piercing gaze. Regardless, he continued, "Being well acquainted with Germa nobility will play a crucial role in our alliance. It would be beneficial for your family to be introduced early on to the other monarchs you will be interacting with once everything is official."

Mihawk's piercing gaze seemed to dissect Sanji's words, scrutinizing them for any semblance of truth. Sanji maintained his composure as Mihawk stepped closer. He couldn't deny the strange allure of Mihawk's regal walk, which commanded attention, exuding his authority with every step.

"Your explanation of the matter was far more satisfactory than the excuse your father came up with." Mihawk remarked, his voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the intensity of his golden eyes. "Even if we both know your excuses are complete lies."

Sanji instinctively froze at being caught in his lie. His gaze remained locked with Mihawk's, a silent acknowledgment of the truth passing between them. Meanwhile, Judge's grip on Sanji's shoulder tightened, silently demanding him to maintain their facade.

Sanji silently chastised himself for straying from the honesty his mother had once instilled in him. Despite the discomfort of Judge's disapproving glare, he knew he must concede.

"I can see where Zoro gets his perceptiveness from," Sanji replied, resolving to speak from the heart, revealing his true intentions. "Please know that the Germa Kingdom does wish to see this alliance made." Judge's grip tightened to an unbearable level, but Sanji gritted his teeth and pressed on, determined to convey his sincerity. "I wish to do all I can to prevent your people from going hungry."

Mihawk continued to scrutinize Sanji, seemingly weighing his words. Eventually, he seemed satisfied with what he saw.

"Honesty suits you well. I hope you continue to exercise it in my presence," Mihawk remarked before turning to address his son, "I'll see you at the banquet tonight."

With that, Mihawk departed, leaving Judge to eagerly follow in his wake. As the tension dissipated, Sanji subtly rolled his shoulder, relieved to be free from Judge's oppressive grip.

“My father approves of you.” Zoro said with a slight smile once they were alone.

Sanji's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Does he? I couldn’t tell." Sanji confessed, his gaze drifting in the direction Mihawk had departed, still mulling over the encounter. The distant sound of Judge's voice attempting to engage Mihawk echoed in the background.

"He can be hard to read, but there was a hint of a smile there." Zoro offered, his tone reassuring. "Speaking to you seemed to improve his mood after our talk with King Vinsmoke."

"What exactly did Judge say was the reason for the banquet?" Sanji inquired, curious about the motives Judge tried to express onto the Mihawks.

"So we can experience firsthand how real royalty lives." Zoro replied, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

"Ugh..." Sanji couldn't suppress the sound of repulsion that escaped him.

“You don’t share your father’s sentiments?” Zoro asked, observing Sanji's reaction closely.

“Not really.” Sanji admitted, shaking his head. “Our time can be put to better use than attending these events where we kiss up to other monarchs. We have citizens who need our attention.”

Sanji stole a glance at Zoro, catching that look once again. He still couldn’t quite decipher what that look meant, but he knew he felt alive whenever those eyes were upon him. He was desperate to know what thoughts were flickering through the swordsman’s mind, to know what sparked that entrancing gaze and how to ensure it always remained on him.

“But aren’t we the monarchs that you’d be kissing up to?” Zoro teased, leaning closer to Sanji. Sanji felt a rush of warmth at Zoro’s proximity, his pulse racing with anticipation.

Despite the flutter of butterflies in his stomach, Sanji playfully nudged Zoro away, attempting to mask his growing feelings beneath a veil of banter.

“As if your ego needs any more stroking.” Sanji retorted affectionately. He shifted his gaze elsewhere, his hand absentmindedly raking through the tangles of his hair as a distraction from the emotions stirring within him. “Honestly, these parties are nothing but showcases of opulence while other monarchs compete for Judge’s attention. You’ll see what I mean soon enough.”

“Hmm... so, what’s the plan to keep ourselves entertained until then?” Zoro inquired, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. Sanji’s heart began to race once again at the suggestive tone. Even though he knew Zoro meant no harm, his mind couldn’t help but wander to the myriad of sinful activities he’d love to share with the swordsman to pass the time.

“Perona mentioned there’s a large building connected to the castle she hasn’t explored yet, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t taken me there either.” Zoro’s sudden interest in that particular area of the castle abruptly pulled Sanji from his daydreaming.

“The Keep?” Sanji blinked himself out of his daze, his voice instinctively turning stern when he replied, “That is a restricted area of the castle.”

Zoro’s playful demeanor vanished at the sudden shift in Sanji’s tone.

“Why is that?” Zoro questioned curiously.

Sanji briefly debated whether or not to divulge the castle’s secrets to Zoro. After all, he himself didn’t know much about what went on there.

“It has something to do with Germa’s military secrets. Judge is very protective of what goes on there, so it would be best to avoid that area.” Sanji finally answered after choosing his words carefully. He knew the swordsman would likely receive the same vague explanation from others. “We could always take a stroll through the garden instead.”

Zoro nodded in agreement, and began heading towards the left exit. Sanji quickly corrected him, guiding him towards the right exit that led to the gardens. As they walked through the castle halls, Zoro’s curiosity couldn’t be contained.

“I take it that the Keep is another aspect of Germa duties that you’re not a part of?” Zoro’s eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze fixed on Sanji.

Sanji felt a twinge of panic. Not wanting to disclose the true reason why Judge barred him from so many duties, he quickly replied, “Even my siblings are kept in the dark about what goes on there. To my knowledge, only Duchess Linlin and one of her daughters are involved with whatever goes on there. They provide some resources that make them important enough to be included.”

Zoro’s eyebrows knitted together in a display of concern, a flicker of worry crossing his features. He stopped at one of the many doors that lead outside and began to open it.

“So many secrets... I’m not sure how well my father will take that during the negotiations.” Zoro mused aloud, he held the heavy metal door open for Sanji to step through.

Sanji hesitated at the threshold.

“I’m sure an agreement can be reached,” Sanji met Zoro’s gaze, feeling a sense of earnest determination in his own, “I meant what I said. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your people do not go hungry.”

Zoro’s softened gaze sent a ripple of warmth through Sanji’s chest, his heart fluttering at the tender connection they shared. In that fleeting moment, the weight of his past mistakes seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by the depth of their bond.

“I know, Curls.” Zoro’s reply was gentle, and Sanji almost believed it was a whisper of acknowledgment for the unspoken sentiments Sanji kept hidden. Each glance exchanged felt like a silent conversation, melting away the barriers that Sanji had meticulously built around his heart.

For a brief moment, they stood locked in that silent communion. The magnetic pull between them was a feeling Sanji couldn’t deny. It was a force that tugged at his soul, beckoning him to embrace the desires that stirred within, desires he knew he must suppress in the name of duty. He stood there, caught between the longing of his heart and the obligations that bound him to Germa. He had a debt to pay to his people...

With a heavy sigh, Sanji reluctantly tore his gaze away from Zoro’s. Stepping into the warm embrace of the morning sun, Sanji resigned himself to the path laid out before him, knowing that duty would always come before desire.

Zoro moved to lead the way once more, but Sanji’s voice halted him.

“Zoro?”

“Yeah?”

“The garden is the other way.” Sanji chuckled softly, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his lips as he redirected their course.

Some desires were better left unexplored... for now.

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

The ballroom hummed like a hive, a symphony of whispered conversations and rustling silk filling the air. Amidst the throng of dukes, duchesses, and nobles, Sanji moved about, his presence easily overlooked; an arrangement that suited him just fine.

As he made his way through the bustling crowd, Sanji’s gaze flitted from one cluster of guests to another, his search for Zoro proving fruitless. He had left the swordsman to prepare for the evening’s festivities, but now, with the event in full swing, Zoro was conspicuously absent. It was the second time that day, and a nagging sense of concern tugged at Sanji’s thoughts.

Amidst the swirl of faces and laughter of the crowd, he found Reiju. Her graceful figure approached him, a champagne glass in her hand.

“Where’s your Prince?” Reiju inquired in a casual tone. Her pink hair was held in a tight bun, immaculately adorned with a delicate tiara. She took a nonchalant sip from her glass, her expression tinged with boredom.

“Not sure. Debating whether or not to go looking for him. I can’t help but feel that he is a bit directionally challenged.” Sanji remarked, his obvious concern eliciting a soft chuckle from Reiju. He scanned the room once again, looking for any of the Mihawks. A small crowd already gathered around King Judge and King Mihawk, trying to curry favor with the royals, but there was no sign of the Kuraigana Princess. “Where’s Perona?”

“She shares your concern about Zoro.” Reiju’s eyes flickered with amusement. “She admitted that he sometimes has trouble finding his way around and went searching for him.”

Sanji tensed at Reiju’s words, his mind racing with worry. He should have escorted Zoro to the Banquet Hall himself. What if Zoro was wandering aimlessly and encountered one of his brothers? The thought made his stomach churn, and he quickly began scanning the room once more.

His tense muscles relaxed slightly when he spotted all three of his brothers already present at the party. Ichiji was surrounded by a gaggle of women, each vying for his attention in hopes of securing a position as the next Queen of Germa. Niji and Yonji seemed to be flirting with those who failed to get Ichiji’s attention.

Reiju’s teasing voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Relax, you look so worried.” Reiju said with a light chuckle. “You’re getting really attached to that prince.”

Reiju’s comment elicited a flush of embarrassment from Sanji.

“I’m just fulfilling my duties as a host.” Sanji replied with forced nonchalance, though his mind was still preoccupied with concern for Zoro’s whereabouts. Noticing his sister’s relaxed demeanor, Sanji added, “What about you? You seem a lot more chipper since spending time with Perona.”

“I won’t deny, she’s enjoyable company. Perona is quite different from the other royals we encounter.” Reiju gave a small shrug. A coy smile spreading across her lips as she continued, “But I think you and Zoro share a different kind of bond than we do.”

Reiju’s smile only deepened Sanji’s blush. Were his feelings for Zoro that transparent?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sanji deflected, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. But Reiju, ever perceptive, caught his nervous gesture. Her smile widened knowingly, indicating that she understood his reluctance to discuss his bond with Zoro.

Reiju tactfully changed the subject.

“It seems our father really went all out to impress the Mihawks.” Reiju remarked, her hand gesturing towards the party. “He’s placed much more food out than usual.”

Reiju’s observation drew Sanji’s attention to the opulent display of food. The banquet table was a grand feast for the eyes, adorned with a dizzying array of delicacies that practically overflowed onto the floor. Roasted meats glistened enticingly under the warm glow of the chandeliers, while an assortment of side dishes and decadent desserts tempted guests from all corners of the room.

But it wasn’t just the buffet table that caught Sanji’s gaze; even the floral arrangements boasted a lavish touch. Nestled amidst the delicate blooms were vibrant fruits being used as decor, carefully placed to add a pop of color and freshness to the display. Slices of juicy oranges and lemons nestled amongst white rose petals, while clusters of plump grapes cascaded down crystal vases, their deep hues contrasting beautifully against the lush greenery of herbs.

“It’s wasteful.” Sanji remarked disapprovingly. He crinkled his nose in disgust of the extravagant scene before him. “To use food as decoration is a gross display of excess wealth. The Kuraigana Kingdom may soon be experiencing famine, and here we are flaunting our over abundance?”

Reiju nodded in agreement, a hint of frustration creeping onto her expression as she took another sip of her champagne.

“That’s dear old dad for you...” Reiju replied, her voice laced with discontent.

In the middle of conversing with Reiju, Sanji’s attention was suddenly drawn to the entrance of the Banquet Hall by a sudden commotion. It was Zoro and Perona, making their grand entrance. When the two Kuraigana Royals entered the Banquet Hall, it was hard not to be captivated by their striking outfits, each uniquely eye-catching in their own way.

Perona’s gown was a marvel to behold, with its off-the-shoulder design and intricate detailing. The black chiffon fabric was adorned with crimson accents, creating a dramatic contrast that accentuated her graceful figure. The gown flowed elegantly with each step, its movement resembling that of rippling water, adding an aura of mystery and allure to her presence.

On the other hand, Zoro’s attire was equally impressive in its own right. His formal attire consisted of a deep green ensemble, with golden leaves intricately sewn along the collar and cuffs. The rich color of the fabric complemented his rugged features, while the golden accents added a touch of regal sophistication to his appearance. The ensemble was tailored to perfection, giving him an air of undeniable charm and confidence. Sanji couldn’t help but notice how the muscles of Zoro’s arms bulged against the fabric. The sight caused his cheeks to flush.

Together, Zoro and Perona made their way through the crowd, all eyes were on them, drawn in by the allure of their captivating presence and impeccable fashion sense.

Zoro’s gaze met Sanji’s from across the room and, for a brief moment, Sanji felt a flutter of excitement in his chest. As Zoro and Perona approached, Sanji quickly averted his gaze, attempting to appear nonchalant despite the rapid thumping of his heart.

“You both take ‘fashionably late’ to a whole new meaning.” Reiju greeted the pair with unexpected enthusiasm, smiling brightly. She nudged Sanji playfully, “Zoro looks so nice. Wouldn’t you agree, Sanji?”

Sanji pursed his lips, annoyed by his sister’s antics, but couldn’t help feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him when he noticed Zoro eagerly awaiting his response. He turned to face Zoro, grappling with his feelings as he searched for the right words.

“You look...” dashing, radiant, handsome... “adequate.” Sanji finally managed, his words falling short of conveying the admiration he felt.

Reiju shot Sanji a disapproving glare for his seemingly rude comment, but to Sanji’s surprise, Zoro let out a hearty laugh. His smile was warm and genuine, and Sanji found himself drawn to it despite his earlier embarrassment.

“Thanks, Curly Brow.” Zoro said, still chuckling. “Coming from you, ‘adequate’ is practically a compliment.”

Sanji couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculous nickname, relieved by Zoro’s lighthearted response.

Meanwhile, Reiju’s attention shifted to Perona, her curiosity piqued by the elegance of the Kuraigana Princess’s attire.

“Who is your tailor? I’ve never seen a dress this lovely.” Reiju inquired, genuinely impressed.

Perona beamed with pride.

“This? I made it myself.” Perona revealed excitedly as she ran a hand over the intricate details of her creation. The delicate blend of black chiffon and crimson red fabric shimmered under the soft glow of the ballroom lights. “It’s a bit of a hobby of mine outside of my spell studies.”

“Very impressive.” Reiju acknowledged, nodding in approval at Perona’s craftsmanship.

Perona’s enthusiasm only grew as she revealed another delightful surprise hidden within her dress.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Perona exclaimed, her smile growing into a mischievous grin as she stuffed her hands into the sides of her dress, “It has pockets!”

Reiju covered her mouth to prevent herself from laughing out loud at the display. Even Sanji couldn’t help but chuckle at Perona’s infectious energy, marveling at her creativity and unique sense of style. The simple joy on her face was a refreshing contrast to the formality of the royal event.

“Alright, I’m officially jealous! What would I have to do to convince you to create a design for me?” Reiju asked, her tone filled with playful curiosity. She swirled her champagne glass before taking a drink.

“Maybe I can gift you one when you announce your coronation?” Perona’s playful suggestion caused Reiju to choke on her drink in surprise.

Sanji noticed the immediate shift in Reiju’s demeanor, her crestfallen expression revealing the sensitivity of the topic. The mention of a coronation often struck a chord with Reiju, evoking painful memories of the day Judge chose Ichiji over her for the crown.

“My what?” Reiju finally was able to ask.

Sanji, knowing the reason for his sister’s discomfort, subtly tried to signal Perona to change the subject, but it went unnoticed.

“Your coronation.” Perona continued, confused by the underlying tension she caused. She pressed on with her inquiry, determined to seek clarification. “By the way, I have been meaning to ask... how is your father preparing you for the throne?”

Reiju’s smile faded completely at the question, her gaze faltering as she struggled to compose herself.

“What makes you think I’m next in line for the crown?” Reiju’s tone was guarded, but her vulnerability seeped through her wavering words.

“Aren’t you the oldest?” Perona prodded further.

“Well, yes, but as a woman, I’m bypassed... I mean, you’re also the oldest and... and I don’t think I need to further explain that to you.” Reiju replied, gesturing towards Zoro with her free hand.

Perona glanced at her brother, both of them sharing a perplexed look, before turning back to Reiju. Her expression softened with understanding.

“Zoro isn’t next in line because he is a man. He is next in line because I relinquished my claim years ago.” Perona revealed, her words causing both Sanji and Reiju’s eyes to widen in surprise. “I have no desire to rule. Mihawk tried encouraging me to accept the title for a while, since I am the eldest and it is my right, but in the end, we both agreed Zoro is much better suited for the throne.”

Sanji found himself grappling with a mix of emotions as he processed Perona’s words. It was striking to witness the contrast between Mihawk’s approach to parenting and Judge’s. In that moment, Sanji couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy towards Zoro for the genuine care and respect his father showed. Glancing at Reiju, he could sense her frustration mirrored his own, evident in the way she hastily finished her champagne.

“So which one of you is next in line?” Zoro redirected his attention to Sanji. “Would that be one of your brothers, or are you next in line to be King?”

“HA! Sanji?!” Yonji’s voice interrupted the conversation, his mocking laughter cutting through the group.

Sanji’s muscles tensed instinctively at the sound, a wave of discomfort washing over him at Yonji’s sudden appearance. The youngest sibling bore his trademark smirk, a telltale sign that mischief was afoot. Sanji braced himself for whatever verbal jab was about to come his way.

“This guy isn’t even allowed to command his own battalion! Why the hell would dad trust him with the throne?!” Yonji slurred his words, slinging an arm around Sanji’s shoulders. The stench of alcohol hung heavy on his breath, assaulting Sanji’s senses.

Sanji turned his gaze to the floor, his cheeks burning with embarrassment at Yonji’s brazen taunts. His mind raced, searching desperately for a retort, but words eluded him in his mortification. He dared not glance at Zoro, fearful of the disappointment he might find reflected in those piercing eyes.

“Yonji...” Reiju spoke in an authoritative tone full of warning. “Doesn’t father want you to mingle with other-“

“Why not?” Zoro’s voice cut across Reiju’s words like a blade, resonating with a fierce intensity that caught everyone off guard, including Sanji. “Sanji is more than capable of combat, and has already shown promising signs of good leadership.”

Sanji blinked in surprise. Zoro was defending him? The realization sent a surge of warmth through Sanji’s chest, mingling with his disbelief.

Sanji peered up to see Yonji scowling at Zoro’s defense, his expression electrified with hatred. Zoro met his gaze with a steely glare, his demeanor unwavering.

Perona looked perplexed as she observed the exchange between Zoro and Yonji.

Reiju’s demeanor stiffened noticeably. Her eyes wide and her jaw tense.

Yonji let his arm slip off Sanji’s shoulders, then cast a smirk in Sanji’s direction, his eyes alight with malicious amusement.

No, Sanji thought. His blood turning to ice.

“Germa doesn’t entrust cowards with positions of power.” Yonji’s words dripped with venomous satisfaction.

Sanji braced himself, knowing what was about to come next. Yonji’s was sure to unveil the painful truth of their mother’s tragic fate. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach as he anticipated the imminent shattering of his fragile hopes for friendship with Zoro. Surely, the revelation would tarnish any respect the swordsman might have had for him, rendering their budding connection irreparably damaged.

“You say that, yet somehow you were given a command.” Zoro’s retort cut through the tension like a knife, leaving Sanji momentarily stunned. Perona stepped forward to intervene, but Zoro raised a hand halting her, signaling his determination to address the matter head-on. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on Yonji, who bristled with simmering anger.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Yonji snapped angrily.

“You’re openly insulting your brother.” Zoro’s voice remained steady as he calmly dissected the situation. “Do you only find the courage to berate others when you’re surrounded by an audience? His strength lies not only in his fighting skills but also in his tact and restraint. Unlike you, he doesn’t resort to public displays of aggression. That, to me, speaks volumes about his character. You, on the other hand, seem to rely on others to shield you from facing him directly. I find that pretty damn cowardly.”

As Zoro’s words sank in, Yonji’s facade of bravado crumbled, replaced by a raw display of unchecked rage. Sanji observed his brother’s trembling hand clenching into a tight fist, the knuckles whitening with the force of his suppressed fury.

Sanji’s heart swelled with gratitude for Zoro, his chest feeling tight with admiration. He longed to express his feelings, to convey the depth of his appreciation for the swordsman’s unwavering support, but his voice failed him. Words caught in his throat, choked by the intensity of his emotions.

“YONJI!” Ichiji’s voice snapped over the group, drawing the attention of everyone present. His stern gaze bore into Yonji, a clear warning flashing in his eyes. Niji followed close behind, his expression dripping with disapproval. “Aren’t you supposed to be elsewhere?”

“What?!” Yonji whined defensively as he turned to face his elder brothers. “I was just engaging with our guests. Isn’t that what this party is for?”

“You have other guests to attend to,” Ichiji’s tone brooked no argument as he issued his command, “Go and make your rounds.”

Yonji sulked as he moved towards Ichiji and Niji, the three turning to leave. However, Perona unexpectedly spoke up, halting them in their tracks.

“Wait a moment.” Perona’s voice carried a hopeful tone, despite the fact that Ichiji was now scowling at her. She paused for a moment under the scathing gaze, but soon recovered. She offered the three a polite smile, “I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here, and we’ve barely gotten a chance to speak to you three. It’s been so nice getting to know Reiju and Sanji, I was hoping we’d get to know you as well.”

Sanji noticed Niji snicker in response to Perona’s suggestion, his blood boiled at the blatant rudeness displayed.

“We really can’t stay.” Ichiji replied curtly. “We have our people to speak to and duties to uphold.”

Niji leaned over to whisper something into Yonji’s ear, resulting in another round of mocking laughter. Zoro shot a glare in Niji’s direction, his jaw clenched.

“Oh come on, stay just a little longer.” Perona urged. “We are all royals here, trying to negotiate on terms that will best support our people. We owe it to our Kingdoms to get along.”

The three brothers gave Perona incredulous looks, their arrogance ebbing away at her determined demeanor. Sanji couldn’t bear to see Perona endure their malice any longer, so he stepped between them, offering Perona a kind smile.

“You’ll have to excuse my brothers,” Sanji said smoothly, addressing Perona. “They forget how to speak in the presence of someone as beautiful as yourself. Why don’t we let these brutes go about their business?” Sanji extended his hand to Perona, surprising her with his gallant gesture. Even Zoro seemed taken aback by Sanji’s sudden charm. “Ever since you walked into the Banquet Hall, I have been dying to ask you for a dance. A dress as lovely as this deserves to be seen by as many eyes as possible.”

Perona glanced back at the disapproving brothers, then returned her gaze to Sanji, her shoulders relaxing.

“I guess we can talk more later.” Perona addressed Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji with a wider smile. She took Sanji’s hand, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.

Sanji paused to glance at Reiju. “Keep Moss Head entertained for me until we get back.”

Catching Zoro’s puzzled expression, Sanji winked playfully before disappearing into the lively throng with Perona in tow.

As they reached the dance floor, the music enveloped them in its captivating melody, setting a rhythm that the two easily synchronized their steps to.

“Thanks.” Perona said gratefully, her eyes sparkling as they began to sway to the music.

“For what?” Sanji inquired, his gaze meeting hers.

“For rescuing me from that awkward encounter with your brothers.” Perona replied, her lips forming a slight frown. “Are they always that unpleasant?”

Sanji glanced over to see Reiju skillfully managing the situation with their brothers, sending them away from her and Zoro.

“You know how brothers can be.” Sanji replied with a shrug, his steps seamlessly melding with Perona’s as they danced. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re putting in so much effort to win their favor?”

Perona sighed dramatically.

“In part, I am doing it for my kingdom. This alliance will greatly benefit our people, and I feel like things would go more smoothly if we all just get along.” Perona explained earnestly, her voice barely audible over the music’s enchanting melody.

“You and your brother are a lot alike. You care deeply for your citizens.” Sanji couldn’t help but admire her resilience despite his brothers’ dismissive attitudes.

“Ugh, don’t lump me in with that knucklehead,” Perona said with a wry smile, her movements graceful as they moved across the dance floor bathed in soft, ethereal light. She glanced over Sanji’s shoulder, her smirk widening as they twirled past other couples. “Speaking of my brother, looks like you’ve really gotten under his skin.”

Sanji followed her gaze, noting the sour expression on Zoro’s face as he watched them dance. It struck him as odd; Zoro wasn’t one to show his emotions so openly.

“He must be really protective of you if he’s that upset over us dancing.” Sanji observed, trying to make sense of the situation.

Perona chuckled softly, her laughter mingling with the lilting notes of the music.

“Oh, he is, but I think you’re under the wrong impression of why he’s upset.” Perona replied cryptically, her voice barely audible over the melodic strains of the music. She cast another glance at Zoro, her smirk growing as they continued their graceful movements. Leaning closer to Sanji, she whispered in his ear, “He’s usually as stoic as Mihawk, but oddly enough, he’s become much more expressive in your presence...”

Sanji felt his pulse quicken, a surge of warmth flooding his cheeks at the mere suggestion that Zoro’s sentiments might align with his own.

“Tell me more about that moss headed brother of yours.” Sanji replied, his tone casual, though his heart raced with anticipation.

Perona chuckled knowingly, her eyes sparkling with amusement as Sanji twirled her gracefully across the dance floor, the music enveloping them in its enchanting embrace.

“I’m sure you’ve already noticed, for a scary-looking swordsman, he’s actually a big softie,” Perona began, her voice carrying over the melodic strains of the music. “He cares deeply for friends, family, and our people. I believe he’d go to great lengths to protect us from any danger.”

Sanji’s heart swelled with a mixture of emotions at her words. Was that the reason behind Zoro’s defense against Yonji? Could it be that Zoro cared for him in the same way Perona described? Or was he merely reading too much into their interactions?

“What makes you say that?” Sanji prodded, unable to hide his longing, his gaze drifting back to where Zoro stood.

“He’s always pushing himself to his limits. While he claims it’s part of his combat training, I believe he sees it as a way to prove himself a strong leader, like Mihawk.” Perona’s smile softened as she confided in him. “Don’t you dare tell him I said this, but he’s already proven himself tenfold. We’re fortunate to have someone as dedicated as him in line for the throne... and anyone who catches his eye should consider themselves lucky to have someone as loyal as Zoro by their side.”

The music faded and the dance came to a graceful end, Sanji couldn't shake the feeling that Perona was subtly encouraging him. Her words lingered in his mind like a soft whisper, nudging him, no... urging him to explore his feelings for Zoro. Gratitude swelled within him for her support, yet a sense of hopelessness clawed at his heart. How could he dare to entertain the notion of a relationship with Zoro when weighed down by the heavy chains of his family's tragic past?

"Thank you for your company." Sanji offered with a respectful bow, adhering to the customary etiquette of a concluded dance. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

"The pleasure was all mine." Perona responded with a gentle curtsy, her demeanor gracious and warm. "Now let's go back before Zoro gets too impatient."

Sanji extended his arm to Perona, escorting her back to where Zoro and Reiju awaited.

Upon their return, Perona wasted no time in voicing her need for champagne and promptly whisked Reiju away. Left in their wake, Sanji felt Zoro’s gaze upon him, a subtle hint of bitterness in the swordsman’s expression.

“So, what did my sister say that had you blushing like a damn fool?” Zoro’s voice carried a touch of irritation, but there was an underlying curiosity that piqued Sanji’s interest. It seemed Perona’s insights into Zoro’s behavior were spot on.

“We were actually talking about you.” Sanji admitted with a teasing grin, relishing the way Zoro seemed momentarily caught off guard before quickly recovering with a glare. Undeterred, Sanji stepped closer, testing the waters. “Perona has shared a lot of good things about you.”

Zoro’s eyes narrowed slightly, his demeanor shifting from surprise to suspicion.

“What bullshit is she spreading about me now?” Zoro’s gaze flicked towards where Perona and Reiju had disappeared.

Perona, catching her brother’s glare, responded by cheekily sticking her tongue out, prompting a smirk from Sanji.

“I swear I’ll hide her spell book again…” Zoro muttered under his breath.

“It was all good, I swear.” Sanji reassured, enjoying the banter. “Do you bicker this badly at home?”

“Worse.” Zoro admitted with a gruff sigh, torn between his irritation and amusement. He shifted his gaze from Perona back to Sanji. “We promised Mihawk we’d be on our best behavior this week.”

“I’m a bit concerned to know what your normal is if this is your ‘best behavior’.” Sanji couldn’t help but tease. He nudged Zoro’s ribs playfully with his elbow. “Be nicer to her. She only wants what’s best for you.”

Zoro responded with a noncommittal hum, his attention drifting across the room, his silver eyes scanning the sea of pompous nobles.

“I think I’m growing tired of this whole scene.” Zoro admitted, voicing what Sanji had been feeling for a while.

“But you just got here... late, I might add,” Sanji gestured toward the crowd. “This party was intended to introduce you all to our nobles and become familiar with our kingdom.”

“I doubt our presence would be missed. Other than your siblings, no one else has bothered greeting us.” Zoro pointed out, his gaze lingering on Sanji for a moment longer than necessary. That look never failed to make Sanji’s heart falter.

Sanji’s eyes scanned the Banquet Hall. The party felt dull, filled with people Sanji never cared for, nor they for him. He agreed with Zoro’s sentiments about them not being missed. Plus, if he was honest with himself, he wanted some time alone with Zoro. Perona’s words had stirred something within him, a hopeful longing he was tempted to explore.

“I have a place in mind that we can go to. Follow me.” Sanji motioned, leading the way. When they neared the exit, he paused, stealing a glance at Zoro, his eyes sparkling with mischief, before instructing, “Grab a couple of vases.”

“Huh?” Zoro looked puzzled.

Sanji didn’t bother explaining further, he simply grabbed one of the large vases by the door and vanished from the banquet hall. Moments later, Zoro appeared behind him, juggling a vase in each arm.

“Why did I have to grab two and you only grabbed one?” Zoro feigned annoyance, though the playful glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“Those muscles have to be useful for something.” Sanji teased, his own smirk mirroring Zoro’s playful demeanor.

“Damn Curly Brow.” Zoro retorted.

“Moss Head.” Sanji shot back with a chuckle, reveling in the familiar banter that flowed effortlessly between them.

Sanji led the way to a place he saw as his own personal sanctuary. This place was his haven, a refuge from the demands and expectations of royalty, and he couldn’t wait to share it with Zoro. With each step, the tension of the evening melted away, replaced by a comforting sense of warmth.

(Next Chapter)

#zosan #sanzo #zosan fic rec #zosan fanfic #sanzo fic #zosan au #Vinsmoke family #Mihawk family

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pcwpolwrestling · 2 months ago

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11/16-PCW Extreme Election Night 2024-Part Two

Last Week on PCW Extreme Political TV -PCW Owner Dawn McGill comes out and tells everyone to get ready for a hell of a ride tonight. -REPLAY: Donald Trump (American Patriots) defeated Joe Biden (Progressive Alliance) in a match that took place back in June -FEMA Commercial -SENATE MATCH: The American Patriots defeated The Progressive Alliance -Celebrities for Kamala Harris 2024 -REPLAY: Donald Trump (American Patriots) vs. Kamala Harris (Progressive Alliance)-in a match that took place in September. -Donald Trump video by Nicole Shanahan -REPLAY: J.D. Vance (American Patriots) defeated Tim Walz (Progressive Alliance) in a match that took place in October -Extreme Election Night 2024- Part Two preview -Backstage interviews with both Kamala Harris and Donald Trump -MAIN EVENT-PCW CEO MATCH: Donald Trump (American Patriots) defeated Kamala Harris (Progressive Alliance) -New York Governor Kathy Hochul gets attacked by Peanut the Squirrel and Fred the Raccoon. -Jennifer Rubin of the Washington Post gets into a confrontation with Dawn McGill. -Keith Olbermann gets run over by Ron Paul’s New Libertarian Army.

Political Championship Wrestling Extreme Political TV Taped at the DC Armory on Tuesday November 5th New York City, NY Saturday November 16th, 2024

Announcers: ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave AGE: 50 / HT: 5’ 11” WT: 195 HOME: Philadelphia, PA HAIR: Brown / STYLE: Like Ronnie Dunn / FACE: Goatee DRESS: Brown suit without tie

Colleen Crowder ‘Low-Level New York Times Reporter Trying to Make a Name for Herself’ AGE: 38 / HT: 5’ 5” WT: 142 HOME: New York City, NY HAIR: Black / STYLE: Curly / FACE: Narrow face with rounded jaw, turned-up nose, faint freckles, and thin lips. Bulging blue eyes, thin eyebrows. DRESS: Black pants suit

PCW Champion: Charlie Blackwell (American Heartland) Since 2/10/2024 Contenders: ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels (Progressive Alliance) Kirk Walstreit (American Patriots) Mike the Mechanic (Main Street USA)

PCW Women’s Champion: Catherine Cline (Independent) Since 9/21/2024 Contenders: Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance) Laura Brobert (American Patriots) ‘American Girl’ Sarah Mae Smith (Main Street USA)

PCW Tag Team Champions: Starz N. Stripes and ‘The One-Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism (American Patriots) Since 3/3/2024 Contenders: The Deplorables: Ray McAvay/’Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan (American Heartland Coalition) The Green World Order: GreenPete/’Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee (Progressive Alliance) The Sports Entertainment Corporation: Gator Bates/The Alabama Kid (SEC) Bi-Partisan Dream Team: Blue Dog D/RINO Main Street USA: Ken Worth-American Trucker/Farmer John Deer

Opening: “Main street U.S.A boarded up and dry Knowing what once was here just makes me want to cry Used to be the favorite place Now what remains are memories even time cannot erase

Old man Johnson’s store, where we grew up too fast All that remains today are echoes from the past Used to be a booming town Now all that’s left is either broken up or broken down…”

youtube

The Amy Grant song fades into the loud chant coming from the crowd inside the DC Armory…

PCW!… PCW!… PCW!… PCW!… PCW!… PCW!…

Johnny Suave, resplendent in his tailored suit, leans into the microphone, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Extreme Election Night 2024… night two!” His eyes gleam with barely contained excitement.

Johnny Suave: I’m Johnny Suave, and joining me tonight is the incomparable Colleen Crowder.

Colleen nods, her green eyes sharp behind her glasses, but there’s a hint of unease in her posture. Johnny doesn’t seem to notice as he barrels on.

Johnny Suave: Tonight’s main event… PCW Champion Charlie Blackwell of the American Heartland Coalition puts his title on the line against ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels from the Progressive Alliance!

The crowd roars its approval, and Johnny’s grin widens. He’s in his element, feeling the pulse of the audience. This is what he lives for.

Johnny Suave: But that’s not all, folks! The PCW Tag Team Titles are up for grabs as ‘The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism and Starz N. Stripes defend against The Green World Order!

Colleen leans in, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil.

Colleen Crowder: And in a match that’s sure to set the political world ablaze, Catherine Cline defends the PCW Women’s title against the ‘Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins.

Johnny nods approvingly.

Johnny Suave: Don’t forget our extreme political cage match between the American Patriots and the Progressive Alliance!

He pauses, his expression sobering slightly as he turns to his co-host.

Johnny Suave: Colleen, I’ve got to ask… last week’s shocking turn of events, with Donald Trump defeating Kamala Harris to become the new CEO of PCW… what are your thoughts?

Colleen’s eyes widen slightly, her professional demeanor slipping for just a moment. She takes a deep breath, struggling to find the right words.

Colleen Crowder: Well, Johnny, it’s certainly been… unexpected. The political landscape of PCW has shifted dramatically, and I think we’re all still processing the implications.

Johnny nods sympathetically, but there’s a glint in his eye. He knows controversy breeds ratings.

Johnny Suave: Indeed, Colleen. It’s been a week of surprises, and I have a feeling tonight’s going to bring even more!

***

Wellness Checks on the Hollywood Elite Johnny Suave leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Johnny Suave: Speaking of surprises, folks, remember all those Hollywood big shots who swore they’d flee the country if Trump won? Well, let’s check in on that mass exodus, shall we?

The screen behind him flickers to life, showing Woodward Bernstein standing in an eerily quiet airport.

Johnny Suave: Woodward, what’s the scene there?

Johnny barely contains his smirk.

Woodward, looking slightly bewildered, responds.

Woodward Bernstein: Johnny, it’s… well, it’s dead here. I’ve been camped out for hours, and I haven’t seen a single celebrity lugging their Louis Vuitton to the private jet terminal. It’s like they’ve all… vanished.

Johnny chuckles.

Johnny Suave: Vanished, huh? Or maybe they’re just hiding under their silk sheets? But wait, there’s more!

He snaps his fingers, and the screen changes to show a windswept Mindy Taylor standing on the iconic White Cliffs of Dover.

Johnny Suave: Mindy, any sign of Bono taking that drive he promised?

Mindy, hair whipping wildly in the wind, shouts over the gale.

Mindy Taylor: Not a peep, Johnny! No sign of any leather-clad Irish rockers plummeting to their doom. Though I did see a rather confused-looking sheep earlier…

Johnny’s grin widens.

Johnny Suave: Well, folks, it seems our celebrity friends are all talk and no action. And speaking of action, wasn’t Rob Reiner supposed to be going up in flames by now?

The screen switches to a panoramic view of Hollywood Boulevard. It’s business as usual – tourists, street performers, but notably devoid of any human bonfires.

Johnny shakes his head in mock disappointment.

Johnny Suave: Tsk, tsk. It appears Mr. Reiner’s fiery passion has… fizzled out.

Johnny Suave: But enough about no-shows,” Johnny continues, his tone shifting. “Let’s check in on some real drama. How are our friends at The View holding up after Trump’s win?

The screen behind him switches to a live feed from The View’s set. What greets the audience is pure chaos. Ana Navarro has Sunny Hostin in a headlock, while Sara Haines is trying to separate them. Alyssa Farah Griffin is cowering under the desk, occasionally peeking out only to duck back down. Meanwhile, Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar sit calmly at opposite ends of the table, sipping coffee and watching the mayhem with exhausted expressions.

Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up.

Johnny Suave: Well, folks, it seems there’s a bit of… shall we say, ‘spirited discussion’ happening over at The View. Who knew daytime TV could be so… extreme?

Colleen Crowder: All right. Let’s get on with it.

Johnny Suave: Stick around, folks – Extreme Election Night 2024, part two, is just getting started!

***

Pulp Fiction Videos: Kathryn Randall Collins and Catherine Cline The screen flickers to life, revealing a dimly lit back room. ‘The Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins leans into the camera, her piercing eyes gleaming with determination.

Kathryn Randall Collins: Catherine Cline, you may have the adoration of those little girls, but at Extreme Election Night, I’ll show them what real power looks like.

Kathryn’s lips curl into a smirk as she continues.

KRC: I’ve analyzed your every move, dissected your strategies. Your so-called championship reign is nothing but a carefully constructed facade.

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper.

KRC: I am the ultimate political operative, and I will dismantle you piece by piece. Your title, your legacy, your influence – it all ends at Extreme Election Night.

The scene abruptly shifts to a brightly lit gymnasium.

Catherine Cline… The Iowa Wunderkind… stands surrounded by cheering young girls, her PCW Women’s Championship belt gleaming on her shoulder. Catherine addresses the camera with a steely gaze.

Catherine Cline: Kathryn, you talk about power, but you’ve forgotten what real strength is.

She high-fives a beaming young fan, her voice rising with passion.

Catherine Cline: It’s not about manipulation or backroom deals. It’s about inspiring the next generation, showing them they can achieve anything.

Catherine’s eyes narrow as she delivers her final words.

Catherine Cline: At Extreme Election Night, I’ll remind you and everyone else why I’m the champion. You may be the ultimate political operative, but I’m the ultimate role model – and that’s a title you’ll never take from me.

The screen fades to black

Meanwhile, back in the broadcast booth, Johnny Suave’s voice drips with sarcasm as there’s breaking news.

***

Breaking News Johnny Suave: Breaking news, folks. Don Lemon, formerly of CNN, has announced he’s leaving ‘X’. I’m sure we’re all devastated.

Suave rolls his eyes.

Johnny Suave: Another day, another drama queen making empty threats.

The screen behind him flickers to life, showing Jimmy Kimmel sobbing into his hands the night after Donald Trump defeated Kamala Harris.

Johnny Suave: And here’s Jimmy Kimmel, crying again. What else is new?

Suave deadpans, his face a mask of indifference as Kimmel’s wails echo through the arena.

Johnny Suave: Let’s go to the ring.

***

MATCH #1-PCW WOMEN’S TITLE: Catherine Cline (IND) © vs. ‘The Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance) The arena erupts as Kimber Marshall’s voice booms through the speakers.

Kimber Marshall: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our first match! It will be one fall for the PCW Women’s Title! Introducing first, the challenger…

A pulsing beat drops, and Kathryn Randall Collins emerges from behind the curtain, her imposing figure silhouetted against flashing blue lights.

Kimber Marshall: She is the ‘Ultimate Political Operative! KATHRYN RANDALL COLLINS!

She raises her fists triumphantly, drinking in the thunderous cheers from the blue-clad section of the crowd.

As KRC stalks down the ramp, Johnny Suave’s voice cuts through the din.

Johnny Suave: Well, Colleen, here comes your girl. Think she’s got what it takes to dethrone the champ?

Colleen scoffs.

Colleen Crowder: Please, Johnny. KRC’s got more political savvy in her pinky than Cline has in her entire corn-fed body.

KRC slides into the ring, her eyes locked on the entrance ramp. The music cuts, and a hush falls over the arena.

Kimber Marshall: And her opponent…

Suddenly, a guitar riff explodes through the speakers, and the crowd erupts as Catherine Cline bursts onto the stage, title belt held high.

Kimber Marshall: She is the reigning PCW WOMEN’S CHAMPION… CATHERINE CLINE!

Cline beams at the sea of adoring faces, her youthful energy radiating through the arena.

Johnny Suave: Now that’s a champion!

Colleen scoffs as Cline high-fives fans as she makes her way to the ring, pausing to snap selfies with young girls wearing “Wunderkind” t-shirts. She slides under the bottom rope, locking eyes with KRC.

Colleen Crowder: Look at that disrespect. Cline should know better than to keep a seasoned operative waiting.

MATCH INFO: On September 21st, Catherine Cline defeated Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance), ‘American Girl’ Sarah Mae Smith (Main Street USA), and ‘Alaskan Rogue’ Sierra Whalen (American Patriots) to become the PCW Women’s Champion. KRC complained that Cline disrespected her because she didn’t defer to her ‘senority’ and should have ‘waited her turn’ before winning the title.

Cline is ‘The Wunderkind from Iowa’ who’s taken PCW by storm. A huge fan favorite.

KEY MOMENT/MATCH FINISH: KRC lunges forward, but Cline ducks under her arm, using her speed to evade the larger woman.

Johnny Suave: Cline’s been playing it smart. She uses that Iowa quickness to stay out of KRC’s grasp.

Minutes tick by as the two trade holds and counters. Suddenly, KRC catches Cline with a vicious clothesline, sending the champion crashing to the mat.

Colleen Crowder: That’s it, KRC! Show her what real political power looks like!

KRC pounces, wrapping her legs around Cline’s head and locking in the gogoplata. Cline’s eyes widen in panic as she struggles to breathe.

KRC screams at the referee, tightening her hold.

Kathryn Randall Collins: Ask her!

Cline’s face contorts in agony, but she shakes her head defiantly. With a burst of strength, she begins inching towards the ropes.

Johnny Suave: Catherine Cline’s in big trouble. Can she get to the ropes?

Cline’s fingers stretch out, barely grazing the bottom rope. The referee calls for a break.

Johnny Suave: She does!

Colleen Crowder: I don’t think so. I didn’t see her touch the rope.

The referee starts the count, but KRC refuses to break the hold.

Johnny Suave: Obviously, the referee does. If KRC doesn’t break the hold, she should be disqualified.

Colleen Crowder: That’s not the narrative we’re pursuing, Johnny. Cline didn’t get the ropes and Collins is going to choke her-

Suddenly, a blur of red, white, and blue streaks down the ramp.

Johnny Suave: WAIT A MINUTE! THAT’S ‘AMERICAN GIRL’ SARAH MAE SMITH!

Sarah Mae Smith slides into the ring, forcibly prying KRC off the gasping champion.

Colleen shrieks.

Colleen Crowder: What the hell? “That’s blatant interference!”

KRC whirls on Smith, fury etched on her face. In that moment of distraction, Cline springs to her feet. She grabs KRC’s shoulder, spinning her around.

Johnny Suave: CLINE CUTTER!

The champion drives KRC’s face into the mat.

Colleen Crowder: NOOOOOOO!

Cline hooks the leg, and the referee’s hand slaps the mat. “One! Two! Three!”

Johnny Suave: SHE DID IT!

Kimber Marshall: Your winner and STILL PCW WOMEN’S CHAMPION… CATHERINE CLINE!

The arena explodes as Cline collapses in relief, clutching her retained title.

Johnny Suave: CATHERINE CLINE DEFEATS KRC AND SHE REMAINS THE PCW WOMEN’S CHAMPION!

KRC rolls out of the ring, seething with rage as she stumbles up the ramp.

Johnny Suave: An incredible victory for the Wunderkind!

Colleen’s voice drips with disdain.

Colleen Crowder: A tainted win, you mean. If it weren’t for that flag-waving interloper…

Johnny Suave: And KRC tried to cheat by not breaking the hold as directed by the referee.

Colleen Crowder: That’s not our narrative.

Johnny Suave: Whatever.

Cline climbs the turnbuckle, raising her title high.

***

‘The View’s’ Whoopi Goldberg Goes to the Concession Stand The camera pans to the concession stand where Whoopi Goldberg stands, tapping her foot impatiently. Her eyes narrow as the harried worker behind the counter fidgets nervously.

Whoopi Goldberg: What do you mean you can’t make my vegan, gluten-free, locally-sourced kale chips?

Whoopi’s voice rose.

Whoopi Goldberg: Is it because I’m a liberal? Because I speak my mind on The View?

The worker, a pimply-faced teen, gulps.

Pimply-Faced Teen: No, ma’am. It’s just… the oven’s broken. We can’t cook anything right now.

Whoopi leans in, her eyes flashing.

Whoopi Goldberg: Oh, I see how it is. Trump wins and suddenly the ovens stop working for people like me. Convenient, isn’t it?

The teen’s eyes widen in panic.

Pimply-Faced Teen: Really, Ms. Goldberg, it’s just a mechanical-

Whoopi Goldberg: Save it.

Whoopi snaps, spinning on her heel. As she storms off, she mutters.

Whoopi Goldberg: First they come for our snacks, then our rights.

***

Pulp Fiction Videos: The Green World Order and Starz N. Stripes/Stone Chism The screen fades to black, then bursts back to life with an explosion of green.

The Green World Order stands before a backdrop of lush forest, their faces set in determination.

‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee steps forward, his lean frame taut with energy.

Brock Cole Lee: Starz N. Stripes, Stone Chism, you claim to be patriots, but what about the planet you’re supposed to protect?

GreenPete chimes in, his muscular arms crossed.

GreenPete: Your so-called American dream is a nightmare for Mother Earth!

PeaceNick raises his hands in a placating gesture.

PeaceNick: We come not to fight, but to educate and enlighten.

Peta, their valet, holds up a sign reading “Save the Earth, Save Yourselves!”

Brock’s voice rises to a crescendo.

Brock Cole Lee: At Extreme Election Night, WE’RE CHANGING EVERYTHING!

Cut to:

The scene shifts again, this time to a star-spangled locker room.

Starz N. Stripes and Stone Chism stand tall, their tag team belts glinting under the lights.

Starz sneers at the camera.

Starz N. Stripes: Change everything? The only thing changing will be the welts on your backs after we’re done with you!

Stone nods grimly.

Stone Chism: You want to save the planet? How about we save it from your misguided eco-terrorism?

They hold their belts high, voices united in a battle cry.

Starz/Stone: At Extreme Election Night, we’ll show you what real American power looks like. And that’s not just a promise – that’s a star-spangled guarantee!

***

Back at The View Back at The View’s set, the rest of the cast stop fighting as Whoopi bursts in, her face a thundercloud.

Sunny Hostin: What is it, Whoopi? What did Donald Trump do now?

Whoopi Goldberg: Can you believe this? They refused to serve me at concessions! Said the oven was broken, but we know what that really means.

Joy Behar gasps dramatically.

Joy Behar: Those fascists! We should boycott!

***

More Breaking News The giant screen above the ring suddenly flashes to life, revealing Don Lemon’s face, larger than life and looking more serious than ever.

Don Lemon: Attention, PCW Universe,

Lemon’s voice echoes through the arena.

Don Lemon: I just want to remind everyone that I am, in fact, leaving ‘X’. This is not a drill. I repeat: I am leaving ‘X’.

Johnny Suave rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head.

Johnny Suave: Let’s go to the ring.

***

MATCH #2-PCW TAG TEAM TITLE: Starz N. Stripes and ‘The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism (American Patriots) © vs. The Green World Order (GreenPete and Brock Cole Lee with Peta from PETA and PeaceNick) The roar of the crowd was deafening as Kimber Marshall stood tall in the center of the ring, basking in the energy and excitement emanating from every seat in the arena.

Johnny Suave: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our next match!

Colleen Crowder rolls her eyes beside him.

Colleen Crowder: Let’s just hope it’s not another scripted disaster like the last match.

As the announcers bantered back and forth, Kimber raises her microphone to address the packed audience.

Kimber Marshall: Our next match will be one fall and it will be for the PCW TAG TEAM TITLE!

The air was charged with electricity as she spoke, the fans on their feet and cheering at full volume.

Kimber Marshall: Introducing the challengers… representing the Progressive Alliance. GreenPete… ‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee… they are THE GREEN WORLD ORDER!

But suddenly, chaos erupted on the entrance ramp as the Green World Order burst onto the scene. The eco-warriors marched towards the ring, chanting and waving their banners high above their heads. Peta, their fierce and passionate representative, immediately spotted a fan eating a burger and launched into a tirade.

Peta from PETA: “How dare you consume the flesh of innocent animals!

She points an accusatory finger at the man who simply flips her off and takes an extra-large bite, causing cheers to erupt from nearby fans who were clearly not on board with the GWO’s message.

Meanwhile, PeaceNick, the calming force of the group, chants “Om mani padme hum” as he made his way towards the ring with a serene smile on his face. Behind him, GreenPete and ‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee strut confidently, basking in the adoration from their die-hard supporters in the blue seats.

Johnny Suave: The challengers look ready to take on the world, Colleen!

Colleen Crowder: As they should be. It’s about time we had some real change around here.

Kimber Marshall: And their opponents, they are the PCW Tag Team Champions, representing the American Patriots… Starz N. Stripes and ‘The One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism!

Just then, Starz N. Stripes and Stone Chism emerge from backstage, waving to their supporters in the stands. The arena erupts in cheers for these true American heroes, their stars and stripes gear shining under the bright lights.

Johnny Suave: Now those are what I call true American heroes!

Colleen scoffs beside him.

Colleen Crowder: Please, they’re nothing but overrated muscle-heads.

Johnny Suave: Here we go.

MATCH INFO: The champions won the title March 3rd in a four-way tag match against The GWO, The Deplorables, and the Sports Entertainment Corporation. However, the GWO defeated Starz and Chism on September 21st and PCW Owner Dawn McGill booked this match for Extreme Election Night 2024.

KEY MOMENT/MATCH FINISH: The audience is on the edge of their seats, fully invested in the intense back-and-forth action.

But suddenly, there is a stir at ringside that steals everyone’s attention.

Johnny Suave: Oh great.

It is Professor McCarthy, wielding his ‘Good Book’ like a weapon, hoisting his ‘good book’ high above his head, its pages rife with dogmatic doctrine and things you should say, think, and believe. He’s followed by his devoted followers Ultimate Social Justice Warrior, Codee Pink, and Emily S. List ready to cause chaos.

Professor McCarthy: If you are not with us, you are against us.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Professor McCarthy: Shout down the American Patriots and anyone who does not conform to the ‘good book’!

McCarthy’s voice is filled with righteous anger. He begins urging his Flock to attack but then, the crowd roars.

Johnny Suave: IT’S THE DEPLORABLES!

Colleen Crowder: What are they doing here?

The Deplorables race from the back and charge down the ramp into the fray. ‘Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay and the ‘Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan move like bulldozers, plowing through McCarthy’s followers with ease.

Johnny Suave: They are shutting down the shouting down, Colleen. That’s what.

In all the chaos, Stone Chism sees his opportunity and seizes it. He lifts GreenPete high into the air before bringing him crashing down with a devastating Hollywood Blockbuster.

Johnny Suave: HOLLYWOOD BLOCKBUSTER!

Colleen Crowder: This evening just gets worse and worse.

At the same time, Starz pounces on GreenPete, locking in both the American Stars and Fujiwara Arm Bar submissions. GreenPete writhes in pain as he desperately tapped out.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the match. Suave jumps to his feet in excitement.

Johnny Suave: They’ve done it! The American Patriots have retained their titles once again!

Kimber Marshall: Your winner and still… PCW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS… STARZ N. STRIPES AND ‘THE ONE MAN HOLLYWOOD A-LIST’ STONE CHISM!

Johnny Suave: With help from the American Heartland Coalition, the American Patriots hold the tag belts.

Meanwhile, Colleen slumps in her chair, muttering under her breath as the victorious team celebrated in the ring.

Colleen Crowder: Typical. Brute force always wins.

***

Yet, More Breaking News Johnny Suave: All right, now-

Before Suave can finish his thought, a harried-looking intern rushes up to the announcer’s table, thrusting a piece of paper into Suave and Colleen’s hands.

Colleen Crowder: What’s this?

Suave skims it and lets out a bark of laughter.

Johnny Suave: Well, folks, in case you missed it the first dozen times…

Colleen adjusts her glasses as she scans the document.

Johnny Suave: It’s a press release from Don Lemon, confirming that he’s leaving ‘X’. Because apparently, the other two announcements weren’t enough.

Colleen’s brow furrows.

Colleen Crowder: Well, Johnny, in today’s fast-paced media landscape, it’s crucial to ensure your message reaches all demographics through multiple channels.

Johnny Suave: Multiple channels? The only channel Lemon needs is the one that leads him out the door.

Colleen’s eyes narrow behind her stylish frames.

Colleen Crowder: That’s rather glib, don’t you think? Lemon’s departure signifies a shift in the media paradigm that-

Johnny Suave: Oh, spare me the Columbia School of Journalism lecture.

As they continue to bicker, a figure in a food service uniform marches purposefully towards the announcer’s table. Suave notices him first, relief washing over his face.

Johnny Suave: Ladies and gentlemen, now we have breaking news from the concession stand!

A frazzled concessions worker, his apron stained with various condiments, stumbles onto the scene, waving a greasy piece of paper. Johnny Suave’s eyebrows shoot up as the man approaches, interrupting the ongoing bickering between him and Colleen.

Frazzled Concessions Worker: Excuse me, Mr. Suave…

The worker pants, thrusting the paper towards Johnny.

Frazzled Concessions Worker: I have an urgent update about the Goldberg situation.

Johnny takes the paper, scanning it quickly. His lips curl into a smirk.

Johnny Suave: Well, well, well. It seems our esteemed colleague Whoopi Goldberg owes the hardworking folks at concessions an apology.

Colleen leans in, her curiosity piqued.

Colleen Crowder: What are you talking about, Johnny?

Johnny Suave: According to this report…

Johnny waves the paper dramatically.

Johnny Suave: …there was indeed a mechanical issue with the oven. Goldberg’s order couldn’t be filled due to faulty equipment, not political persecution.

Colleen’s eyes narrow behind her stylish glasses.

Colleen Crowder: Oh, come on, Johnny. You can’t possibly believe that’s the whole story. In this charged political climate-

Johnny interrupts, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Johnny Suave: Climate? The only climate affecting anything here is the one inside that broken oven. Face it, Colleen, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar… or in this case, a busted appliance is just a busted appliance.

Colleen’s cheeks flush with frustration.

Colleen Crowder: You’re oversimplifying the issue, as usual. There’s always more beneath the surface in these situations.

Johnny Suave: The only thing beneath the surface here is a faulty heating element.

Johnny’s grin widens.

Johnny Suave: But please, enlighten us with your Pulitzer-worthy investigative skills. I’m sure there’s a vast right-wing conspiracy hiding in the kitchen’s circuitry.

As they bicker, a large steel cage lowers from the ceiling.

Johnny Suave: As you can see, we are getting ready for our next match. This match will determine who controls the House.

Colleen Crowder: Seeing as the results have sucked so far, is it too much to ask for the Progressive Alliance to win this?

Johnny Suave: Wait. I thought you were a journalist… fair and impartial.

Colleen begins to respond but instead glares at Johnny.

***

Wellness Check on the Hollywood Elites A a smirk plays at the corners of Johnny Suave’s mouth.

Johnny Suave: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for another Hollywood exodus update!

The big screen flickers to life, showing Woodward Bernstein standing in an eerily empty airport terminal.

Woodward Bernstein: Johnny, I’ve been here for hours. I have to tell you, the only celebrity I’ve seen is the Kardashians’ long-lost cousin twice removed. It’s a ghost town here!

Suave chuckles.

Johnny Suave: Well, isn’t that something? I thought we’d see a mass migration rivaling the Great Wildebeest Crossing. Speaking of wildlife, let’s check in with Mindy at the Cliffs of Dover.

The scene shifts to Mindy Taylor, bundled up against the wind, peering over the edge of the famous white cliffs.

Mindy Taylor: No sign of Bono or his car, Johnny. I’ve been watching these cliffs so long, I’m starting to think I’m the edge U2 hasn’t found yet!

Suave’s eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise.

Johnny Suave: And what about our friend Rob Reiner? Any spontaneous combustion on the streets of Tinseltown?

The camera pans across Hollywood Boulevard, showing nothing but the usual tourists and street performers.

Colleen Crowder makes a sour look.

Colleen Crowder: This is totally unnecessary.

Johnny Suave: Sure it is, we’ll check back again later.

Colleen Crowder: Wonderful.

Johnny Suave: Let’s go back to Kimber Marshall in the ring.

***

MATCH #3-EXTREME HOUSE CAGE MATCH: American Patriots (Jim Jordan (OH), Lauren Boebert (CO), Marjorie Taylor Greene (GA), Chip Roy (TX), and Thomas Massie (KY) vs. Progressive Alliance (Hakeem Jeffries (NY), Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez (NY), Eric Swalwell (CA), Jamie Raskin (MD), and Dan Goldman (NY) As the cage finishes lowering, Kimber Marshall stands at its center, microphone in hand, her presence commanding attention even in this intimidating setting.

Kimber Marshall: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our Extreme House Cage Match!”

The crowd erupts, a sea of red and blue shirts undulating in waves of anticipation.

Kimber Marshall: First, representing the American Patriots…

Kimber pauses for dramatic effect.

Kimber Marshall: Jim Jordan of Ohio! Lauren Boebert of Colorado! Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia! Chip Roy of Texas! And Thomas Massie from Kentucky!

The red-clad section of the arena explodes into cheers as the five emerge on stage. Jim Jordan, ever the wrestler, flexes his biceps while Boebert mimes firing off a round from an imaginary rifle. Greene waves a miniature American flag, Roy pounds his chest, and Massie holds up a copy of the Constitution.

The American Patriots march towards the ring and climb into the cage, each striking a pose for their adoring fans.

Kimber clears her throat.

Kimber Marshall: And now, representing the Progressive Alliance…

The blue section tenses, ready to erupt.

Kimber Marshall: Hakeem Jeffries of New York! Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York! Eric Swalwell of California! Jamie Raskin of Maryland! And Dan Goldman from New York!”

The Progressive Alliance emerges to thunderous applause from their supporters. AOC leads the charge, fist raised high. Jeffries follows, looking determined. Swalwell blows kisses to the crowd, while Raskin and Goldman wave enthusiastically.

The Progressive Alliance enters the cage, squaring off against their opponents. The tension is palpable as both teams eye each other warily.

Over at the announcer’s table, Johnny Suave leans into his microphone.

Johnny Suave: Well, Colleen, looks like we’re in for one hell of a political slugfest. Any predictions?

Colleen adjusts her glasses, a brave smirk playing on her lips.

Colleen Crowder: Oh, Johnny, you know the Progressive Alliance has this in the bag. They’ve got the youth, the energy, and the righteousness of their cause on their side.

Johnny Suave: Don’t count out the American Patriots just yet. They’ve got grit, determination, and a whole lot of red-blooded American spirit.

As the two continue their banter, Kimber exits the cage, leaving the ten competitors to face off in what promises to be an epic battle of political ideologies and wrestling prowess.

The bell clangs and chaos erupts inside the steel cage. Jim Jordan immediately grabs a kendo stick, swinging it wildly at Hakeem Jeffries, who ducks and rolls away.

Johnny Suave: And we’re off! Jordan’s on the warpath already!

Lauren Boebert scales the cage, her boots clanging against the metal. She perches at the top, eyeing Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez below. With a primal scream, Boebert launches herself off, aiming to crash onto AOC.

Johnny Suave: Look out below!

Colleen Crowder: Get out of the way, AOC!

At the last second, Ocasio-Cortez sidesteps. Boebert crashes hard onto the canvas with a sickening thud.

Johnny Suave: Ooh, that’s gonna leave a mark.

Meanwhile, Marjorie Taylor Greene has Eric Swalwell cornered. She grabs a steel chair, raising it high.

Johnny Suave: Greene’s about to introduce Swalwell to some cold, hard steel!

Greene swings, but Swalwell ducks. The chair clangs against the cage, vibrating in Greene’s hands. Swalwell capitalizes, tackling her to the mat.

Colleen Crowder: Yes! Take her down!

“Quite the biased commentary there, Colleen,” Suave remarks dryly.

In another corner, Chip Roy and Jamie Raskin grapple, trading punches. Roy gains the upper hand, Irish whipping Raskin into the ropes. As Raskin bounces back, Roy catches him with a clothesline that flips Raskin head over heels.

Johnny Suave: Raskin just got turned inside out!

The melee continues, bodies flying everywhere. Dan Goldman climbs to the top turnbuckle, eyeing Thomas Massie below, laying on a table after being double-teamed by Swalwell and Jeffries. With a deep breath, Goldman leaps, aiming for a flying elbow drop.

Johnny Suave: Goldman’s going high-risk!

Massie rolls away at the last second. Goldman crashes through a table, splintering wood flying everywhere.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP!

Colleen Crowder: Oh, the humanity!

Crowd: PCW!… PCW!… PCW!…

Johnny Suave: It’s absolute pandemonium in there, folks! This is what an Extreme House Cage Match is all about!

Lauren Boebert seizes a kendo stick, her eyes wild with adrenaline. She swings it at Jamie Raskin, catching him low. As he doubles over, she hooks his head and drives him face-first into the mat with a vicious DDT.

Johnny Suave: DDT BY BOEBERT!

Colleen Crowder: Oh come on, that was a cheap shot!

Colleen Crowder protesting voice is tinged with indignation.

Colleen Crowder: Raskin didn’t even see it coming!

Eric Swalwell, enraged by the attack on his ally, lunges at Boebert. His hands find her throat, and he begins to squeeze.

Colleen Crowder: Look at Swalwell go! He’s defending his teammate like a true Progressive!

Marjorie Taylor Greene spots the altercation and hefts a steel chair. With a primal scream, she brings it crashing down on Swalwell’s back. The impact echoes through the arena.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP!

Crowd: PCW!… PCW!… PCW!…

Swalwell drops to his knees. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez charges across the ring, shoving Greene hard.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez: You keep your hands off him!

AOC’s face is flushed with anger.

Greene stumbles back, then regains her footing. She raises the chair…

Johnny Suave: Here we go!

Colleen Crowder: NOOOOOOO!

…brings down the chair on AOC in return, sending her sprawling into the ropes.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP!

Crowd: PCW!… PCW!… PCW!…

MTG lays the boots into AOC until Jim Jordan steps in between them.

Jim Jordan: We can settle this later. Right now, we need to-

His words are cut short as Hakeem Jeffries spins him around. In a flash, Jeffries’ foot connects with Jordan’s jaw in a devastating superkick.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP! SUPERKICK BY JEFFRIES AND JORDAN’S GOING DOWN!

Colleen Crowder: YES! FINISH HIM!

As Jordan crumples, his unconscious form lands squarely on top of a prone Eric Swalwell.

Johnny Suave: JORDAN FALLS ON SWALWELL. THE REFEREE SLIDES IN.

Colleen Crowder: No, no, no! This can’t be happening!

Chip Roy seizes the opportunity, grabbing Jeffries and hurling him over the top rope and out of the ring. Thomas Massie, seeing Dan Goldman trying to intervene, trips him up, sending him face-first into the turnbuckle.

The referee’s hand slaps the mat. “One! Two! Three!”

Johnny Suave: THAT’S IT!

Colleen Crowder: SON OF A BITCH!

The bell rings again, signaling the end of the match.

Johnny Suave: I DON’T BELIEVE IT! JIM JORDAN PINS ERIC SWALWELL AND THE AMERICAN PATRIOTS MAKE IT A CLEAN SWEEP!

Colleen sits in stunned silence, her mouth agape.

Kimber Marshall: The winners of the Extreme House Cage Match… THE AMERICAN PATRIOTS!

Colleen finally manages to sputter something.

Colleen Crowder: This… this is a travesty. “It’s got to be rigged!

As the American Patriots celebrate their victory, the Progressive Alliance members look on in disbelief, the cage looming over them all like a steel reminder of their defeat.

***

One Last Wellness Check on the Hollywood Elite Later, Suave leans forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Johnny Suave: Time for our final celebrity exodus check-in. Woodward, any last-minute departures?

Woodward appears again, this time lounging in an airport chair.

Woodward Bernstein: Well, Johnny, I did see Eva Longoria buying a one-way ticket to… Spain. Does she count as a Hollywood star?”

Suave snorts.

Johnny Suave: About as much as a participation trophy in the Olympics. Mindy, any cliff-diving action?

Mindy, now sporting a “I Waited for Bono and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” top, shakes her head.

Mindy Taylor: Nothing, Johnny. The only thing going over this cliff is my patience.

Johnny Suave: And Rob Reiner?

The camera shows Hollywood again, this time focusing on a street vendor selling “I Survived Trump’s Re-election and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” merchandise.

Johnny Suave: All right… let’s run down the earlier Extreme Election Night 2024 matches…

***

Extreme Election Night 2024 Full Review -Catherine Cline (Independent) retains the PCW Women’s Title over ‘The Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance) -Starz N. Stripes and ‘The One-Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism (American Patriots) retain the PCW Tag Team Titles over The Green World Order (Progressive Alliance) -The American Patriots defeated The Progressive Alliance in an Extreme House Cage Match -The American Patriots defeated The Progressive Alliance in the Senate 10-person tag team match -Donald Trump w/J.D. Vance (American Patriots) defeated Kamala Harris w/Tim Walz (Progressive Alliance) to become the new CEO of PCW.

Johnny Suave: Okay. It is time for our main event. The PCW Title match. Kimber Marshall?

***

MAIN EVENT-PCW TITLE MATCH: Charlie Blackwell (American Heartland Coalition) © vs. “Mr. Hollywood” Kevin Daniels w/the Skanky Rich Bimbos- Paris and Nicole- and country… pop songstress Taylor Switt The arena erupts with a cacophony of cheers and boos as Kimber Marshall’s voice booms through the speakers.

Kimber Marshall: Ladies and gentlemen, this is your main event of the evening! One fall to a finish, and it is for THE PCW TITLE!

The opening riffs of “Hollywood Nights” blast through the arena as strobe lights flash. ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels emerges from behind the curtain, his perfectly coiffed hair gleaming under the spotlights. He’s flanked by the Skanky Rich Bimbos, Paris and Nicole, their designer dresses leaving little to the imagination, and Taylor Switt, who’s busy taking selfies with her bedazzled phone.

Kimber Marshall: Introducing first, the challenger. Accompanied tonight by the Skanky Rich Bimbos Paris and Nicole and the Country… er… Pop Songstress Taylor Switt. Representing the Progressive Alliance tonight from Beverly Hills, California, weighing in at 220 pounds, ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels!”

Johnny Suave: And what an entrance, Colleen! The Progressive Alliance fans are going wild for their golden boy!

Colleen Crowder: Of course they are, Johnny. Daniels represents everything they aspire to be – rich, famous, and utterly disconnected from reality.

As Daniels struts down the ramp, he blows kisses to the blue-seated fans, who reach out desperately to touch him. He climbs the steps and poses on the turnbuckle, flexing his muscles as the Skanky Rich Bimbos fawn over him.

Suddenly, the opening chords of “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from Les Misérables fill the arena. The American Heartland Coalition section erupts in a thunderous chorus, their voices rising in unison.

Kimber’s voice cuts through the music.

Kimber Marshall: And his opponent, from Dallas, Texas USA, weighing in at 240 pounds, representing the American Heartland Coalition… he is the REIGNING PCW CHAMPION… CHARLIE BLACKWELL!

Charlie Blackwell emerges, the PCW Championship belt gleaming around his waist. He’s accompanied by ‘Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay and the ‘Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan. Blackwell’s face is set in grim determination as he marches towards the ring.

Johnny Suave: Here comes the PCW Champion Charlie Blackwell, Colleen. No frills, no gimmicks, just pure grit and determination.

Colleen scoffs.

Colleen Crowder: Please, Johnny. Blackwell’s just another small-town nobody who got lucky. Daniels is the future of this business.

As Blackwell enters the ring, he locks eyes with Daniels. The tension is palpable, two ideologies clashing in the squared circle. Blackwell raises his championship belt high, a defiant gesture that sends the American Heartland Coalition into a frenzy.

The ref calls for the bell, and the crowd holds its breath, ready for this match to explode into action.

Kevin Daniels launches into action like a Hollywood stuntman, his perfectly manicured fists connecting with Charlie Blackwell’s rugged jaw. The champion’s eyes blaze with fury as he absorbs the blows, his blue-collar pride igniting into an inferno of rage.

Colleen Crowder: Look at Daniels go! He’s showing Blackwell what real star power looks like!

Johnny Suave: Blackwell’s taking those shots, but for how long?

With a roar that echoes through the arena, Blackwell grabs Daniels by his designer trunks and hurls him over the top rope. The self-proclaimed Mr. Hollywood crashes to the floor with a satisfying thud.

Outside the ring, Blackwell unleashes a barrage of fists and kicks, driving Daniels into the guardrail. The crowd’s chants of “PCW! PCW!” fuel his assault.

Colleen Crowder: Would they stop with that chant?

Meanwhile, Ray McAvay and William Daniels Bryan spring into action, unfolding a table at ringside. Blackwell notices and a grim smile crosses his face.

Colleen Crowder: What are those two up to?

Johnny Suave: Looks like they’re setting the stage for some extreme action.

Blackwell drags Daniels to his feet, hoisting him onto his shoulders. With a grunt of effort, he climbs onto the ring apron.

Johnny Suave: Here we go.

Colleen shrieks.

Colleen Crowder: No… no… don’t do it!

But it’s too late. Blackwell leaps, driving Daniels through the table with a thunderous powerbomb. The crash echoes through the arena as splinters fly.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP! Kevin Daniels just got put through that table like a washed-up actor through rehab!

Blackwell, breathing heavily, pulls Daniels’ limp form back into the ring.

Johnny Suave: This is what happens when Hollywood tries to step into Charlie Blackwell’s world.

Colleen Crowder: Why would Hollywood want to be in Charlie Blackwell’s world?

Johnny Suave: Low taxes, for one.

The champion unleashes a series of brutal moves, each impact drawing gasps from the crowd.

Johnny Suave: Charlie Blackwell’s on fire and Kevin Daniels looks utterly spent, his perfect hair now a disheveled mess.

Blackwell charges for his signature running stampede in the corner, but at the last second, Daniels stumbles aside. The champion crashes into the turnbuckle with a sickening thud.

Johnny Suave: NO! DANIELS MOVED!

Colleen cheers.

Colleen Crowder: Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!

Seizing the moment, Daniels musters his strength and throws Blackwell into the opposite corner. He follows up with a Stinger Splash, then drops the champion with a picture-perfect DDT.

Johnny Suave: Kevin Daniels has turned it around!

Daniels covers Blackwell, his face a mask of desperation. The referee’s hand slaps the mat once… twice…

Johnny Suave: NO!

Blackwell kicks out at two, his resilience drawing both cheers and boos from the divided crowd.

Colleen Crowder: So close! Daniels almost had him!

The crowd’s roar reaches a fever pitch as Taylor Switt, the “Country…er…Pop Songstress,” saunters to the edge of the ring. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and sparkly outfit are a stark contrast to the brutality unfolding before her.

Johnny Suave: Look who decided to join the party.

Switt locks eyes with Blackwell, her saccharine smile dripping with malice.

Taylor Switt: Hey, Charlie!

She calls out to Blackwell in a singsong voice.

Taylor Switt: How about a little music to go with your beating?

Blackwell’s eyes narrow. He thinks: I’ve got to keep my focus. This Hollywood entourage won’t distract me from my goal.

But as he turns to confront Switt, Daniels seizes the opportunity. With a burst of energy, he leaps forward, his foot connecting with Blackwell’s jaw in a devastating Superkick.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP! SUPERKICK OUT OF NOWHERE!

Colleen can barely contain her glee.

Colleen Crowder: That’s how it’s done! Daniels just rocked Blackwell’s world!

Johnny Suave: Can Charlie Blackwell… shake it off?

Colleen Crowder: Ha ha. So funny.

Switt does lean over the ropes and taunts Blackwell.

Taylor Switt: That’s right. We are never, ever getting back together.

Johnny Suave: I don’t think she was ever together with Charlie Blackwell.

Colleen Crowder: You know what she means… HOW IS BLACKWELL STILL STANDING?

To everyone’s shock, Blackwell stumbles but remains standing. Daniels, his eyes wide with disbelief, unleashes another Superkick. The impact echoes through the arena.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP! ANOTHER SUPERKICK!

Colleen Crowder: Blackwell’s got to be out!

Johnny Suave: BUT HE’S NOT!

But once again, the champion refuses to fall. Daniels, now visibly frustrated, screams at him.

Kevin Daniels: Why won’t you stay down?!

With a primal roar, he delivers a third Superkick. The crowd holds its breath…

Johnny Suave: NO! BLACKWELL IS STILL ON HIS FEET!

Colleen interjects, her voice tinged with awe and disappointment.

Colleen Crowder: How is this possible? No one could withstand that assault!

Desperate, Daniels grabs Blackwell and whips him towards the corner where Switt stands ready, her guitar raised high.

Johnny Suave: Oh oh. Taylor’s Love Story with Charlie Blackwell is about to end.

But in a stunning reversal, Blackwell uses the momentum to grab Daniels and send him careening into the corner instead.

Colleen Crowder: Oh no.

Switt, unable to stop her swing in time, brings the loaded guitar down on Daniels’ head with a sickening crack. White powder explodes out of the guitar and the crowd gasps as Daniels crumples to the mat.

Johnny Suave: HOLY CRAP! TAYLOR SWITT JUST TOOK OUT HER OWN GUY!

Colleen lets out a loud sigh.

Colleen Crowder: Figures…

Blackwell, seizing the moment, dives to the mat.

Johnny Suave: KATAHAJIME!

Blackwell locks in the Katahajime. Daniels, dazed and weakened, has no defense against the devastating submission hold.

Johnny Suave: Blackwell’s got the Katahajime locked in tight!

Daniels’ struggles grow weaker until finally, his body goes limp. The referee checks his arm once, twice, three times before calling for the bell.

Johnny Suave: BLACKWELL RETAINS!

The arena erupts as Blackwell retains his title, leaving Daniels unconscious in the ring and Switt looking on in horror at the unintended consequences of her interference.

Kimber Marshall: Your winner and STILL… PCW CHAMPION… CHARLIE BLACKWELL!

A quick look at the blue seats… empty.

Johnny Suave: Charlie Blackwell caps off what’s been a dominating Extreme Election Night 2024 for the American Patriots and the American Heartland Coalition.

The camera cuts to Suave and Colleen. Suave’s excited after a great show. Colleen looks like she wants to show up.

Johnny Suave: Any last thoughts, Colleen?

Colleen shakes her head no.

Colleen Crowder: Other than tonight was a complete disaster for the Progressive Alliance and the mainstream, legacy media… no.

Johnny Suave: All right. That’s going to do it for tonight. For Colleen Crowder…

Colleen Crowder: Is there a bar nearby?

Johnny Suave: …I am Johnny Suave. Good night everyone!

RESULTS: PCW Extreme Election Night 2024-Night Two: -PCW WOMEN’S TITLE: Catherine Cline (IND) © defeated ‘The Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance)

-PCW TAG TEAM TITLE: ‘The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism and Starz N. Stripes (American Patriots) © defeated The Green World Order (‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee and GreenPete w/PeaceNick and Peta from PETA) (Progressive Alliance)

-EXTREME HOUSE MATCH: American Patriots (Jim Jordan (OH), Lauren Boebert (CO), Marjorie Taylor Greene (GA), Chip Roy (TX), and Thomas Massie (KY) defeated Progressive Alliance (Hakeem Jeffries (NY), Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez (NY), Eric Swalwell (CA), Jamie Raskin (MD), and Dan Goldman (NY)

-PCW TITLE: Charlie Blackwell (American Heartland Coalition) © defeated ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels (Progressive Alliance)

The chorus of Amy Grant’s “Turn This World Around” plays as the show ends.

“Maybe one day We can turn and face our fears Maybe one day We can reach out through the tears After all it’s really not that far To where hope can be found Maybe one day We can turn this world around...”

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ardenssolis · 3 months ago

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continued from [ x ] || @blackhardtt

DESPITE HOW HIS FATHER had been gone for years, Ozymandias was still attempting to solidify his control as a ruler. Six years was hardly anything in terms of experience to established kings. Those first initial years were what was most important, thus he spent the majority of his time attempting to form alliances with others, as well as trying to alleviate whatever unease older officials might have about the direction of the kingdom. A transference of power was, after all, always met with some form of wariness. It was to be expected. All Ozymandias needed to do was further prove himself until all those uncertainties became distant memories not worth recalling. Who better to reach out to than the Kingdom and Indore now that it had a new ruler as well? The tyrannical king of the region was gone, and with it, any potential threat that it might have caused also seemed abysmal…or so he liked to think. He needed to further observe King Cyrus himself in order to get a better picture of whether it was trustworthy, or whether he needed to keep a close eye on its movements.

How surprising it was, that Cyrus had accepted his invitation to see his kingdom. He had expected him to be much like his father had been – preferring that other rulers see him; not the other way around. A good sign, if anything. It was even better that when he arrived, that he was extremely personable and polite. Now, Ozymandias only needed to gauge intentions, and seek out any cunning attempts at manipulating him with honeyed words. Making his way over to the other man, he chuckled softly, pleased with the polite bow in greeting as he came to stand beside them by the balcony (noting, again, just how large the other was in comparison to himself). ❝Ah, yes, it has been especially lively today. A festival is taking place, so that’s why it is even more vibrant than usual. You came to visit at a good time.❞ The other’s latter words, though quiet, were noted. Surprise flickered for a moment within those golden eyes as they shifted from the joyous sight below, to Cyrus once more.

Hmm…a most curious statement.

Since he had first met the other king, he had been attempting to figure them out. Those who approached him with arms extended and mirth in their gaze were the ones who needed to be watched. He knew this game well. There were often always ulterior motives behind such gestures. However, he had a hard time finding anything suspicious from Cyrus. He seemed…rather open, really. Not once had Ozymandias sensed any deception from him. It was bizarre for a man like him who was always on guard, always one step ahead of someone else. At first, he assumed that the other was merely skilled at knowing just what to say to put another at ease so that they could chip away at defenses bit by bit. It was just that the longer he was around the other, the more he was beginning to question whether his thoughts were more or less wrought from wariness than learned fact. ❝You honor me with your praise. I have heard that your kingdom is magnificent as well. Tell me, what is your kingdom like? I only know some things from books, or from the occasional merchant's tale. However, such things are better heard from one who lives there.❞

#blackhardtt #;v: golden kingdom #;;au (fantasy)#;mini #[This is perfect! Thank you ///////]

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ourneverendingpossibilities · 4 years ago

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Amnesia (2/2)

Anime: Bleach Pairing: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques x reader Rating: M (For language and implied themes) A/N: So here’s the second part!! If I had the patience, it would’ve been one long fic like I had intended.. But my brain was not working and I wanted to post the first half.. I love when my brain does these things... Anyway, I hope you all like! Can also be found on my AO3! Merry Christmas @oi-taigaaaaa ! __________________

The desert sands brush against her bare skin.. Her clothing was tattered around her, and she clung to herself as if she could shield some of the pain. The mask on her face was broken in places it shouldn't have been, but she didn't have the energy to heal herself... Better yet, she couldn't, because she was currently under attack. Why couldn't she defend herself better? What kind of life did she live before becoming this...??

_____ was at a loss for words..

It wasn't until she felt another presence, one that was strong, but warm, did she even attempt to lift her head. But her eyes remained closed, scared to open in fear of what she would see... Why was she here?? Stuck in purgatory without a companion...?

"Oi.... You're not dead, are you?"

The voice, distorted but warm, oh so very warm, made ____ open her eyes.. She was greeted by another arrancar... But he was the shape of a panther... A gorgeous, beautiful panther... His muzzle was covered in blood, and she turns to look at the other creature, dead and lifeless.. Her eyes immediately return to the being in front of her, and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out....

"Do you have a name, or am I just going to abandon you here?"

She doesn't understand why this being is interested in her, or why he feels so familiar... But she swallows the lump in her throat, letting her arm fall beside her. She feels she can let her guard down a little; he hasn't finished her off yet.

"_-____." she murmurs, meeting those fierce blue hues head on. He moves closer to her, and takes a sniff, causing ____ to flush a little.. Well, stiffen is the accurate description. "W....What are you-?"

"Good... You're not weak." he states, nudging her arm before turning around. He sits in front of her, tail swishing in the sand as he keeps an eye out for any hollows who dare attack. "Heal yourself, girl... Then eat the rest of the hollow and prove your worth to me... Otherwise, I'll kill you and devour you myself."

____ didn't understand why this... Panther hollow would want her to stay with him... But she can only nod her head, realizing he can't see and begins to heal herself. She moves to the dead hollow, about to take a bite when she looks at his face, a curious expression hidden behind her ox mask.

"What's your name... Arrancar? If I'm to pledge my alliance to you, I need to know what to call you."

He lets out a snort of sorts, casting her one last glance, before staring straight ahead.

"Grimmjow... Grimmjow Jaegerjaques."

She swallows the lump in her throat, ignoring the longing emotion clinging to her... She thinks she may know this arrancar in another life... But her memories are hazy, and trying to think about it only causes her pain... She finishes off the hollow, cleaning her face of the blood as she bows beside him, resting a hand on her chest.

"I look forward to serving you... Grimmjow-sama."

___________________

She feels herself roll out of bed, rubbing the back of her head as it hits the ground... What the hell?? Is she a child waking up from a bad nightmare?? She finds herself leaning against the mattress, resting her head against the edge as she lets out a sigh... Grimmjow.... The dream, she had called a panther like hollow, "Grimmjow"... That can't be the same Grimmjow that manhandled her the other day...

Could it?

She rubs her face, trying to understand why he was so angry.... Why he would blame Ichigo for her not knowing who he was?? She never saw that man in her life!! Even if she has met him before, and knew him...

Someone as handsome as him could NEVER be forgotten...

Her cheeks flare up, and she lets out an irritated groan... Right... Ever since she has been in Urahara's care, her hollow emotions have started to take shape in the form of human emotions... Things she shouldn't feel when she was an Arrancar, like sadness, and guilt, are now things she's experiencing... She hates it... Just wants to return to her arrancar ways of feeling nothing.

But she's always felt something.

Otherwise, she couldn't heal... And not many arrancars of Aizen's army had that power. But she did... And yet, he never used her powers.. Because he didn't know she had them. He never got the chance to find out. She just can't remember why; and it continues to haunt her. Her time in Hueco Mundo was long, but she finds that there are memories she doesn't remember, things she should know, but doesn't. She's asked Urahara what Grimmjow was talking about after he left. But she wasn't given an answer, and he'd sent her on an errand with Orihime, leaving her confused and empty.

Grimmjow....

Why does that name continue to haunt her, and why does she feel he was the piece she was missing?

__________________________

"Grimmjow-sama?"

He lets out a grunt; as if telling her he was listening. His head is resting in her lap, and they're laying together curled around a fire she made during these chilly nights.

"Why did you let me live ? You could've killed me and continued on your path to becoming a Vasto Lorde."

His ears flicker, and his eyes open slightly, staring down at the white sand. His paw shifts, and his attention remains on the fire, but he knows she's waiting for an answer. Why did he leave her alive?? It would've been simple to just finish her off and continue on without a companion... and yet; she's here with him, keeping him company during these dreary and barren times...

"The path to being a Vasto Lorde is a long one, and I decided you were worth keeping alive..." he states lazily, closing his eyes once more. "Besides, you didn't want to die. And I'm not one for killing those who have fight left in them, but aren't at full strength."

He hears the hitch in her breath, before a light rumble vibrates under his chin. He opens an eye, and looks up to see her stifling a laugh... How dare she laugh?

"What's so funny?!"

She shakes her head, turning her eyes to look at him, gently stroking his cheek, "I didn't think you were a beast who understood what it means to fight on equal grounds.."

He startles her by knocking her on her back, blue hues glinting in the fire as he sneers at her. His paws pin her down, and his tail swishes, licking his lips at their position. He's the one in control.

"You dare to challenge me, princess??" he grumbles, pressing his weight on her. He hears the gasp, but focuses on her face, watching the way her cheeks change colour under that mask.. Tch... "You owe your life to me... And one day, I'll make sure you remember that..."

He blinks when she smiles at him, using what strength she has to wrap her arms around him. "It doesn't matter what you do to me, Grimmjow-sama... I'll always pledge my life to you... I'd even die for you."

His reiatsu grows darker, and he growls in his chest, moving to bite her neck. He hears the gasp, her body clinging to him as he delves his teeth into her skin. His face goes to her ear, and he growls;

"You're mine _____... and I won't let you die for me."

He looks at her face, seeing her eyes widen in understanding. He watches her neck move as she swallows, before she buries her face in his cheek, holding him close.

"I belong to Grimmjow-sama... And I won't leave you behind."

He lets out a snort, as if agreeing, before picking her up by the scruff of her cloak with his teeth, carrying her to the small cave they call "home".

_____________________

He's waiting for that shithead shinigami to return home. In the back of his mind, Grimmjow could've just met him at his school, caused a scene there... But he didn't want to risk bringing _____ into it. And he knows, she'd step in if only to protect that bastard. It still makes his blood boil.

How dare he steal ____ from him? Kurosaki isn't good enough... He's a fucking weak human! He couldn't give ____ what she needs.. What she desires.. He's always filled that role, and he'll refuse to have her be stolen from him. Especially from a piece of shit like him.

"What do you want Grimmjow? I'm not in the mood."

He rolls his eyes, "Tch. I don't give a shit if you're in the mood or not... You're going to fight me." he starts, pulling Pantera from its sheath. "Or I'll go after that Orihime chick, and make you attack me."

The smirk grows when Ichigo presses the crest against his chest. He's now in his Shinigami form, and jumps at him... What an idiot, an open book. And Grimmjow is happy to tear pages from it, one by one.

Let the fun and blood begin.

______________________

_____ feels the fight before Orihime pauses their training. Both their faces express the same concern, and although the words are stuck in her throat, _____ is thankful for Orihime understanding the look in her eyes. She doesn't return to her gigai, opting to stay in her Arrancar form. Her powers have stablized now, and she's able to control them better without needing it, and it would be too much of a hassle to get back in. Instead of waiting for Orihime to get ready, ____ finds her legs running up the ladder of her own accord, and her body runs to where the reiatsus are clashing, sending shivers down her spine.

Why does the second one feel as if it's calling out for her?

Her eyes narrow as the worry creases on her face.

'Grimmjow'.

______________________

"_____-chan, I hope you're adjusting to being Grimmjow's fraccion."

Aizen's voice was smooth, silky and firm. She tries to hide the tremble of his reiatsu, eyes on his as she nods her head in slight unease.

"Y....Yes..." she stutters, bowing her head, "He's been treating me well.."

Silence lingers, before he nods his head, a smile on his face. "That's good... Let me know if he ever tries to hurt you.. I'll deal with him myself."

A shudder runs down her spine, and she bites her lip, before swallowing the lump in her throat. "....Y...Yes, Aizen-sama..."

She then leaves the room, finding herself able to breathe easier once she was away from him. She feels his reiatsu spike, and immediately her feet take off towards him. She never likes making him wait, because since their transformation, Grimmjow has become more... brash, and destructive... A part of her died when she realized he wasn't entirely the same person... But then again, perhaps he's always been thirsty for blood and mayhem... She just never noticed until now.

She's jarred from her thoughts when she runs right into his chest, almost falling on her butt in surprise. His hand rests on her back, holding her up as he swiftly gathers her in his arms, using sonido to carry her back to his quarters. She feels dizzy at the movement, but before she can process anything, or her surroundings, his mouth is on hers, rough and dominating. He pins her arms to the wall, using items she didn't know he acquired, but her mind was too focused on his taste, his scent.. Wanting to just feel his warmth around her..

Oh how she wishes she can touch him.

"Did he touch you?"

The words are dark, rough, and brings ____ from her thoughts, opening her eyes to meet his. Blue hues dark, full of passion, anger and something else she can't place... And she starts to sweat... His reiatsu is starting to suffocate her, and although she wants to reply to him, she's out of breath, and her mind is racing from the struggle of trying to breathe..

"Answer me, Princess..." he growls, moving to bite her neck, "Did. He. Touch. You?"

"N....No!" She whimpers, trying to wriggle out of her restraints. He put pressure on her body, and he makes her look at him, a gasp leaving her lips.

"G...Grimmjow.... I... I belong to you... and you alone... I wouldn't let anyone else touch me."

'Not the way you do.'

She hopes her eyes communicate her thoughts, and he seems to be silent, assessing her current state. His eyes are hiding something, but it's gone the moment she blinks, and she whimpers when he moves to nip at her cheek, a hand rubbing her sides.

"Good. You're such a good girl, ______." he murmurs, eyes narrowing as he smirks against her skin. "Now... Let me reward you... My Princess..."

________________________

_____ reaches the fight, gasping when she sees the sight before her. Ichigo has donned his hollow mask, and Grimmjow is in his released form... The white and blue flash in front of her, and she feels her body shudder, nearly collapsing at the overwhelming energy... She doesn't know what's going on, or why her body is reacting this way. But she feels sick, dizzy from the flashes in her mind.

The rare smiles. The frown when he's concentrating. The snarls when he's angry. The look of pleasure when they both reach their peaks.

Her hand clutches her chest, and she's kneeling on the ground, whimpers escaping her lips. She can't breathe... She's sinking fast, and she can't find the strength to climb back out of the water. The sound of a crash echoes in her brain, and her head snaps up, searching for the explosion. When she spots it, she sees a bloodied Grimmjow laying in the crater. On instinct, her body begins to run, and her eyes are only on him..

Her master... Her lover... Her companion...

"Grimmjow-sama!!"

__________________________

Fuck his life. How the hell did that bastard get so much stronger in the time they last fought? It's not like Orihime is around to cry for him to stop... He hasn't even threatened her in front of him... Well... He did use it as bait to lure him into a fight...

But he understands why when he feels her reiatsu heading right for them.

Shit... _____ figured out he was here... She knew he was fighting with Kurosaki... She was going to come and defend that bastard... AGAIN. The feeling of betrayal began to claw at his gut, and he growled, doing everything in his power to overtake the bastard. But it seems he saw every move coming... It was as if he became predictable in his attacks, and he was left fending off attacks rather than being the attacker.

He coughed, letting out a grunt as he watched the bastard charge up one last Getsuga Tenshou... Heh... So he was that angry he wanted him dead? Well now... He deserves it... After all, he was the one who forced him into a fight... Must have caught him in a bad mood... Grimmjow couldn't find the energy to sit up, but he managed anyway, feeling his body revert back to normal. He was leaning on Pantera, panting and wincing at the pain...

But his body shook the moment he heard her voice....

"Grimmjow-sama!!!"

With wide eyes, he turns his head to see her running at him. Tch. Her face was ugly with those tears and worry. But it was all directed at him. FOR him. And he feels his body shake... What a time for her to remember who he was, right as he was about to be defeated... But he heard Pantera roar, and he felt Kurosaki release the attack before he realized his mistake...

____ jumped at him, knocking him on his back as she tried to shield the blast for him...

She was going to DIE for him... And he couldn't find the strength to move Pantera...

He finds the strength to crush her to his chest, flipping her under his body so he'd be shielding her from it. The heat was starting to close in on them, and if anyone was going to die, it would be HIM for HER.

Suddenly, there's a glow engulfing them, and his eyes widen, watching as Orihime runs at them, protecting them from the attack... He doesn't understand why she did it... But he sees the determination in her eyes, and feels the concern and unease rolling from Kurosaki as he lands on the ground and runs to them.

"I...Inoue!! W... Why did you do that? You could've been killed!"

Her attention remains on the Espada and Arrancar beneath him, her eyes filled with worry for her friend. She brings down the shield and starts to heal Grimmjow's injuries without his consent, attention on the girl in his arms, clinging to him.

"You weren't going to kill me, Kurosaki-kun... Because I could sense that your attack was weaker when you saw ____-chan try to shield Grimmjow." she explains, directing her attention to him, "You weren't going to kill him from the start... You just wanted him to know you were stronger..."

"It was STILL reckless, Inoue!!!" He scolds, moving to rest his hands on her arms, brown hues filled with worry. "Don't you ever try to shield one of my attacks again!! I... I couldn't forgive myself if I hurt you...."

If Grimmjow was in his normal state of mind, he would've thrown up at the grossness in front of him. But his attention was on the Arrancar in his arms, clinging to him as if she was scared to let go. It seems the two humans are busy with each other to notice them, and he feels a drop in his stomach when ____ pulls away briefly to stare into his eyes... He cups her cheek in the palm of his hand, clicking his tongue softly.

"Stop crying, Princess... It makes you look weak."

He watches the way her cheeks puff up, anger swelling in her eyes before she punches his chest. "Y....You're the one to talk!!" She starts, grabbing his cheek in the same manner as him, "Y...You're the one who was broken at me forgetting who you were!"

He growls, eyes narrowing, "Watch how you talk to me, _____... I won't go easy on you... I told you... I'd make you remember that you owe your life to me..." he smirks, dragging his hand down her sides, sneaking it under her uniform. "Don't think I've forgotten that."

She shudders, and his eyes darken at her actions, watching her beneath blue hair. "M...Maybe I should've let Ichigo kill you.." She mumbles, feeling his reiatsu spike at her words.

"Oh... You're going to pay for that _____-chan...." he whispers, biting her neck. She has to stifle the mewl, a hand reaching up to grab his ear, "I'll make sure by the end of it, you remember just WHO you belong to... And who you're loyal to."

She feels her eyes soften, and _____ moves to kiss his cheek, ignoring the looks from the two humans... "Not if I can embarrass you in front of them first." She winks, before jumping out of his arms and takes off with Sonido...

His eyes widen at her words, but a smirk curls on his lips, clicking his tongue... Well... She has some nerve... But the chase is what makes it fun, and ____ has always made things fun and entertaining... He looks at the two humans, stretching his arms.

"Thanks for healing me, woman.." he mumbles, "And for looking after _____ during her stay." He ignores the gasp from her, before glaring at the orangette, "I'll be back for my rematch... And this time, I'll make sure you don't hurt _____... Otherwise I'll hack you to pieces."

He doesn't wait around any longer, vanishing before their eyes, chasing after the one person who's always stayed with him.

His lover, his companion, his mate.

#bleach imagines #bleach scenarios #Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez #grimmjow x reader #for senpai!#honestly I hope I kept Grimmjow in character LOL #That was my biggest concern #But I think this is how he'd react

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mymedicine · 4 years ago

Text

Stardust

~7k of sweet fluff & painful angst w jazz singer harry

moodboard

sum - y/n reflects on her own insecurities, the nuances of her shitty job, and her past relationship with the most popular vocalist at the club while watching him perform.

warnings - alcohol, angst, swearing, self-deprecation, misogyny/workplace sexual harassment (it’s pretty light, relatively speaking, but I don’t want to undermine how wrong any and all harassment is, not matter how seemingly minor), excessive use of italics and the word “belong”

notes - this is inspired in part by the several years i spent singing in a jazz group, wherein i had to learn about 382404 jazz standards. Stardust is one of my all time favorites! anyways this is maybe a little different than a typical one shot, but i hope you like it anyways as i worked very hard on her :’)

“Didn’t you have a thing with him a while back?”

“What?” Taken aback, Y/N snapped her eyes open wide. Just the words brought a shiver down her spine and a nagging twist in her heart. “No…we uh…we almost…” She stammered hastily, herself not even knowing where the sentence was going. How could she even begin to explain their relationship?

“Almost..?”

“Yeah,” Y/N sighed, trying in vain to hide the longing in her voice. “Almost.”

The club was busy tonight, as it always was when its star vocalist was performing. The Fine Line had hosted hundreds of local artists in the seven years since its opening, but only one had managed to bring his show anywhere outside its four brick walls. Harry Styles had gone above and beyond, in fact. And now that he’d been picked up by a renowned pianist and the pair had and toured around the country together, his presence in the tiny club was rare delight. Never one to forget his roots, Harry was fulfilling his vow to return to the club that kickstarted his rise to stardom every year.

“Well, lots of people would be very happy to have ‘almost’…” she gave Y/N a pointed look, “…that beautiful man.”

Y/N knew Sarah meant well, but the words tightened the soreness she was feeling in her chest. Of course he was beautiful. It was blatantly obvious to everyone who laid eyes on his delicate chocolate curls, charming green eyes, and bright crinkly smile. But Y/N didn’t just see him; she knew him. And she knew he was just as beautiful on the inside.

“It was complicated.”

An understatement. Not a lie. No more lies.

Y/N moved her arm away from the bar as Sarah swiped a wet rag on the counter where she’d been leaning. It hardly mattered, Y/N reckoned. The bar would be stained with watered-down scotch and lukewarm Prosecco spilled by the hands of rich and poor alike mere minutes after the club opened for the night, and Sarah’d have to clean it all over again. Still, Y/N kind of envied the bartender. Sarah had a safe place behind the bar to stay busy in all night, away from too many hungry, unwanted gazes. Not only that, but it would be so much easier to avoid the stage (or rather, the man performing on it) if she didn’t have to deal with the rowdy patrons seated in the front row.

“Complicated?” Sarah repeated with a mischievous tone and that same pointed stare.

“Are you single?” she’d asked when a jolt of confidence suddenly hit her. Alcohol-induced confidence, of course. Her shift had been over for a half hour and John had yet to declare last call.

“Yes, well…it’s sort of complicated.” he’d replied, whiskey coursing through his own veins.

“Complicated how?”

“I just…” He trailed off and looked away from her as if searching for the right words, eyes gazing thoughtfully at the few patrons who were still lingering after his set “…consider myself married to my job…”

“In that case, I consider myself twice divorced and scorned.”

He chuckled, returning his eyes to meet hers from where he was perched on the barstool beside her. “That bad being a waitress? At least you got a show from an outstanding vocalist.”

“What vocalist is tha? I’m only here for the pianist,” she teased, nodding her head in the direction of where Mitch was chatting with a group of immaculately dressed, heavily made up women. Too made up, Y/N thought. The Fine Line was a humble hole in the wall jazz club where anyone could get cheap drinks and decent entertainment, not the goddamn opera house. She refused to consider that the reason for her hostility toward their appearances could be anything other than that. She wasn’t jealous—they were pretentious, overly obsessed rich girls who fawned over anyone with talent or wealth. Harry and Mitch, of course, had both.

Her irritation melted away as Harry laughed again, the sound somehow even sweeter to her than the dulcet singing for which he’d become famous.

“Yes, Sar.” Y/N crossed her arms, subconsciously moving her body away from the stools in front of the bar and the memories they held. How could she explain their relationship?—Well, it seems she couldn’t.

Sensing her friend’s unease, Sarah let the issue go. “Well, at least you’ll be getting nice tips tonight,” she said diplomatically. “You look extra pretty and ’s gonna be packed.”

Yes, one reason Y/N had meticulously ironed her black tea-length skirt and cream blouse (even though they’d both be covered by her apron), applied a smooth, thin line of eyeliner, and stuffed an emergency tube of glossy lipstick in her brassiere was in anticipation of the club being crowded with plenty of older men whose generosity depended upon her appearance as much as the quality of her service. An omission. Not a lie.

“Thanks.” Y/N smiled stiffly, “Hope it’s worth it.”

Complicated indeed.

Despite her mild annoyance and the growing ache in her heart, Y/N felt a surge of gratitude for Sarah. Before she took over for John a few months ago, Y/N had struggled to befriend any of the other staff at the club. The other waitresses were nice enough, but Y/N just didn’t have the energy to initiate any sort of friendship. The weight of her lost lover, her financial struggles, her personal unhappiness…it was too much to unload on a meaningless workplace friendship.

With Sarah, it was easy. Her alliance didn’t require any work or thought or feeling. She was easy to talk to and even easier to absently listen to as she talked Y/N’s ear off. Whether intended to take Y/N’s mind off her inevitable confrontation with her past or not, Sarah’s rambling was a welcome distraction. She prattled about the poor quality of the alcohol, her disbelief at the outrageous prices they charged, how “fucking freezing” it was outside, how she was excited to gush over the women’s outfits for the night, how insufferable their manager was, and how she hoped Harry’s pianist was as amiable as he was talented and handsome (and that she’d even be able to speak to him in order to find out).

Y/N eyed the clock above the bar as Sarah continued chattering and swiping a rag over each pint glass. The hands seemed to move faster than usual—far too fast for comfort. They were less than fifteen minutes shy of opening, which meant there was more than likely a line forming outside and that the man of the hour had already arrived.

He’d have come through the back door and sat himself in the makeshift dressing room back there, probably having some tea with honey and trying to stop himself from babbling to Mitch, knowing it killed his voice. Y/N wondered absently what he was wearing. She pictured him in a flashy suit with his hair tousled and messy, maybe some of his favorite clunky rings adorning his fingers. Her heart squeezed impossibly and though she knew he wouldn’t be in the dining room just yet, she shivered at the thought of his eyes on her, his hands on her, his voice in her ears.

She tried to busy herself with watching Sarah clean, but she couldn’t help her eyes from glancing at the clock. She fidgeted in her barstool, drumming her fingers on the counter as the minute hand completed yet another rotation.

At six fifty-three Y/N couldn’t take it anymore so she bid Sarah farewell and made deliberately slow work of walking to the ladies room. But of course, she couldn’t help but notice that there was a clock in there too. She fished out her lipstick, desperate for something to do. Still, her eyes flicked up to where it hung above the mirror and her unsteady fingers stained her chin with the pink gloss. She begged the clock to slow down—no where near ready for work. Would she ever be ready to return to the club knowing she’d be sharing the space with her past lover?

Six fifty-seven… She wiped her chin with the pad of her thumb…Fifty-eight…She smoothed the non-existent wrinkles on her apron…fifty-nine…

Time.

Seven o’clock. The Fine Line’s doors opened and hostesses ushered the eager guests inside. A warm din quickly filled the room as patrons flooded in, greeting the staff and chatting to each other. Y/N merely watched from the side of the bar as the happy, well-dressed people sat at bar tables, corner booths, and even couches near the stage where it was cozy and intimate. Behind the bar, Sarah was already serving the more eager customers and chatting with them effortlessly about their outfits and the weather. Y/N felt a surge of disappointment—no, anger at herself for being so useless. He wasn’t even in the room and yet, he affected her every move.

Finally at seven oh seven, Y/N plucked up the courage to pell herself away from safety and actually do her job. Encouraged by the icy glare her manager, Robert, was sending her, she plastered a fake smile on her cheeks and sauntered over to the back corner of the room to greet her tables before taking their drink orders. Prosecco, house cabernet, whiskey neat, water with lemon—all so predictable and bland.

At seven twelve, Harry took the stage.

She caught sight of him just as she was setting down the glass of iced water with lemon. The older woman who’d ordered the drink thanked her kindly, but her attention was elsewhere. Harry was anything but bland—this she of course already knew, but the sight of his handsome figure after so long nearly made her drop the glass.

Needing no introduction, he and his pianist sauntered into the spotlight seemingly from out of nowhere. Y/N watched helplessly from the back of the room as cheers erupted from the crowd almost immediately. She could only see glimpses of him through the shadowy backs of her patrons’ heads, and still, he was an absolute wonder to behold. He was shimmering head to toe in a glittery black and gold blazer with tight pants and shiny black shoes. Y/N couldn’t tell from where she was frozen whether he was wearing rings or any other jewelry, but she wouldn’t doubt it—even his hair seemed to be dancing with sparkle.

Y/N managed to escape her daze as Harry effortlessly took his place in front of the piano—center stage, right where he belonged. He stood behind the microphone, his bright smile partially concealed by the mouth of it. Even before he said a word, his confident stature and striking outfit accompanied by Mitch’s smooth fluttering of the ivory keys captivated the room. The cheers from the crowd roared louder, the sounds of clinking glasses and high-pitched whistles making his smile grow impossibly bigger.

Meanwhile, Y/N retreated back to the corner of the bar to…hide? To sulk? She wasn’t sure, but she leaned on the counter anyways and surveyed the room. Was this where she belonged?

“Good evening, my friends,” He murmured into the microphone, immediately silencing the room with his low voice and thick, alluring accent. Wide eyes and glowing smiles greeted him from every corner. He glanced around the room, taking in the dark faces and familiar cozy atmosphere of the club he’d grown up singing in—looking for something (or rather, someone).

“I’m Harry Styles…” He paused, smiling wide and shutting his eyes to let the soft piano chords wash over himself and the dining room. Mitch looked up from the keys at his friend and returned the relaxed grin. “And this is the incredibly talented Mitch Rowland…” Harry continued, “We’re gonna play some jazz tunes for you tonight. Please sit back, relax, have a drink or two. We’re all here for a good time.”

He gave Mitch a slow, confident nod, and so began their set.

Even with a narrow, partially obstructed view of him, it was exceedingly obvious to Y/N that Harry had outgrown The Fine Line. His voice cascaded off the stage, flooding the room and engulfing everyone in it. He improvised effortlessly, as if music was his native language rather than English. It was evident that he understood the difference between art and artistry. Art existed for sake of the audience, but the latter existed within the creator himself. He was a vessel through which artistry flowed and pictures were sketched without any paint, stories told without any words. It was a gift granted upon people like Harry, whose purpose on Earth was to share it.

He was smooth jazz personified, the epitome of serenity with a touch of spunk evident in his glittery outfit and playful tone. He managed to strike the perfect balance between traditional jazz and contemporary funk, booming forte and soft pianissimo, bubbly disposition and mellow temperament, relaxed and chaotic, carefree and attentive—it was precisely why the world loved him so much.

Y/N watched fondly as he reached up to hold the mouth of the microphone, and there it was—a glint of metal catching the light. His H ring was big and clunky around his finger, but still strikingly beautiful against the dim spotlight and his painted nails.

“My hands are cold.”

“Yeah? Should I warm ‘em up f’you?”

Suddenly his hand had engulfed hers. Just like that, they were holding hands. Y/N felt her heart threatening to leap out of her chest. His calloused, ring-clad fingers around hers sent waves of warmth through her palm, her forearm, her chest, the feeling so physically overwhelming that she stopped walking.

He followed her lead, turning to face her and take her other hand in his free one.

She couldn’t see much of his face in the darkness, but the stars cast a delicate glow on his prominent features. She could make out the outline of his crooked nose, his sharp cheekbones, his bunny teeth toying with his bottom lip.

“Hah,” he mused. “Knew you just wanted ta hold my hand.”

An icy wind ripped through her. She squeezed his hands a little tighter, ignoring the slight pain his rings gave her. She instantly felt warmer.

Being with Harry had been a fantasy—a lie, even. He was simply too good to be true. Just three weeks of diner dates and flower bouquets and jazzy serenades and whispered pillowtalk, and she was in love. Three weeks was all it took for Y/N to fall absolutely head over heels for him. Over a year had passed and she still wasn’t over a love that was built in three weeks.

As heavenly music pervaded the room and alcohol continued to flow, the patrons grew rowdier. Y/N was already on edge with the constant ringing of her ex lover’s voice in her ears and all the repressed love resurfacing, and each wandering hand and lingering touch pushed her a little closer to her breaking point. She was swamped with two tables both choosing to order hors d’oeuvres for the evening, which irritated her to no end (Who orders food at a jazz club? Especially this jazz club, where even the simplest drinks were barely palatable. The Fine Line would surely find away to fuck up charcuterie, and then she’d have to go and deal with their complaints about it).

“Excuse me, love. Aren’t you the waitress?” The man’s meaty hand stopped her in her journey to the back to fetch the food, snaking its way to the small of her back. Y/N shivered at the feeling of his sweaty palm through the cotton material of her apron.

Instinct told her to steal a glance at the stage. Did he notice her discomfort? Did he care? Do I care if he cares? She was no stranger to these kinds of interactions with inebriated men and he was still performing like he didn’t have a care in the world. She didn’t need him to save her from this drunkard or any of the club-goers hounding her.

Y/N put on a fake smile and looked up at his face, “Yes, sir.”

“Can you make me anotha drink?” He slurred.

“I can put it in with the bartender, just give me one moment—“

“That bitch over there?…” He make a sweeping gesture toward the general area where Sarah, too, was swamped. “Where’s the actual bartender?”

“Uhm, sir…Sarah makes all the drinks—“

“Bullshit, she’s just a girl—”

“Sir—“

An exaggerated eye roll, “—good for nothing little bitches, both of you—“

“If we’re all so worthless to you, why don’t you get the goddamn drink yourself!”

The man looked appalled, mouth wide open in a shocked silence. Y/N felt a tinge of satisfaction knowing she’d wounded him. But the tiny flame was quickly extinguished.

“Y/N!” It was Robert’s angry voice smashing through her joy like broken glass. He thundered over to her, coming out of nowhere just in the nick of time.

“Yes, sir?” She sighed, eyes trained on her feet. They were aching in her tight heels—just another affliction she’d grown accustomed too.

“That’s not how you talk to paying customers here! It’s barely eight o clock and you’re already on strike two for tonight. You’re lucky I’m feeling nice enough to giving you one more chance.”

Robert’s raised voice caught the attention of a few guests in the near vicinity. Y/N felt a wave of shame wash over her, like she was a child being reprimanded by her parents. For a moment, she absently wished that she was nine or ten years old again, with no responsibilities, no heartache, no problems. But she wasn’t a child; she was a grown woman and she needed this job to survive.

Y/N bit her tongue and uttered, “My apologies, sir,” through clenched teeth.

The scene seemed to have caught the singer’s attention from across the room. He finally caught a glimpse of her from the stage and Y/N could practically see his heart somersaulting in his chest. He paused for a beat, halting his languid swaying to focus on the glimpse he caught of her profile in the crowd. He could only see her face very faintly in the dark, crowded club, but it was more than enough. Y/N felt as if his gaze was stretching time…stretching until she felt the sting of a hand slapping her wrist at her side.

She snapped her eyes away from the stage and turned toward the source of the strike. Unlike Y/N, who couldn’t even seem do her job when he was in the same room as her, Harry recovered quickly once her gaze left his, blinking his own eyes as to escape the reverie.

Robert sent Y/N another dirty glare, seething, “Get back to work before I send you out for good.”

Y/N nodded meekly, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to carry on. She rubbed her sore wrist and bruised pride. It definitely wasn’t the first time Robert had given her a harsh censure, but that didn’t make it sting any less.

Meanwhile, Harry returned his attention to his performance. “This last song is called ‘Stardust,’” he mused into the microphone, effortlessly holding the attention of every patron in the club. “’S one of my favorites. ’S about love…and lost.” He paused, sending the crowd a charming smile. “Big thanks to Mitchy…” he gestured grandiosely toward the pianist, who played an impressive jazzy riff in response, “…and of course, each of you. You made me the man I am today, and I’m forever grateful.”

Y/N swore he looked right at her as a melodiously chanted those words. He knew where to find her now and his gaze was purposeful, intense, and unwavering. Not for the first time tonight, her heart felt like it’d stopped beating in her chest.

Harry hesitated to continue, happy green eyes lingering on hers while Y/N wondered absently if it was only his lover—only herself, that could see the longing hidden in them. She smeared on her best blank expression, no longer having the energy for even a fake smile, and focused on keeping her tray steady. She plucked four more full glasses from the bar and balanced them precariously on her tray before meandering around the dining room to the rhythm of Harry’s song. A year ago, the sound of his voice would have made her own heart sing. Today, each note twisted the knife in her heart a little more, torturing her with what she couldn’t have.

“Mitchy’s been teaching me a couple things…”

He had a beautiful baby grand in the middle of his living room. It was clear from the way the piano took up nearly the entire room that he invested in things he loved—not spaces.

“Oh yeah?” She wrapped her arms lazily across his chest, embracing him from behind while he sat at the bench.

Harry’s fingers glided across the keys and played a few random chords and licks before finally producing a soft, familiar melody. Y/N absently recognized the tune and smiled fondly, hoping he could feel her grin in his hair.

“Heaven…I’m in heaven…” he sang gently, easily falling into the swinging rhythm. Y/N felt the vibrations of his voice in her own chest, heart beating wildly.

His fingers continued floating over the piano, fumbling here and there, but nonetheless impressing her with his skill. “And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…”

“…And I seem to find the happiness I seek…” Y/N clumsily joined him in the lyrics she vaguely knew. Her voice wasn’t nearly as effortlessly harmonious as Harry’s, but was equally as joyful.

“When we're out together dancing, cheek to cheek…” They finished in unison, a final resolving chord echoing between them. Only fitting, Y/N squeezed her arms around his chest impossibly tighter and pressed her cheek to his. Warmth surged through her from where their skin met, joy following close behind.

As he sang his final piece of the night, his voice glimmered throughout the room like, well, like stardust, Y/N thought. He was a star in every sense of the word, eyes gleaming, teeth shining white, and heavenly voice brightening up the darkness of the club. His blazer glittered in the light and cast bright refractions on all the walls as he swayed to the rhythm, while the heavenly sounds of his artful scatting convinced Y/N that she was indeed in the presence of an angel.

She felt his eyes on her all the way from the stage, even in the throng of drunk patrons and busy waitresses. It was impossible not to. The weight of his gaze and the rasp of his voice surrounded her.

“Though I dream in vain...In my heart it always will remain…the stardust melody, the memory of love’s refrain.”

The memory of love’s refrain? The last chorus was overwhelming. A strident ringing overshadowed Harry’s voice in her ears. Her vision blurred, the lights and the people and the glasses blending together and fading. The stardust melody...the memory of love’s refrain...in my heart...

Suddenly, as if all her limbs had disconnected from her brain, Y/N’s hands slipped from under the tray. Prosecco spilled all over her apron in the next instant, staining the once white fabric champagne. His song, his voice, his gaze…he’d rendered her useless.

She heard Robert’s booming footsteps before she saw him. “Y/N! How many times do I have to tell you off tonight?!” His voice sounded distant in her ears. Loud and angry, but far-away...as if he were calling to her from another world.

This time, the clamor didn’t go unheard by the guests, nor by Harry. He frowned visibly and stuttered. He began to rush his goodbye speech, quickly thanking the crowd.

“That’s strike fucking three,” Robert continued shouting and flailing his hands dramatically. “Get out. I don’t want to see your face here until next week!” His harsh words drowned out Harry’s final, hasty farewell reminder to ‘treat people with kindness.’

Y/N said nothing and remained frozen in response. She stood exhausted in a puddle of alcohol and broken glass, physically unable to carry on the facade any longer. She turned on her heel, desperate to be out from under both Robert’s furious gaze and Harry’s musical spell. As she stumbled toward the exit, she felt like her legs would give out at any moment and finally crumble against the insurmountable pressure. Harry’s were just one of hundreds of pairs of eyes that lingered on her as she struggled. She paused near the door and grabbed onto the coatrack for support, blinking away tears and choking back sobs.

Harry raced over to her, swiftly maneuvering his body through the crowd confused club-goers. When he reached her, he instinctively caught her wrist in his grasp. His rings were cold and sharp against her sore skin—the contrast between the cold metal and his hot palm familiar and comforting and painful all at once.

“Are you okay?”

She replied immediately, “Yes.” Not a lie. She still had a job for now, she had a decent coat wrapped around her, she had a bed to sleep on tonight, and she was breathing. She was okay.

He was panting, voice sounding raspy and strained from overuse. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead and he flicked it away with the back of his hand. “Are you…are you sure?”

“I want you to have this.”

“It’ll never fit me, H. Your hands are even bigger than y’head.”

He reeled back, feigning offense with a furrowed brow, but he could only move a few inches away from her on his tiny bed they were sharing.

“Fine then, meanie. I won’ give yeh the pretty little chain I got for it,” he said tauntingly.

Y/N’s heart soared as she took in his impish smirk and dopey eyes dancing with a glint of happiness. She ignored his teasing tone, choosing instead to melt over his words. Of course he’d gotten her a chain, she thought—he always thought of everything.

He stretched his arm over her, shoving his bare chest in her face. Playfully, she poked her tongue out to lick his nipple, to which he exclaimed a melodramatic “Oi! Quit tha!” And laughter fell from both their lips as he reached for the drawer in his nightstand.

He pulled back but kept her tucked close to him, leaving just enough space to dangle the chain he produced from the drawer in between them. Y/N studied his pale, nimble fingers as they worked, opening the clasp and slipping his S ring onto it. As he finished, her eyes met his once again. His hair was in his face and the early morning sunlight cast a soft shadow of a single curl over his eyelid. Still, she could make out every detail of his eyes, every vision into his thoughts and shimmering fleck of emotion.

“Are you sure you want me to wear this?” She hummed pensively, not having to look away from his eyes to know that her fingers were tracing the swallows on his collar.

“Yes, but only if you apologize for bein’ mean ta me.”

She giggled again, the sound pure and lovely—like music to his ears. “I’m very sorry,” she humored him, “I love your big head.”

“Shut up, you absolute pest.” He gently pinched the skin at her hip with one hand, and with the other, slipped the chain over her head. She beamed at him, hearts in her eyes and love in her heart.

“Now I’m with you. Always.” And with that, he hauled her into the circle of his arms—right where she belonged, the sounds of her gentle laughter muffled in his chest as the sun rose to illuminate the morning.

Of course she wasn’t okay! She hated her life and she loved Harry. How could she not? He was brilliantly talented, funny, thoughtful, and charming—but in her eyes, oblivious to her internal struggle. She didn’t belong with him. She could never belong with him! A tired, talentless, immature woman destined only to wait tables and lie for the rest of her existence. Maybe she’d marry one of the Fine Line’s patrons whose hungry eyes lingered long enough, whose hands grabbed her waist tight enough. She’d bear his children and go on hating her life and craving something more. That was her truth. No more lies.

His expensive shoes thumped on the stone behind her as he ran to follow after her outside. The lights from the sign outside the club were making his jacket glimmer and shine as he moved, even in the darkness of midnight. She turned to face him, reluctantly meeting his eyes from where he stopped a few feet away from her.

Y/N waited for him to say something else. He’d run after her, after all. And yet, he was silent aside from heavy panting echoing his exhaustion and frustration. He was opening his mouth and frantically shutting it again, desperate to say the right thing but terrified of failing—again.

She felt her heart squeeze in her chest with every second passing in tense silence. Y/N had a hundred things she wanted to say to him, but all she could come up with was: “Thanks for the show, Harry. You were brilliant.”

He furrowed his brows and shook his head, “Y/N, wait…I—”

“Good night.” Her hands trembled by her side—for more reasons that just the bitter cold, as she turned to leave. He let her go, again.

It was a long walk home.

The cobblestone streets felt achingly familiar, yet entirely foreign underneath her. The gentle click, clack of her heels against the stones, the bitter chill and the whooshing sounds of harsh wind, even the glow cast by pale moonlight against the walls of alleyways was all the same. All the same, every goddamn day.

The only difference tonight was the sticky remnants of spilled Prosecco on her skin and the agonizing force of her emotions. The words of his song lingered in her brain, invading her thoughts and inevitably slowing her pace as she stumbled over her feet. She felt heavy and wearied with the cumbersome weight of her regrets and mistakes and shortcomings and insecurities returning with her former lover. It took everything out of her to leave him again. To break her own heart again.

Y/N knew she was lucky to live alone. She didn’t have to rely on a man to support her. She had a job, she had friends, she had a comparatively good life. But she’d never be good enough for him. Without the sight of him and the feeling of his skin on hers fresh in her mind, it might’ve been possible to force the thought out of her mind.

She stepped through the door and immediately noticed how her apartment somehow felt even colder than the bitter chill outside. She shut the door, ignoring the stinging draft and peeling off her heavy coat. Even with the physical weight gone from her shoulders, her muscles still felt tense, achy, and forlorn.

She hadn’t felt this kind of pain since…since she’d left the first time.

Y/N dug around her coat pockets and her medicine cabinet for aspirin or peppermint oil or something to numb the pain. Coming up empty, she retreated to her bedroom, where her eyes fixated immediately on her nightstand.

She paused as a tear strolled down her cheek as visions of what was inside the drawer invaded her mind. She’d blocked out his memory, thrown away his t-shirts, forgotten the sound of his voice and unlearned his habits. But she couldn’t throw away this tiny piece of him. To her, it was anything but tiny. Every one of her billions of neurons told her to get rid of the damn thing, but her one aching heart wouldn’t let her. It was the one thing keeping her chained to him.

Her hand hesitated at the knob of the drawer. She felt weak, jaded, and at the mercy of her agonizing memories.

The chain lay face up at the bottom of the drawer, the S as big and clunky as its counterpart, as shiny and beautiful as its owner. The sight of it sent a tidal wave of memories through her head and a fresh stream of tears down her cheeks. God, she thought, I want him so bad.

Clutching the ring and chain to her chest, she collapsed onto her cold sheets and finally let the sobs wrack her body. His raspy voice rang in her ears, the sweet melody of Stardust sounding dissonant amid her own voice, amid her worst lie of all—the lie that haunted her memory. I don’t want you.

A harsh knock knock knock interrupted the cacophony in her mind.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She leapt out of bed and furiously swiped the tears off her cheeks. She debated running to the bathroom to rinse her face, but another set of harsh knocks shooed away the thought. There’s really only one person it could be—one person who knows where she lives and knows she’d fall at his feet every single time. Her aching feet dragged her body across the cold floor to foyer. With a trembling hand, she turned the handle to her front door.

And there he was, at her doorstep in all his shining glory, as if he’d come to sweep her off her feet once again. His hair was frizzy and longer up close than it had looked onstage. The happy glint he had while in his element was absent from his eyes, now watery and pained but as big and beautiful as ever. She swore the moonlight had grown brighter as it shone on his figure, as if whatever higher power out there refused to let him exist for even a moment without a spotlight.

“Y/N, please hear me out.”

At that moment when the words fell off his lips, she’d never felt further from him—not even when he was hundreds of miles away in a city she’d never heard of singing for strangers she’d never meet. Even then, they’d be sleeping under the same stars. But with Harry right in front of her, standing at her door still clad in his glittery blazer, they were worlds apart.

“I don’t have to hear you out, H,” she whispered, the nickname slipping out before she could stop it. It tasted sweet on her tongue, but the sound of his name in her voice made her chest ache. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I do, though. I- I…” He trailed off, looking down at his shiny black shoes as if hoping to find the words he was looking for in his reflection. “I didn’t make you feel wanted. I didn’t do enough to make you happy…to make you feel like, you belonged—belong with me.”

His speech sounded broken and clumsy. Y/N absently posited that for him, English really was a second language to music. Scatting came so easy to him. It was infinite—each note and syllable holding meaning, a line of his story, a feeling in his soul, a piece of his heart—not limited by the constraints of speech. How could he possibly find words in the English language to express how he felt about her? How he felt about himself? He sounded like he was suffocating, like he was drowning, like the stone floor was slipping out from under his feet.

Y/N could see his anguish. She recognized it. She lived it.

“You belong on the stage, Harry.” Keep your voice even, she chanted to herself, don’t let it show. That was her life. Chin up, lipstick on, hair slick, mouth shut. A constant battle between don’t lie and don’t let it show. She’d perfected the balance in the year since her relationship. But Harry, of course, managed to make all of that resolve crumble to ruins without even trying.

“I belong with you,” He told her desperately, himself not hiding any of his agony.

“No. I belong to the club. You belong to the music.”

Harry threw his head into his hands, rubbing his glossy eyes furiously. “Is it selfish of me to want both of you?!” He cried, shoving his ring-clad fingers through his curls.

Y/N’s breath hitched and she paused, not quite knowing what to say. Yes, she thought, it is selfish. You want the music, the fans, the money, the fame, and the girl. All I’ve ever wanted is you.

“Come with me,” he continued when Y/N didn’t speak. He reached both hands out as if to touch her, but seemed to think better of it and clenched his fingers into fists between them. “Come with me on tour and we can…we can—“

“I can’t.” She said evenly, desperately willing the tear in her eye to stay put, but she was exhausted.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a superstar Harry! You’re America’s shining sweetheart! And one day you’re gonna realize that I’m not like you. I’ll only hold you back. I’m not enough for you. And I never will be.” She raised at voice at him. She knew it wasn’t fair to shout at him when she was angry with society, with herself. The metal S still clutched in her palm suddenly felt colder and heavier than before. The chain tangled in between her fingers, refusing to release its hold on her. Perhaps it was actually the other way around. Maybe all she had to do was let it go… Is this what I want? To let go again? To lie again?

“Don’t you get it Y/N! The way you see me, like…like some kind of perfect sparkling star…” He abandoned the invisible barrier between them and grabbed her cheeks between his palms, forcing her to look at him, “that’s exactly how I see you.”

The feeling of hands hot against her skin and the words leaping from his mouth like memorized lyrics ignited a supernova inside her—a familiar blazing fire of joy and guilt and love. She felt paralyzed in his grasp, unable to look away from his eyes where she swore she could see specks of gold dancing around the pools of green.

He continued after a beat, “To me, you’re the brightest goddamn thing in that shitty club! Your heart, Y/N—it’s made of gold! I love the music and I love Mitchy and I love the fame but I’d give it all up in a millisecond for you and regret absolutely nothing.”

His words strummed her heartstrings, the vibrations echoing through her chest, her lungs, her shoulders, and finally, her head. She inhaled a heavy breath, putting all her strength into staying upright and squeezing the ring to her palm. No more lies.

“I know you don’t believe me. I know you. I know you hate yourself, you lie to yourself, you think you’re not…you’re not enough…” “I know everything about you and I still love you…”

Y/N reached up and gingerly placed her hands on top of his, holding his palms against her cheeks. He silenced himself as she held the backs of his hands and moved them behind her head. She tore her eyes away from his, and stepped into him. With a strained exhale, she wrapped her own arms around his waist, the sequins on his jacket rough against her clenched fists which held his ring. The blazing symphony crescendoed inside her as she felt his arms squeeze her into his chest.

There were still so many words left unsaid, so many notes still unplayed. As Y/N cautiously stepped over the line between their worlds, she knew her insecurities would catch up with her. And Harry knew their struggle was far from over. They’d both left each other with uncertainty and guilt and longing and life like neither had never known before.

Their love was the stardust of yesterday, but the sun would rise tomorrow.

happy endings are for weenies. yes i am a weenie.

thank you for reading <3

please kindly reblog & let me know if you enjoyed!

#harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles #jazz harry #my writing

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hysterialevi · 4 years ago

Text

Hjarta | Chapter 9

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Warning! This chapter is slightly nsfw ;)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

SIX DAYS LATER

BJORNHEIMR, THE LONGHOUSE

Eivor trudged through the glimmering waves of snow that concealed the path ahead of him and held tightly onto his cloak, shielding himself from the cold weather as he ventured underneath the deep night sky.

At the moment, the moon was hovering just above a summit of clouds and parting the sheer darkness with its piercing rays of light, casting a delicate veil over the village’s facade.

Blots of shadows gathered in the spaces that lay between the torches standing along the trail, and in the distance, Eivor could hear the faint voices of people who were still awake.

Overall, it was a rather peaceful night to end the bustling day, and the Wolf-Kissed found himself eager to get some sleep. Despite the weariness that clung onto his body however, Eivor’s mind wasn’t quite ready to rest just yet.

No matter what he did, his thoughts always seemed to drift back to the elusive prince. He hadn’t seen Sigurd ever since their last encounter in the longhouse, but even then, it had become nearly impossible for Eivor to think about anything else.

He was constantly worrying about the man. He feared for his friend’s well-being and questioned if there was any way to ease the prince’s agitated nerves, but was never able to corner him during a break.

Eivor would catch glimpses of Sigurd here and there as he bolted from place to place, but it felt as if the man hardly had any time to blink. Let alone sit down for a talk.

It concerned Eivor to see the prince always teetering on the edge of his breaking point, but with the man’s never-ending list of duties constantly occupying him, he didn’t know what else to do anymore.

Part of him even suspected that Sigurd’s absence may have been intentional. They were both fully aware of the emotions they harbored for one another, and Eivor wondered if perhaps the man felt it necessary to distance himself from the Wolf-Kissed for the sake of the wedding. They had seen how easy it was for the two of them to get attached, after all, and maybe Sigurd thought it was no longer worth the risk.

If that was the case, then Eivor just hoped it was working better for the prince than it was for himself. They may have been separated for an entire week by now, but the young man only noticed a rise in his fondness for his companion.

It was starting to become an unbearable battle as Ingrida had predicted, and the fear swelling in Eivor’s chest gripped him harder the more he realized he was losing this fight. At this point, he simply wanted to get the wedding over with. Sigurd’s mere presence alone was enough to send the young man into a frenzy, and even though Eivor wished he could’ve stuck around for a longer period of time, he knew that things would only get worse if the Raven Clan didn’t leave soon.

Perhaps it was a selfish method of coping with the sudden change in their lives, but it was the last one he had. He didn’t know how else he would get Sigurd out of his thoughts, and the stress was starting to weigh him down.

Arriving at the longhouse, Eivor felt a kiss of relief settle into his bones as he stepped into the warmth of the building, finally escaping the arctic winds whirling around outside.

There was no one occupying the main hall besides him at the moment, and the only other presence Eivor spotted was a few of the dogs that roamed their village quietly sleeping on the floor.

It was an uneventful night, contrary to what the Wolf-Kissed expected. Normally, either Arngeir or Ulfar would still be wandering around at this hour -- wrapping up any unfinished business -- but neither of them were anywhere to be found. The fires in the war room had been snuffed out, and the only light Eivor could see was the one coming from the torch that stood beside his chambers.

When he took a closer look into the shadows however, he suddenly noticed another figure standing there, waiting patiently by the doorway. They didn’t say anything upon Eivor’s arrival, and yet, they seemed to be expecting him.

...It was Sigurd.

What was he doing here? Eivor assumed that the man would’ve been fast asleep by now, but the prince was here, silently thinking to himself with his back pressed against the wall. It looked like he had been there for a while, and if Eivor hadn’t taken a few steps closer, he would’ve thought that Sigurd was asleep based on how his head drooped from his neck.

“Sigurd...?” Eivor said, approaching the man with curiosity. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you tired?”

The prince’s head perked up once he heard his name, and a certain glint twinkled in his eyes.

“...Ah, Eivor. There you are.”

Eivor smirked and crossed his arms. “Were you waiting for me?”

Sigurd nodded, attempting to hide the fatigue in his voice. “Yes, actually. There’s something important I wanted to talk to you about. I would’ve come to you sooner, but... as you may’ve guessed, my schedule didn’t allow it.” He glanced at the darkness outside. “...I hope it’s not too late.”

The younger man shook his head. “No, not at all.”

“Are you sure?” Sigurd checked. “I don’t want to disturb you. I know you must be eager to get some rest.”

Eivor waved his hand in a dismissive but comforting way. “No, I’m sure. Come on in. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

His friend smiled in relief. “Thank you, Eivor. I promise, I’ll make it as brief as possible.”

Strolling into his chambers, Eivor walked past Sigurd and headed through the doorway, beckoning the man to follow him as the torch’s flame flickered briefly in his wake. Their footsteps echoed gently within the longhouse’s walls, and upon entering the room, it felt as if they had closed off the entire world, setting aside a piece of haven just for themselves.

Eivor swiftly removed the cloak from his shoulders once he was inside and slid it off, tossing it onto a nearby table. Afterwards, he placed his weapons down just beside the accessory, and set them on the wooden surface with a gentle thud.

“So,” Eivor said, bringing his attention back to Sigurd, “what troubles you, my friend? A shadow of unease stalks your every move.”

The prince chuckled, casually pacing around the room. “Is it so obvious? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re quite gifted when it comes to reading people.”

Eivor turned around to face him. “Indeed. Which is why I hope nothing too grave has happened?”

“No, no,” Sigurd reassured. “It’s just...”

The older man came to a stop and rested his hands on his hips, letting out a conflicted sigh.

“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start. I expected this to be much simpler before you arrived, but now that I’m actually talking to you... I’m at a loss for words.”

The Wolf-Kissed leaned against the table’s edge. “Then start from the beginning.”

A light laugh fluttered from Sigurd’s lips. “...You say that like it’s so easy.”

He trailed off into silence and combed a hand through his hair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Listen, Eivor, I’m not exactly sure how to say this, so... bear with me. But over these past two weeks, I’ve been thinking about you without pause. I know you said you didn’t want to take things further -- and I respect that -- but with the wedding just a day away from now, it’s become almost impossible for me to ignore how I feel.”

The young man tilted his head. “What about Randvi? Do you still not feel anything for her? Even after all the time you’ve spent here?”

Sigurd shook his head. “Randvi is a good woman, but she’s not meant for me. And I’m not meant for her. I can see that now. There’s nothing between the two of us. There’s no connection like the one you and I have.” He took a few steps in Eivor’s direction, steadily closing the distance between them. “The truth is, Eivor...”

His expression suddenly sank. “...I want you. I know our people are depending on this alliance, but I’d be lying if I said I was willing to go through with this marriage.” His gaze fell to the floor. “I want our people to be safe. I want to give them a world where they won’t have to live in fear anymore. But what happens after the war’s finished? What happens when Kjotve’s dead? Do Randvi and I just live out the rest of our lives as a couple, despite not being in love?”

Sigurd brought his eyes back to Eivor. “How could anyone find happiness in a life like that? Perhaps it’s selfish to think this way, but... part of me wishes I could make my own decisions. I wish I could just walk away from this wedding, and be with someone I truly love.”

The Wolf-Kissed shrugged. “It’s not selfish to desire freedom, Sigurd. I think anyone would want that.”

“True,” he conceded, “but I’m going to be a king someday. If I want to do right by my people, I’ll have to put their needs before my own. Though, of course, it’s much easier said than done.”

Sigurd let out a breath and turned away from the younger man, shifting to a more downcast demeanor.

“...I’m sorry, Eivor. I don’t know why I’m putting all this on you. You probably have enough to worry about, and I imagine you’ll have a busy day with the wedding tomorrow. I’m not even sure why I came here.” He began making his way to the room’s exit. “I should let you rest.”

“No, wait...!” Out of instinct, Eivor reached for the prince’s hand and grabbed onto his wrist, halting the older man his tracks. A stunning silence ensued after the abrupt gesture, and within a heartbeat, Eivor found himself staring back into Sigurd’s eyes.

The prince looked absolutely baffled by the response. Despite their closeness in the past, Sigurd didn’t appear to be expecting such a knee-jerk reaction from the other man. It was clear he had built a metaphorical wall between the two of them during their time apart, and was being forced to confront his fondness for Eivor now that he had broken the barrier again.

“I...” Eivor allowed his hand to linger, not willing to retreat just yet, “...Sigurd, listen to me. I battle with these emotions on a daily basis as well. I care for you too. You know this. But... we are both bound by duty. We both have people depending on us, and as much as I want to take this further, I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sigurd relaxed in Eivor’s hold, refusing to pull away from him. “...I know. It’s just difficult to accept, I suppose. I’ve spent all my life wandering the world without someone there to join me, and now that I’ve found you -- the gods want me to let you go. It... it feels wrong.”

The Wolf-Kissed frowned out of empathy. “...Perhaps in another life, when we are free from the restraints of this realm, can we finally be at peace with who we are. But until then...” Eivor felt his heart drop, “...we have a war to win. And we need this alliance to do it.”

Sigurd mirrored the man’s pain. “...Indeed.”

Letting his hand slip from Eivor’s grasp, the prince simply stood in the shadows without saying another word as the two of them drowned in a pool of regret, doing anything they could to break the surface.

It felt unfair to the younger man that he couldn’t be open about his affection for Sigurd, but he understood the gravity of what they were facing.

Their clans needed this marriage to work. They needed this joining to push back Kjotve’s forces, and to eradicate his cruelties from this kingdom for good.

But even then, Eivor wished desperately that he could embrace Sigurd to his heart’s content. He wished he could stick with the man the same way Ulfar did with Linnea, and part of him secretly envied the other people in his clan for being able to live without these concerns.

How different would things be if he were able to show Sigurd his true emotions? How much closer would they have become by now? He supposed he’d never find out. The burdens of this war far outweighed any desires he might’ve held, and he knew it would jeopardize the alliance to suggest anything else.

Still, it didn’t mean he wasn’t torn.

“Eivor?” Sigurd said abruptly, pulling the young man from his thoughts.

Eivor brought his focus back to the prince, suddenly realizing how the man was gazing out the window and into the night’s darkness. A newfound boldness had latched onto the warrior’s troubled visage, and merely just by watching him, Eivor could tell something was on his mind.

“...Yes?” He asked. “What is it?”

Sigurd’s brow crinkled with doubt, and he looked directly into the Wolf-Kissed’s eyes.

“Forgive me for being forward, but... would you be willing to lay with me tonight, Eivor?”

Eivor practically froze on the spot, taken aback by the blunt question. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to accepting the offer, but he found himself in shock nonetheless.

“What-- now?”

Sigurd caught onto his hesitation. “I realize this is sudden, but I have only until daybreak before I’m officially wed to Randvi. After that... my clan is returning to Fornburg to gather our forces. We’ll finally meet Kjotve on the battlefield alongside your people, and once that happens, I’m not certain I’ll ever get the chance to see you again. I... I want to cherish these last few hours with you.”

The younger man stumbled over his thoughts. “But what about the wedding, Sigurd? You’ll be a husband soon.”

The prince lowered his head in guilt. “I know. I’m not blind to the dishonor of my proposal, but as I said, I wish to share one last moment with you. Before I’m forced to leave you behind. Of course though, that’s only if you’re willing to do it. If not, then I’ll leave. No questions asked.”

Eivor’s words clumped together in his throat, and he gazed down at Sigurd’s hands, feeling the urge to reach for them once again. A fraction of his mind twisted at the idea of even considering the man’s offer, but the rest of him wanted nothing more than to leap into his arms.

He had been dreaming of an opportunity like this ever since he first grew attached to Sigurd. He spent day and night wondering what it would be like to welcome his touch, and now that it was finally presenting itself, he didn’t know whether he should’ve refused it... or embraced it.

What if someone found out? What if they couldn’t keep it a secret? Ulfar had already expressed some skepticism of their relationship in the past, and Eivor dreaded the possibility of anyone else discovering their furtive meeting. It would mean the end of this alliance if their secret was exposed. The Raven Clan would no doubt classify it as a betrayal, and Eivor didn’t even want to think about what his own people would do.

Still... he longed for Sigurd’s affection. His heart hammered at the thought of feeling his warmth, and the temptation of accepting his offer was growing more and more irresistible by the second.

Surely, it couldn’t cause that much harm, could it? It would only be for one night, and they wouldn’t see each other again after the marriage was set in place. No one would ever know about their encounter, and they could carry on with their lives as usual. Plain and simple.

Deep down, though -- Eivor knew it was wrong. He knew the potential risks of what he was walking into, and he knew it could cause great harm if things didn’t go according to plan.

At the moment however, he found it difficult to care.

“...Just for tonight, right?” Eivor whispered, stepping closer to Sigurd until they were mere inches apart.

The prince brought a hand up to the other man’s cheek and gently caressed it, holding Eivor in place.

“Just for tonight.” He assured. “Just you... and me.”

Eivor took a deep breath and closed his eyes in contentment, finally deciding to accept the proposal.

“...Okay, then.” He agreed. “I trust you.”

Craning his neck downward, Sigurd pulled the younger man further into his embrace and planted a soft kiss on his lips, instantly tightening his grip once they touched.

It felt as if a flame had just been ignited in his chest. Sparks of intimacy traveled across the top of his skin, and a newborn fire now burst throughout his veins, prompting him to bring Eivor even closer.

He deepened the kiss and slid his hands down the sides of the Wolf-Kissed’s waist, latching onto every muscle he felt beneath his fingertips. He held the man firmly in his grasp and pushed him back towards the table, only breaking their kiss to lift his companion.

In one swift motion, Sigurd pressed his arms under the crook of Eivor’s legs and brought him into the air, afterwards setting him down on the table’s surface. He drifted away from the man’s lips and began pecking kisses along the length of his neck, still delicately caressing Eivor’s cheek in his palm.

Meanwhile, Eivor wrapped his arms around Sigurd’s neck and rested his head on the prince’s shoulders, allowing bliss to overtake him as he felt the man’s kisses roaming further down his body. He felt a pair of hands tugging at the laces on his shirt once the kisses reached his clavicle, and within seconds, his collar had been peeled apart, revealing the skin underneath. But it didn’t stop there.

Sigurd continued to undo the rest of Eivor’s clothes and pulled them off one-by-one, discarding them until the man sat half-bare before him. By now, the only thing concealing Eivor’s body was a pair of trousers that rested very loosely below his hips, and even that didn’t stay in place for long.

Bringing the kisses to a temporary halt, Sigurd peered into his companion’s eyes with a gaze smothered by lust and shrugged off his cloak, taking a moment to remove his own clothing. To his pleasant surprise, Eivor decided to help too and began fidgeting with the buckles on his armor, hastily unstrapping them in order to reach the flesh beneath.

Within a heartbeat, Sigurd’s tunic was sliding off his shoulders and onto the floor, leaving his torso completely exposed. Numerous scars of different sizes dusted the pale complexion of his skin, and thanks to the flickering candlelight, the ridges of his muscles became sharpened by the shadows that threaten to envelop him.

But the prince didn’t give Eivor much time to marvel at the view. As soon as his tunic hit the floor, Sigurd lifted the man once again and returned to his barrage of kisses, carrying him over to the bed.

He tossed Eivor onto the cushion and instantly crawled over him, pinning his wrists down while tackling the laces on his trousers. His breathing had become more ragged at this point, and a faint red tint now stained the color on his cheeks.

Just before he could pull the laces loose however, a mischievous smirk spread across Eivor’s face and the man quickly switched their positions, pushing the prince so that he was now underneath him. He grabbed both of Sigurd’s wrists with a playful sense of agility, and locked the man in place before showering him with his own array of kisses.

He could feel the prince smiling as their lips met once again, and in addition to the excitement that now fueled his every move, Eivor also detected a warm rush of passion blossoming in the depths of his heart. His mind was screaming at him to stop what he was doing, but in the heat of the moment, he felt nothing except for pure bliss.

This was what he wanted. This was what he always dreamt about. It may have been wrong, and it may have been foolish, but by Freya -- Eivor would’ve been lying if he said it didn’t feel good. It was the one thing he never allowed himself to indulge in, and now, it felt incredible.

So, for the time-being, he simply shoved aside all worrisome thoughts and focused entirely on the man in front of him, eager to spend the rest of the night with his temporary lover.

He imagined he would be bathed in regret upon waking up from this mess, but right now, he didn’t care. At the moment, all he wanted was Sigurd. All he wanted was to be with him. He had spend so much time enforcing the barrier that stood between the two of them, and now, he was finally done with it.

He was breaking free from the shackles that this alliance had put on him, and he was no longer willing to stop.

~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT MORNING

A choir of birds whistled in harmony, bringing life to the stillness of the new day. Ribbons of golden light could be seen dancing across the quiet village, and in addition to the chatter that was now rising from the wildlife, the faint melody of music could also be heard ringing in the distance.

There were quite a few people wandering around, despite the early hour. Most of them were helping with preparations for the upcoming wedding, and the rest were simply just there to take in the morning view.

It was the start of a joyous day as far as the villagers were concerned. The alliance they had been planning for so long would finally be forged, and their days of living under Kjotve’s iron fist would come to an end.

As for Eivor, the young man was still trapped in his bed’s embrace, completely motionless in his slumber. His head remained buried in the warmth of his pillow, and he could feel a soft draft tickling the parts of his body that were exposed.

His mind was entirely clear of any worries for once. Not a single thought of war or death interrupted his dreams, and his soul remained unperturbed.

In spite of the comfort that now encompassed him however, there was one thing that was missing. He no longer felt the sensation of someone’s arm on his hip, and the space behind him seemed to be lacking a familiar weight.

“...Sigurd...?” Eivor mumbled softly, rolling onto his side.

There was no one there.

The spot beside him was cold with absence, and all of the prince’s clothes had been retrieved from the floor.

Sigurd was already gone, and Eivor was left with nothing but the company of his own regret.

“...Oh, you fool...” the young man muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “...What were you thinking...?”

Freya willing, no one would ever learn about their forbidden escapade. There were already enough problems occupying the people of Bjornheimr, and Eivor’s mind went into a state of panic at the idea of anyone uncovering their affair, regardless of how temporary it may’ve been.

He supposed he would just have to carry on as if nothing had happened. He would have to attend the wedding with a fake smile on his face, and pretend that everything was fine.

But deep inside, Eivor knew he’d carry this encounter with him for many days to come. He longed for Sigurd’s love even more now, and instead of the felicity he should’ve felt for his sister’s marriage, he experienced only loneliness, and the desire to be with the prince again.

He was trapped in a hole he had dug with his own two hands, and now, he prayed that there’d be some way to climb out. He didn’t want the tragedies of Ingrida’s prediction to come true, but after everything that just occurred, he had a feeling it’d be impossible to stop it.

The Nornir were forcing him down this path they created, and he had already reached the point of no return.

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #sigurd styrbjornson #eivor wolfkissed #eivor wolfsmal #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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aotopmha · 4 years ago

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Out of all the military uniforms (The classic brown and green capes and the new black ones plus Marleys) which ones are your favorite? Also do you think theres meanings/symbolisms behind the colors/designs?

The detail I like the most about all of the uniforms is that they aren't fanservicey for the women/don't sexualise them.

I don't really have any strong attachment to them otherwise design-wise.

Thematically, having all of the soldiers be in the same uniform also equalises them and shows that they are all the same and ultimately just live and die the same as anyone else, but that's pretty typical for narratives critical of war.

The lighter Paradis uniform pre-basement and the darker one post-basement contrast the more naive battle for freedom with the more horrid battle for freedom (with the characters essentially becoming battle-hardened assassins) after the timeskip and of course Eren not wearing one after the timeskip symbolises him separating from everyone else.

And obviously the fully decked-out military in the final chapter is meant to invoke authoritarianism in full force.

Additionally, all of the uniforms are designed in line with the weapons and tools the characters are using: Marley having the more typical modern uniforms and Paradis having uniforms for the use of 3D manouver gear.

There is always a sort of uncomfortable undertone to military uniforms in any story that utilises them to me and I think it's the best if the story leans into accentuating that unease in service of themes, which I think the season 4 opening does the best for AoT.

While I don't care for the uniforms or imagery specifically, I do think the individual symbols for the Paradis military are interesting.

There is also, of course, the Marleyan armbands with the star and different colours, but I feel like I've talked enough about how potentially carelessly AoT employs its history-inspired imagery (I think it's pretty obviously Holocaust-inspired imagery), so I'll address all of the other stuff instead.

The seashell flag we see Marley have is a neat bit of irony because I think the seashell imagery used with Armin represents something along the lines of beauty in the world and the things worth protecting in it.

But above all, I think I get the most value out of the symbols for Paradis' military, particularly the Wings of freedom, so here's how I interpret them:

(Chapter 3)

I think the famous Wings of Freedom symbol of the Survey Corps has the most interesting stuff going on because of the black and white wings (or dark blue wings if you go by the anime colours) and how the meaning of that black and white gains more layers as the story goes on.

At first, the white part is representative of just the pure freedom and the black part is representative of the sacrifices and horrors of war to go through to get that freedom, the horrible side of the battle for freedom contrasted with the idealistic side of the battle for freedom.

But by the final arc, it represents the bad and good versions of freedom, the split between the actual Survey Corps and the Jaegerists.

It separates these two perspectives to the point where by the end of the story Armin represents the white part, at a point represented by a seagull, the positive version of freedom, while Eren represents the black part of the symbol, at points being represented by crows, the negative version of freedom.

Armin's version of freedom is about freedom for everyone, freedom for all of humanity all over the world and the value of connection between everyone. Freedom in unity.

Eren's version of freedom is about stepping on others for the freedom of his people and friends. A single-minded, destructive and oppressive kind of freedom.

And by the final chapter, we see this version of the wings:

All of the military is united, but under the emblem of guns/war.

The only option in this symbol is war and the guns block the wings.

Having no borders around the symbol gives it an uncomfortable kind of freedom and there is no Garrison or Military Police to balance it out.

(But regardless there is a white and black gun in there; Armin's alliance to balance out the authoritarians of Paradis.)

The swords, roses and unicorn have less substance, but they're neat regardless.

The symbol of the trainee corps has crossed, neutral blades. Pretty simple: trainees are simply preparing for battle, a generic statement of gaining their swords so to say.

The way I see it, the symbol of the Garrison, the thorned roses, is about protection. The Garrison's job is to protect the walls and the thorns are there to deter enemies from Paradis.

The Military Police's unicorn might also be a bit of irony at play. Unicorns generally represent positive traits like purity or freedom, when in actuality the MP branch is the branch protecting the higher-ups who limit people's knowledge and freedom and is generally the most corrupt branch of the three.

I think out of all of these symbols, though, the Wings of Freedom symbol is my favourite thematically/meaning-wise and how its meaning changes across the story and the MP symbol is my favourite design-wise.

Thank you for the ask!

#Attack on Titan #Shingeki no Kyojin #Wings of Freedom #AoT #SnK #Asks

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biotic-boshtet · 3 years ago

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Aftermath - Chapter 6

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Start from the beginning

Years

Norah Jean comes to slowly at first, then lurching up as she registers the sound of several different alarms reverberating through the room. Instinctively she reaches up to turn off her hearing aids. The hearing aids aren’t there.

“Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now- this facility is under attack.”

She squints in the bright lighting, bare feet touching the floor just as a tremor rips through wherever she is. She wobbles, bracing herself on the bed until she can steady herself, accidentally pinning a lock of loose hair down with her hand, tugging uncomfortably. Why is her hair loose? It’s never loose, not even to sleep.

“Shepard. Your scars aren’t healed yet, but I need you to get moving. This facility is under attack.”

The voice over the intercom sounds familiar, but Norah Jean can’t place it. The room she’s in a freezing cold.

“There’s a pistol and your armor in the locker on the other side of the room, hurry!”

The sound of gunfire grows, and Norah Jean looks up to see a heavy mech tearing through a target she can’t see. Another rumble tears through the structure. Her whole body aches.

“Grab the pistol and armor from the locker. You don’t have time to wait around, Shepard! Grab your weapon and armor!”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there, sheesh.”

“Shepard, we don’t have time for you to be difficult, get that armor on, now!”

Armor on. Four minutes. She’s gotten slow. When was the last time she put her armor on? Used to be sixty seconds. Doesn’t feel right either. Rubs wrong. Norah Jean absently rubs her right pauldron and freezes. There should be a gouge there. Her favorite gouge. She never got it replaced because she liked the way it looked, how it broke the clean lines of the iconic N7 stipe. Because only fools had perfectly maintained, scratch-free, dent-free armor all the time. The padding isn’t broken in yet, the ceramic plates are too shiny, and the joints are too stiff.

“This pistol doesn’t even have a clip.”

“It’s a medbay. You’ll have to find one yourself. Someone’s hacking security and trying to kill you.”

She falters for just a second when she spots the familiar black and gold insignias in the corridor, stooping to grab the clip from the floor. She’s not sure where she’s seen it before. It’s hard to fight the unease churning in her gut. She pushes it away as the beginning of a migraine blooms in the base of her skull. Keeps walking in armor that isn’t hers.

Taking out the mechs is easy enough, with clean shots to the head. Efficient. Quick. Automatic. Thankfully she hasn’t forgotten how to do that. The collar padding rubs uncomfortably on her neck. Norah Jean rips half a dozen strands of hair from a shoulder joint for the zillionth time.

After dozen more twists and turns and a lot more mechs shot down, Norah Jean finally runs into another person. And, by the looks of it, one she can actually help.

“Shepard? What the hell?”

She dashes into cover, crouching beside him. He’s a biotic, she knows instantly and cringes internally at the way his field rubs against her own, like a pair of balloons. “Looks like you could use a hand?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were still a work in progress.”

“I just woke up. You probably know more than I do.” She snaps back at him.

“Right. Sorry about that. I’m Jacob Taylor, I’ve been stationed here for- Damn it!”

Another wave of mechs shows up. Both Norah Jean and Jacob make their moves. Clean shots to the head.

“Things must be worse than I thought if Miranda’s got you running around. I’ll fill you in, but we better get you to the shuttle first.”

She takes a deep breath, shoving her curiosity down. “Give me the abridged version, then.” She pops out of cover long enough to send a shockwave clear to the other side, scattering the mechs, blue glow subsiding as she ducks back down. The mechs that didn’t get blown clear off the platform get back up.

“Heh, pretty good for someone who just woke up.” Jacop pulls one of the remaining mechs into the air, dispatching it with a few shots. “Anyway, two years ago, the SR1 went down over Alchera after an attack by an unknown ship. Most of the crew survived, but you died. We put you back together.”

Norah Jean does the same with the very last mech within a few seconds. Biotics are the only thing that feel right. Everything else is different. Wrong. She died. But her biotics are a familiar buzz, humming underneath her skin like a live wire. Two years.

She follows Jacob through the next few rooms until they come across a man bleeding on the floor, and Norah Jean is struck with the same eerie familiarity she felt with the voice over the intercom, Miranda.

“Bastards got me in the leg.”

“I think…” She closes her eyes against the already dim light in the room. “I think I remember you, Wilson, right?”

“Yeah. That was me. How about we talk about this after we fix my leg?”

Her eyes flick up towards the hopefully stocked first aid station on the wall. She gets there and back before Wilson can complain too much. The applicator is different than she remembers, fumbles with it for a second before applying it correctly. She gives him a hand up.

“Thanks, Shepard. Never thought you’d save my life. Guess that makes us even now. I thought maybe I could shut down the security mechs, but whoever did this fried the whole system, completely irreversible.”

“We didn’t ask what you were doing. Why do you even have security mech clearance? You were in the bio wing.” Jacob crosses his arms and eyes Wilson.

“Weren’t you listening? I came here to try and stop this! Besides I was shot, how do you explain that?”

Norah Jean pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re all fucking strangers to me, lets get someplace with a lower ratio of angry mechs, and then we can sort out whose fault this is.”

“Right. We need to find Miranda. We can’t leave her behind.”

“Forget about Miranda! She was over in D wing, the mechs were all over that sector. No way she survived.”

“A bunch of mechs won’t drop Miranda, she’s alive.”

“Then where is she? Why haven’t we heard from her? There’s only two possible explanations, she’s either dead, or she’s a traitor!”

“It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, we need to go! If Miranda’s as good as you say, she’ll probably be waiting for us at the shuttle bay.”

“You’re probably right, Shepard. Wilson, drop it, let’s go.”

The door on the other side of the room whooshes open and a squad of mechs marches through, guns drawn. Norah Jean swears under her breath.

“Wilson! I need you to overload the safety mechanisms on that container. It’ll take out the mechs and clear a path to the door.”

“You better be right.”

The crates explode easily, taking out all five mechs. Jacob stands up and turns to her.

“Okay, we took ‘em down, but this is getting a little tense. Shepard, if I tell you who we work for, will you trust me?”

“This really isn’t the time, Jacob.”

“We won’t make it if she’s expecting a shot in the back.”

“If you wanna piss off the boss, its your ass, Jacob.”

“The Lazarus Project, the program that rebuilt you, its funded and controlled by Cerberus.”

Cerberus. It finally clicks. The humanity first terrorist group. Black and gold. Fucked up experiments to “give humanity an edge”. Akuze. For a second all she smells is blood and acid, all she hears is the wind howling over empty sand. She blinks. Back to reality. Cerberus. Two years.

“I spent a good bit of time wiping out Cerberus labs. Why the change of heart?” Her corona flares and dies with her steady breaths, but her biotics remain under her control.

“Knew we shoulda replaced than damn implant.” Wilson mutters, eyeing her with nervously.

“Those answers are way above my paygrade, but the gist of it? Things change. The Alliance declared you dead. They gave up. Cerberus spent a fortune bringing you back. Look, I’d be suspicious too, but right now we have to work together. I thought you deserved to know what’s what. Once we’re off the station, I’ll take you to the Illusive Man. He’ll explain everything, I promise. But we have to get to the shuttles first.”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

Wilson stepped forward, punching in his security code on the door panel. “Come on, through here, we’re almost to the-“

The door opens, revealing a woman in a black and white catsuit. Her pistol is aimed squarely at Wilson’s chest.

“Miranda? But you were-“

Miranda pulls the trigger. “Dead?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“My job, Wilson betrayed us all.”

“Even if you’re sure, did he deserve that welcome?” Norah Jea’s corona flashes briefly before she smothers it down again.

“He sabotaged the security systems, killed my staff and would have killed us.”

“Are you sure about that Miranda? We’ve known Wilson for years, what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m never wrong, I thought you’d have learned that by now, Jacob.”

Shepard twitches her hand away from her gun. “Okay. What’s out next step.”

“We get on the shuttle and we go.”

“What about the rest of the people on this station?”

“This is the evac point, if they’re not here now, they’re not coming.”

“We can’t leave without knowing for sure, we have to go back and look.”

“Don’t you get it? The only one worth saving is you. Everyone else is expendable.”

“She’s right, we all knew the risks when we signed up. Without you, there’s no point to any of this.”

Expendable. The thought turns her stomach. She sighs. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this station to last a lifetime.” She died two years ago, and the people who brought her back were expendable. She needs a drink.

“Or two in your case.”

Norah Jean turns to Miranda. “I need at least a dozen hair pins or something. I’m not going anywhere until I can get this damn hair situated.”

Miranda sighs and digs into a belt pocket, pulling out its contents and examining them. “The best I can do is seven pins and a hair tie.”

“I can work with that.” She takes the pins and hair tie and braids her hair, out of practice hands moving slowly to make sure the braid is neat and tight. Tying off the end, she works it into a flat coil at the base of her neck, using the pins as frugally as she can. “There. As long as I keep the helmet on, it should hold up.” Her head is pounding, and the pins certainly aren’t doing her any favors, but the hair is dealt with for now. Maybe she should just cut it all off. Its been two years since she’s braided it.

She checks over the pistol and shotgun assigned to her before putting on her helmet and following Miranda and Jacob to the shuttle bay.

“What? Veetor is injured. He needs treatment, not an interrogation!”

“We won’t hurt him, we just need to see if he knows anything else. He’ll be returned unharmed.”

“Your people tried to betray us once already, if we give him to you, we may never get the intel we need.”

“Prazza was an idiot and he and his men paid for it. You’re welcome to take Veetor’s omnitool data, but please, just let me take him.”

“Tali, you don’t have to just take Veetor and go, we could work together, just like old times.” Norah Jean knows Tali’s answer, even before she asks, but she’s so desperate for something familiar, she’ll try anything.

“I want to, Shepard, but I can’t. I’ve got a mission of my own. It’s too important for me to abandon, even for you. When its over, if I’m still alive, we’ll see what happens.”

“Sounds dangerous, what are you up to?”

“I don’t think Cerberus needs to hear about it, but it’s in Geth space, that should tell you how important it is.”

Norah Jean nods, then turns back to Jacob and Miranda. “Veetor is traumatized, and he needs medical care. Specialized medical care. Tali will give us the omnitool data and take him back to the flotilla.”

“Understood, Commander.” She tries to ignore the icy note in Miranda’s voice.

“Thank you, Shepard, I’m glad you’re still the one giving the orders. Good luck out there, if I find anything out there that can help you, I’ll let you know.

Norah Jean stands in the semi dark as the QEC powers down, rubbing her temples. Two years. Gone. She died. The door opens behind her.

“Hey, Norah Jean, just like old times, huh?”

She can’t turn around fast enough, stumbling over her own feet to come face-to-face with her best friend. He’s wearing black and gold.

“Jeff!” Her voice cracks, and she knows her face is doing something ugly as she tries not to cry. He throws an arm around her shoulders, rubbing her back, and it’s all she can do to keep her composure as she hugs him.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell a soul that Commander Shepard is an ugly crier.”

“I thought I was all alone.” She pulls back enough to wipe her eyes. “I can’t trust anybody here. They’re all Cerberus.”

“Well, you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” She wipes her eyes again, sniffling as they leave the QEC room.

“Look who’s talking, I watched you get spaced!”

“I got lucky, there’s a lot of strings attached. How’d you end up here?”

“It all fell apart without you, Norah Jean, everything you stirred up? The council wanted it gone. They broke up the team, sealed records, and I was grounded. The Alliance took away the one thing that mattered most to me. Hell yeah, I joined Cerberus.”

“You really trust the Illusive Man?”

“I don’t trust anyone who makes more than I do, except you. But they aren’t all bad. Saved your life. Let me fly-“ He pauses, looking out the windows into the dark hangar. “And there’s this. They only told me last night.”

Norah Jean watches as the lights slowly illuminate the massive ship docked there. The Normandy. Only she’s twice her original size. Black and gold. The wrong insignia. Two years. The SR2.

“Its good to be home, huh, Norah Jean?”

“Yeah. I guess we’ll have to give her a name.”

The captain’s quarters were disgustingly huge. The empty space echoed and the fish tank was too loud. The lights didn’t turn all the way off. The personal bathroom was nice. Even if she didn’t recognize the ghost in the mirror. Two years.

The clothes in the closet fit her well. They aren’t hers. They’re all stiff and new. No familiar comfort of an undershirt too worn to wear under her uniform. Its all utilitarian, even the civilian clothes look like part of a matched set. The wrong colors. Black and gold stare her down everywhere she looks.

The desk is big. A model of the SR2 catches her eye. Then she sees the photo. She died two years ago, but the photo on her desk was taken mere weeks before it happened. She and Kaidan sit on the bench on the back porch of her parents’ house in Anchorage, doused in golden sunlight. Neither of them are looking at the camera. They’re so focused on each other that the rest of the world might as well not exist. Two years is a long time to be gone. That photo had only existed in two places, her own omnitool and Kaidan’s. The Norah Jean in that photo died. Maybe she doesn’t exist anymore. The frame goes dark when she turns her head away.

Dr. Chakwas would be lying to herself if she tried to say she hadn’t been waiting for the Commander to drop by. If very nearly felt like old times, the Commander’s boundless curiosity leading them through several rounds of questions. What she’s been up to the last two years, why she was here now, this and that. Then Shepard gets a look of sheepishness that would fit better on a new recruit than Commander Shepard, scuffing her boot on the deck and glancing around the medbay.

“Have you got another question, Commander?”

“You’ve got a pair of clippers in here somewhere, right, Doc?”

“Yes, they should be in a case on the shelf in the back.”

“I’m gonna borrow them, thanks.”

“Of course, Commander.”

The buzz of the clippers is almost as comforting as her biotics. Their weight in her hand feels good as she flips the switch on and off a few times. Turns them back on.

Her hair falls away as easily as those two years. Brown curls just barely brush her shoulders. She can’t place the feeling she gets as she looks in the mirror, recognizing a little more of the person who stares back. The lights are still too bright, but her head hurts just a smidge less.

When the Commander returns the clippers, gone is the three feet of rich brown curls, replaced by a bouncy bob, pinned back and away from her face. She carries herself differently, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She seems surer of herself than she’d been a few hours ago.

Chakwas stops her before she gets out of the medbay door. “You know I was half worried you’d come back with a buzz-cut. Your new hair suits you.”

“Yeah? I figured it was time for a change. Thanks again, Doc.”

“Any time, dear.”

#aftermath #norah jean shepard #jeff joker moreau #jacob taylor #miranda lawson #karin chakwas #mass effect fic #mass effect 2 fic #goodbye shitload of dialogue i hated writitng u #this just in #writing sucks and is hard #mandi writes #we broke 10k words boys

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captainderyn · 4 years ago

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[Fic] I’ve Kept This For You

Read on AO3

Aramys belongs to @lumielles

---

Nothing in the Empire fell further from grace than the Dark Council.

As many times as Wren had clashed with Darth Marr and the Council that she had joined as a fresh eyed, ambitious young Sith Lord, at least it hadn’t bled corruption and dysfunction as this new entity that had formed under Acina.

It was amazing, truly, that Wren had not been thrown from her own seat, or perhaps forcefully evicted from it by punishment of death. Perhaps it was the virtue of her reputation that kept her safe.

Not that virtue of reputation did anything for her fellow Councilors. The new faces around her hadn’t cared about their predecessor’s accomplishments.

Wren swore with confidence that the only thing that kept her in her seat was the simple fact that no one wanted to head the Sphere of Military Diplomacy and Expansion under the Eternal Empire or the wartime years.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

And the crown wears heavy.

The very topic of her sphere had earned her disproportionate attention when Arcann’s forces had staged their second attempted coup on the Empire. That was the day she had seen the members of her original Council forcibly returned to their maker.

For a time she wished she had joined them.

Forgotten for a few months by her fellow sith, grasped in the hands of the Eternal Empire, Wren had been toyed with worse than a manka cat with its prey.

The Council chamber she stormed back into had been changed in its entirety. Acina had turned the Empire on its head and taken the Council with her. Puppets on a string, was what they were reduced to.

All new faces. Except for Vowrawn. Stars forbid that man ever die.

Once an open room with councilors set up in a semi circle, equal on level and uniform, now was a glorified throne and council room. Acina sat at the head on a raised dais, her puppets sat cascading away from her.

Tarissma had of course informed Wren of this, among other things. She backed Wren now, standing just behind her left shoulder.

“Ah, Lord Thornley. So...interesting to see your return.” she had said and the demotion had boiled Wren’s blood.

“That’s Darth Xin.” She had corrected icily.

Acina had looked across her councilors, gesturing to what presumably was Wren’s position. “In your absence I was forced to fill your sphere’s head, Lord Thornley.” she explained. The pointed use of her demoted title did not escape Wren.

Wren tilted her head, narrowing her eyes, “I become incapacitated, you appoint my Second in my stead. Why is Tarissma not sitting there, hm? She’s more than earned it.”

Before Acina had even been able to begin to justify her appointment, Wren was holding up a hand, her voice forceful,

“Because she does not fit your cohort of loyal akk dogs,” she spat, “Acina, I want my seat back now.”

Acina had held up her hands, eying Wren with someone she hadn’t been able to place, “Now, now, that isn’t how the process works.”

Enough was enough. Wren hadn’t come back broken and beaten to have everything she built ripped away from her.

“Oh, you want proper?” she sneered, whipping around to pinpoint the thief of what was hers. Never one to play into the violence of her peers or to stoop to vicious acts, she could feel unease prickling through the force around her. Good.

Her replacement had shrieked as he was dragged from the seat and pinned to the floor with the force. He had spluttered, air huffing from his body as she had slammed her heeled boot between his shoulders.

“I’ve spent months under the torture of the Eternal Empire and revealed nothing of our secrets. I could have so easily ruined everything you’ve worked for.”

Heat had crackled down her arm, threads of lightning snapping around her fingers, “It’s mine.” she had snarled.

It was all a show, not that some of these new faces would know that. Vowrawn had started clapping slowly, breaking the tension into shattered fragments.

“Very good Xin,” he had drawled. “Quite the show for you. Acina, do give her back her seat before she proves her point. We’ve had to downsize the janitorial team afterall.”

Sitting now on the Council, Wren wasn’t sure whether her seat was worth the show. She was reduced to little more than a figurehead--Acina much preferred to deal with the Alliance herself and put her own military heads in charge of diplomacy.

Acina had a very strong habit of not providing anything to her Council. Information, data, tasks to do. So when a meeting was on her roster for 09:00 Kaasi Time in the morning, Wren went in blind.

Of course she had heard of the infamous Commander of the Alliance. Though her name did not follow her as much as her title did. In fact, Wren had done a double take when she had first heard the Commander’s name. Cried, more like, clutching datapad in hand.

Because Aramys Lumielle was meant to be dead. Five or six years, six feet below ground or lost in the vacuum of space, dead to be precise when Wren had learned this information.

Seeing the Commander burst through the doors of the Council chamber in person, however, was unlike reading a name or seeing the holos. It drove a knife into Wren’s chest and twisted violently.

Seeing Aramys again made Wren drawn a hand over her mouth to mask the shaky breath she took.

Aramys appeared taken aback by the new chamber, just as much as when Wren had walked back in. It didn’t stop her for more than a moment. That was Aramys, commandeering the attention of the Council when she had something she wanted to say. Wren had done the very same with her on countless action proposals.

The meeting passed by in fragments and blurs for Wren. She could not tear her eyes from Aramys, silently taking in the reality that her dearest friend was still there. Living, breathing, not some resurrected figment used only for publicity and morale.

How, she did not know. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the very desperate need to talk to Aramys, rising in her like a tidal wave.

She didn’t even know if Aramys saw her. Right now, if she did, she wasn’t acknowledged.

Perhaps it was for the best, Wren was struggling to keep her composure enough as it was.

Despite several years passing, Aramys did not look like time had passed by her the same. Yet there was a new way that she held herself, weight that had landed on her shoulders and seemed to threaten to crush her.

Wren zeroed back in on the reality around her when Aramys’ voice drew her back, authoritative and cutting through the chamber:

“The next time I come to this chamber, I will have my old seat back.”

Anathel was spineless in Wren’s opinion, he was stupid to even fight it. Stupidity is what led to his limp body laying in the middle of the floor and his seat vacant. He could have walked away.

Acina was furious, it almost made Wren laugh aloud to see the rigid tension in her shoulders and the hyper controlled way she spoke. Each word was too measured.

“This is not the same Dark Council you once sat on.” Acina grit out. “Though I suppose there are small allowances that can be made for your help.”

Wren kicked her legs over the arm of her seat, propping her chin on her fist, “I believe we should let Imperius back on, for old times sake.” she said.

The glare that bored into the side of her head was palpable enough from Acina that Wren could practically smell her hair singeing. She was too busy absorbed in the way that Aramys pivoted to look at her and the shock on her face.

“Some familiar faces are still here.” she said, amazed she managed to keep her voice steady when addressing her old friend. “I for one, voice for Imperius’ return.”

“Your opinions are noted with the proper respect, Xin.” Acina spat before addressing the Commander once again, “We will discuss this in further detail, Commander. You all are dismissed.”

Acina’s puppets cleared out fast, skirting around Anathel’s still slightly smoking form. Wren curled her nose as she strode down from her seat; he had deserved it but it was truly unsightly.

Vowrawn cornered Aramys before she could leave, capturing her in some manner of lax conversation. His eyes darted up to Wren as she approached and he gave a slight nod to Aramys. All that Wren caught as he turned to leave was a simple,

“I look forward to working with you again in the future.”

And then it was just them.

Well, them and the staff that Aramys had brought with her, hovering just outside the Council chamber. Wren saw them flitting back and forth impatiently. There were some familiar faces, but not names that stuck.

“Do you have a moment?” Wren asked, far steadier than she believed she could manage.

The knife twisted again when Aramys looked up at her--indeed looking up at her, her friend was missing the few inch heels Wren had come to know her in--dangerously threatening Wren’s composure. Being here and being here across the room were apparently two far different things right now.

“For you? Of course.” Aramys said as if that didn’t break the steady ground of Wren’s world from beneath her and send her plummeting. “For the rest of that Council, not in the slightest.”

“They’re horrible.” Wren said breathily, trying to remember how to breath around the growing tightness in her throat. “Acina was not lying when she said it was not the same Council you left behind.”

Left behind. The words felt too pointed, struck Wren like a blow while they barely seemed to phase Aramys.

An uncertain quiet passed between them, Aramys’ eyes wandering over Wren in the same way Wren had studied her in the center of the Council chamber, trying to piece together that they were both grounded in reality.

“I’ve kept your plants alive.” Wren said suddenly, shakily. It felt of paramount importance to inform her of this. What was Aramys to do--load them on her ship and tote them back?

“They’re in my office now but...they’ll all mostly still alive.” She had cried over those she hadn’t been able to keep alive. Violent, miserable sobs over wilting plants. It would have been truly embarrassing if Wren could write of the true and vicious pain it had caused her.

Aramys’ eyes widened. Then a smile graced her face, as small a smile as it was, and Wren felt she had been gifted a rare gift, “That was an entire office full--perhaps a jungle’s worth. That’s quite the endeavor to take on--just for me…?”

“Just for you.” Wren said distractedly before catching herself, a violent heat flaring in her neck and cheeks. She scrambled to brush it off, her joking tone falling further than flat. It might as well have plummeted from the edge of the Citadel tower:

“And besides, the Garden Quarter wouldn’t take all of them.”

Concern spread between them through the force, an achingly familiar connection in the Force that had gone unused for years. Wren hadn’t felt it stir since what she learned were the events on Marr’s ship had severed it.

Aramys reached out, laying her hand over Wren’s. “Are you alright?” she asked. Then added with a little laugh, “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost--thought that was reserved for me.”

It was too much. Wren laced their fingers together for a brief moment before letting go and tucking her hand close to her. Her world was shifting and crumbling around her, the loss she had convinced herself of over the last several years completely going up in smoke.

She drew in a ragged breath. Tears were dangerously close to falling, she could feel them gathering on her lashes, “I thought you were dead.”

Right in front of her part of Aramys crumbled too, “I know. If I had known--”

“No.” Wren cut her off. “I don’t want that. One year or seven years doesn’t change the fact that I mourned for you as a close friend.”

Another piece of Aramys’ expression crumbled with a soft, “Oh, Wren.” before Wren was being wrapped in a hug that almost made her knees go out from beneath her. Her refusal to fall in front of the Alliance members was all that kept her knees locked.

In the embrace Wren gifted herself a single soft sob. “I’m just glad to see you’re alive.”

“And I you.” Aramys mumbled into Wren’s shoulder, muffled by the downy fabric of her robes, “And that you’ve held your ground well these last few years.”

Something was processing in Aramys’ mind because her hands tightened in Wren’s robes, catching the long ends of Wren’s hair before she released. Pulling back, she looked up at Wren with large, dark eyes.

“Would you consider coming back to Odessen? Joining the Alliance?” she asked.

Wren blinked, taken aback by the question long enough that Aramys scrambled to amend herself:

“I know that you’ve built a lot here. You have your Council seat and if you don’t wish to give that up--”

“Aramys,” She interrupted, smiling carefully at her old friend. “I would need to consider it. But I have nothing tying me here.”

Her friend’s eyes jumped down to Wren’s hand, where there once had sat an expensive statement of her ties to an old Sith family.

“That’s void. I have nothing here.” Wren explained before the question could be asked.

“Oh.” Aramys said smally. Her hand was still resting on Wren’s arm, gripping her sleeve. “But will you consider it? I-I could really use a friend there.”

So much more had happened than Wren could know right now, she could see that in the growing cracks in Aramys’ expression. Her heart ached and she knew that the only consideration she would be doing was how to step away from the Council and disperse of her Kaasi belongings.

“I will.” she assured and it seemed to soothe Aramys.

“Then for now can we at least go to my plants.” her friend asked, a note of careful pleading in her words. “I’d like to see how you took care of them.”

Wren laughed softly. “You may be sorely disappointed, but we may.” she extended her arm to Aramys, an old courtesy she had always offered her fellow Dark Council member, “Shall we?”

#swtor #swtor fanfic #swtor onslaught #onslaught spoilers #sith inquisitor #female sith inquisitor #oc: Wren #other people's ocs: Aramys #casually rises from the dead to crank out 2000 words for Lumielles and Lumielles only #I will die on the hill of these two sith ladies i love them SO MUCH

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theofficersacademy · 5 years ago

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Days grow ever shorter as the cold deepens across Fodlan, sprinkling the first powders of hoarfrost from its icy hand. Roaring fires become the eye of every household, a halo of red to match that which cloaks the silhouettes of wolves under the growing moon, their distant howls striking fear into the hearts of shepherds in the dark.

At Garreg Mach monastery, a request has come in from the Goneril Valkyries for assistance in manning and repairing Fodlan’s Locket. An early snowstorm, coupled with the damage from Gricenchos two months prior, has caused no small trouble for Fodlan’s primary eastern fortress. A call goes out to the Golden Deer House:

Golden Deer Mission: Assist with Protection and Repairs of Fodlan’s Locket!

This season’s rotation belongs to the Golden Deer! As before, threads using tasks from the Golden Deer board must contain a Golden Deer character as a participant, but there are also non-mission tasks available to everyone without restrictions.

GD Mission Task Board

Ever since the incident with Gricenchos, already-fraught tensions between Fodlan and Almyra have run even higher. Captain Irina has seemed more stressed lately whenever Elam, head of Almyra’s border guard and Irina’s ‘friend’, appears at the Locket. It appears that, against her better judgment, he’s adamant about offering his help too, along with a couple of the friendlier Almyrans. Surprisingly though, the most immediate issue seems to be that the Almyrans’ wyverns won’t stop bullying the pegasi! Got any solutions?

Part of the Valkyries’ training is learning to maneuver their pegasi dauntlessly through arrow fire: a pegasus knight’s worst fear. However, with so many of the archers who usually assist them assigned to other duties or relocated throughout the Alliance, they’re short on hands. Anyone who has some experience with a bow and is willing to help with their flight drills or man a mock ballista would be a huge asset. [Grants Bow +1]

Just before the storm that devastated the Locket, a routine patrol came across an odd young man traveling alone in the northern region of the Throat. Something about him seemed strange, and he carried a sinister, bejeweled set of gauntlets made in striking Kupalan style. Even odder, he seemed to completely vanish before the patrol could bring him in. The snowstorm had come in from the north and completely unexpected, and rumors are spreading that he might have been the cause. Likely a snowstorm is just a snowstorm, but with all the unease, Irina is obliged to at least ask you to investigate. [Grants Gauntlet +1]

Distress calls have come in from some of the surrounding settlements as well: destroyed bridges, travel routes covered in snow, people who went missing in the storm. There’s no shortage of work to be done, but everyone is forbidden from going out without at least one partner. The Locket also has a team of search and rescue dogs for occasions like these that are trained to help, so take along one of those big fluffers with you!

Work never ends at the Locket, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t time for enjoyment, too. Late at night, when the howling winds of the Throat are at their loudest, the border guard sets up a bonfire in the fortress courtyard, passing out roast meat and warm drinks and sharing a song or two. The temperatures may be dropping faster in the mountains than almost anywhere else in Fodlan, but the view of the night sky is unimpeded: a moment of peace even in all the tumult.

NEW! As a new day dawns in Fódlan’s Throat, a caravan of supplies arrive in the Locket! Much of it is just what you need, but it seems like an extra treat has snuck its way into this new shipment: Dagdan chocolate! The soldiers stationed here are brimming with excitement: the story goes that hot cocoa warms your bones like nothing else, and given the winter they’ve been having they are all eager to try it. You better go see if it’s worth the buzz before they run out!

NEW! With this new shipment of supplies, it’s time to give them to villages in need! The horses and oxen have all been drafted and assigned to carry the heavy loads to the most remote villages. Where does that leave the closer villages, you ask? Well, surely even *you* know how to pull a sled across the snow, right? No more backtalk! Start hauling! [Grants +1 Heavy Armor]

Non-Mission Task Board

Local villages are sending a plea to the church for help: bolder than ever this year, wolf packs are terrorizing livestock, and one shepherd has already been killed trying to defend his herd at night. People have painted their doors with a bow and arrow: a tradition to invoke the protection of Indech who is said to have once defended villagers from the same threat. But the wolves prowl ever closer...

The annual Faculty and Knights Mixer takes place in the second week of the Red Wolf Moon! Now is the opportunity for students to get to know their teachers and the holy warriors who guard the Seiros faith. Rumor is that the dining hall brings out their best food for the occasion. Share a casual chat, or for the sneakier among us, get into someone’s good graces for those top marks. [Grants Authority +1]

There’s been talk of a particularly enormous canine stalking the outskirts of Garreg Mach, and several reports of this rare monster sighting have led the administration to decide to do something about it. Apparently, there’s someone who also claims that this massive wolf is guarding a collection of highly rare wootz steel in its den. The blacksmiths would love you if you could bring back some of it.

The 21st of the Red Wolf Moon marks the anniversary of the founding of the Kingdom, and the dining hall is serving foods from Faerghus to celebrate. Though not as lavish as the Alliance Founding Day fair, there are a few events going on around town too, among them jousting tournaments, horse races, and horse shows in the spirit of Faerghus’ most well known traditions. [Grants Lance or Riding +1]

A tragedy occurs not even five hours into the new moon. The statues of the blessed saints Macuil, Indech, Cichol, and Cethleann have been ruined! From head to toe they are dressed in the most hideous and gaudiest clothes that Fódlan has to offer. Each one has been found with a piece of parchment pinned onto their chests, bearing a strange symbol. Reports indicate that some of the students, particularly known members of the historical book club Pages of the Incunabula, have been seen wearing this same symbol on their chests. You better not join them! Protect the remaining statues from being defaced, and bring these evildoers to justice!

NEW! Who can concentrate on homework and assignments when the Ethereal Ball is just around the corner? There isn’t much time left before the event, and everyone is working their hardest to make sure this year’s ball lives up to its legacy! Whether it’s decorating the main hall, preparing the food, or cleaning up the rest of the monastery, help out with the preparations! Or grab a dance partner and get to practicing your steps!

NEW! If you thought too many people visited the monastery for the new year, just wait until you see how many people are willing to make the long journey for Garreg Mach’s founding day! While you can help the clergy manage the crowds, some of the priests are more concerned with assembling the perfect choir to sing all five songs for this lengthy service. If you have the pipes of an angel, why not go to tryouts this weekend? [Grants +1 Faith]

Frequently Asked Questions

How does the divided task board work?

This season’s mission is assigned to the Golden Deer. Therefore, tasks from the ‘GD Mission Task Board’ must be undertaken by someone from the Golden Deer House. However, they may choose to perform the task with someone who is not from their house. In logistical terms, this means that if you play a non-GD muse and want to do a mission task, you must ask someone who plays a GD muse to thread with you. All thread participants will still receive any skill point rewards.

Tasks from the ‘Non-Mission Task Board’ have no house restriction and can be undertaken by anyone.

These aren’t the only threads I can do, right?

Of course not! These are just prompts to help give some ideas of possibilities. You’re always free and encouraged to make up your own threads.

How do I claim the skill points?

In order to qualify for the skill point, the thread must clearly allude to the listed task and preferably feature the task being completed. You do not need to message the masterlist to claim your skill point.

Can I only do one task?

Nope, you can do as many as you’d like with as many different partners as you’d like! You can do the same task with more than one person. You are also free to combine tasks in your thread. However, you can only claim any skill points once, and one thread can only count for one skill point.

What if my partner leaves or drops a skill point thread?

If the dropped thread has at least 5 notes (not counting likes, only reblogs with replies in them) and you have hit at least 400 words on your end, you may still claim the skill point. The mun dropping the thread is not eligible to claim the point.

Remember to use (and track!) the #toa open tag for any open threads, and you can also post a link to your open thread on the appropriate Discord channel! If you have any other questions or concerns, shoot us a message through the masterlist or on Discord!

#toa mission #mission: sastrugi

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onwesterlywinds · 5 years ago

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Orella Steelhand is not sure what she's expecting, really. An empty house. Dusty rooms, long abandoned in the wake of Theodoric's reign and never settled into a new life. It's certainly boarded up enough that it looks abandoned, from the outside... But she'd long since learnt that ghost stories were told for a reason, and, well, they can't have an infestation of bhoots leashed upon Ala Mhigo, can they? It'd just be another layer of shit on the proverbial cake. No, better she sticks her nose in and finds out what the fuss is about before something happens. At worst, she'll have a fight on her hands, but even unladen by the heavy sword she is today; it's in Ingvald's care, due a vacation from her shoulder blades- she has no less than six knives hidden on herself, and she's wary. She can take whatever's there, if it's so inclined to scrap. At best, an empty house. So she bangs on the door, hard enough that wood dust is shaken from it and settles on the stoop, and waits for barely ten heartbeats before she tries the handle.

Rosenheim is about to settle down with a drink when there's a knock upon the door. At first he wonders if he should answer it, but no one from the Riskbreakers has alerted him of the need for a place to stay in the city. It might also be someone looking for Ashe, in which case, he'd do better than to tell them that she was occupied. As the knocker attempts to turn the handle, however, he gets up and opens the door. He's a little surprised to see Orella Steelhand, though not unpleasantly so.

"I've heard the news of your engagement," he says. "Congratulations."

Whatever Orella was expecting, the familiar face of Rosenheim didn't rank even low on the list. She's thrown, for a second, before she pulls her guard back around herself, and pulls a face. Even under the half-mask, it's clearly a wince. "... Yeah, okay," she mutters rather than touch that with any length of pole. "Why'm I surprised at all you're at the heart of a fucking ghost story. Who else would it have been."

Ashley Rosenheim makes a face that might be a very sarcastic smile. "This has been my house since I was younger than Ashelia," he said. "Even when I was in the Riskbreakers." But he knows the rumors well - perhaps better even than Orella - and isn't surprised at her shock. Then, he frowns. "...Ashelia didn't tell you that this was to be the Riskbreakers' temporary base in Ala Mhigo?"

Orella removes her mask, then tucks it under her arm in a well-practiced move. "... I've seen Ashelia hardly at all since Dalmasca," she says, and shrugs. "There were... more pressing things to talk about, then. Truth be told, I've been on my own for most of the time since." And she can't help but sneak a glance around. It looks so lived in, so at odds with its exterior. Familiar, almost.

"Come in, please." He beckons loosely to the table, and the wine atop it. His dinner was simple - fresh bread and vegetables - but the fireplace is warm and inviting.

For once, her eyes slide right over the wine, and away from it, rather than making a beeline for it. She's clearly doing a little better. And she takes a step, but hesitantly. "... If I'm interrupting," she says, and looks around again, a little uncomfortable. "I thought I'd check this place out before I left the city again. Just in case."

He shakes his head. "Not in the least. I'm here only for tonight to ensure everything's locked up. Then I'll be back at the Sandsea." Keeping watch - there was a mission in the Far East that he had scarcely heard about. "And if you've any questions about the house, I may be able to answer them." He sits, indicating that she is welcome to do the same.

Orella simply nods, taking a step closer to the fireplace as he moves, and once again is overwhelmed by how familiar it is. From the pillows on the floor to the very luster of the wood, it's all so heartbreakingly reminiscent of her childhood that she has to draw a deep breath. And with just a little effort, she turns her back on it all- and the flames warm the back of her neck as she sits, crosses her legs comfortably. "... Generous of you to offer this place as a base," she says after a long moment.

"For all intents and purposes, it's Ashelia's now." He gestures with his head toward the two-person futon behind him. Sure enough, beside that bed is a makeup tin and some miscellaneous pink garments, and some of Edge's accessories.

Orella's eyes slide over to the futon, and her brows lift - she can't help it, after a whole soldier's life - but she says nothing, and drums her fingers against her knee. She can hear the bastard wine calling her name, and it's driving her crazy. "Have you coffee? Or a tea? Anything?" she asks, annoyed at the way it comes out. "I'll make a pot of whatever."

Rosenheim notices where her gaze keeps straying and nods; he stands up, taking the bottle with him, leaving only his half-emptied glass behind. "Tea. I'll make some."

And Orella can't help the sigh of relief that escapes her once it disappears. She'd known she had a problem - between the sweats and Ingvald's constant disapproval - but never thought it could run so deep. She swallows, mouth dry, and leans forward to study the grain of the table as Ashley busies himself. "... How'd you hear?" she asks, rather than thank him.

"My wife," he says simply. "She and your now-fiancé keep correspondence. Though she's returned to the Palace of the Dead for the time being." He can't stop Tia from going, and he knows he has no right to dislike or disapprove of her one-woman crusades, but it fills him with unease all the same.

Orella simply snorts at that. She's only met Tia the once, and only briefly at that, and she... doesn't know what to make of her. Rather than deal with that, she pushes it deep down and forgets about it. "Right. Of course." and runs her hand through her hair. She wouldn't be surprised to learn the news has spread through the Undercity, and if there's one visit she thinks she could go without, it's a celebratory Einar. It's not worth thinking about unless she wants a headache, though, and she shrugs, like a sudden but heartfelt marriage is nothing special. "... It's good to see you this side of the border," she says instead. "How....'ve you been?" and she sounds unsure. He's still older, still a superior, still the stuff of legends to her.

"Well enough." He's been having more and more trouble filling his days, especially now that Tia and Ashelia are off on adventures and he's the one at home. He has yet to fully adjust. A thought strikes him, and he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "I tried to indulge in my old morning run, the one I'd take before Garlemald: a course up and down all the steps of the White Aisle. The Resistance soldiers standing guard couldn't have been more suspicious. Things certainly have changed."

Orella bursts out laughing. "Shit, Riot," she says, and it slips out before she realises, before she can stop herself. "Of course they'd be suspicious. Who else runs the length of the Aisle? Madmen is who." and she sobers a little, all traces of mirth gone. "Still overrun with those dhruva?"

He nods. The kettle's boiling now; he fills an old teapot with rose-scented leaves and boiling water. "And the yabbies are coming up to the lowermost steps. Still, until the roads see regular use, I imagine the Alliance has bigger priorities." He sits down across from her this time with the teapot; for all the talk of his strenuous exercise, there isn't the faintest trace of fatigue in his movements. "And I hear little and less from Ashelia on that front."

Orella grunts, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She knows he's right, but it doesn't make it any less irritating to know the Lochs are still lawless. And it strikes her suddenly: "... I don't know what Ashelia does," she announces. "What is she, a politicker? Doesn't strike me as the type."

Rosenheim sighs. Deeply. "I don't think she herself knows." He reaches for his glass of wine but does not drink it at once. "She's been working closely with the forming council, and with Lyse Hext and Raubahn Aldynn and all the others, to better tend to all of Ala Mhigo. But there are... certain other factors at play." He covers up his hesitation by drinking; by the time his glass is done, he's decided that Orella can be trusted. "How much do you know of the Undercity? Aside from your friend Einar."

Orella snorts again when he calls Einar a friend, but doesn't correct him. And it's hard, hard to watch the wine go, but the warmth at her fingers is... better than nothing, she suppose, and promptly burns her tongue on the still-hot liquid. "Not a whole amount," she admits. "Pretty much all we were taught in the army. It exists, it's big, it's home to the criminals. It's where they go when we can't find who we need to arrest, because they know we'll never follow."

"It is that - and much more." He looks her straight in the eye. "As its name suggests, it is a city unto itself - a city with its own customs and heritage and laws. ...Ashelia is working to bring it into the fold of the city proper, to ensure that those below the capital receive the same aid and care and education as those above."

Orella whistles, leans back in her chair. "Well, shit," she says, in awe. "That... that's something else. You think she's got a chance? It's big, I know that much."

"It's not so much the size of it," he says. "It's that the people there are not wont to be led easily. The Undercity is fragmented at best and openly anarchic at worst. Worse still... Ashelia has been gone twenty years." He sighs again, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth back a stray lock. "...She's fought back dragons, primals, even two imperial viceroys. But she's..."

The list of accomplishments garners a small grin from Orella, at least. Not for the first time, she's glad she ran, glad she found her way to the Goblet all that time ago. If she'd been on the other side... well. It doesn't bear thinking about. She sips her tea again, mollified by the fact it's no longer hot enough to scald, and "hm"s thoughtfully. "... You want me to contact Einar?" she asks, and she means it, to her surprise. She doesn't know the affair of the Undercity, but if it'd help put his mind at ease, she could tolerate his company.

Ashley Rosenheim hadn't so much as made the connection, but the possibility of it opens up a whole host of other considerations and possibilities - and, dare he think it, some hope. "Please," he says, and the short word is tinged with gratitude.

"I don't know what to ask," she says frankly, but she's looking him in the eye, seriously. "If there's one thing he's always hated, it's a time-waster. You got specific questions, ask 'em. I'll do what I can."

To ask a mere acquaintance to look after his daughter would be an insult to all involved. Rosenheim knows that the request must be worth Einar's time, while still upholding Ashelia's dignity in the eyes of the Undercity. "...Ask him, if you would, to bring her information." That should at least be enough. "He need not delve into espionage for her sake, but she's lacking much of what she needs to make an informed judgment on how best to proceed with her plans. Or abandon them."

A complicated expression rises to Orella's face as she imagines Ser godsdamned Einar appearing before Ashelia Riot in all his... well, certainly not glory. "Can't promise that," she says, knowing Einar well enough even after this long that he'd prefer to poke his nose where it doesn't belong than let sleeping dogs lie. "But I'll tell him."

"I understand."

And she fixes Ashley with a stern look. "What do you want to happen?" she asks firmly. "Off the record. Lips sealed, doesn't leave this room, what have you. Would you leave the Undercity as it is? Or...?"

At that, he again finds himself hesitating. Even he isn't certain. He and Tia spoke only a short time ago of a very similar topic, and yet they came no closer to a resolution. "Off the record," he manages. "Ashelia was given for a second name that of my friend Marco - a brother to me, and one of the finest men I've ever known. He lived most of his life in the Undercity and worked from within to improve it. And he died when a bomb went off in a tavern aboveground. In a perfect world, Marco would be alive, all of Ala Mhigo would be a far better place for it, and Ashelia would have grown up truly knowing that the Undercity is not a thing to be so easily fixed with the right leader and the proper funds."

Orella nods when he finishes, drums her fingers against her knee again. "So, no, then."

He shakes his head. "I want much the same thing my daughter does. As have many people who have come before me - including the previous owner of this house." He stares down at the floorboards, as though Sigrid Keane might return at that very moment to bestow upon them her guidance. "I don't know if it's possible. Or perhaps I'm too jaded."

She huffs a laugh at that. Who among them isn't? "All we can do is try," she says softly. "Let her. If it's futile, she'll learn. And if she manages, so will we."

"You're right," he admits. It's a sentiment similar to Tia's, though he does not say so. Once again, he realizes that his thoughts are compounded from twenty years of separation - his from Ashelia, and Ashelia's from Ala Mhigo. "...Gods, you're right."

#Ashley Rosenheim #Orella Steelhand #Understory

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nicolewrites · 5 years ago

Text

i apologize for my divinity (it is never enough) - iii

this ride don’t stop till i say it does. here’s part 3 and it’s even wordier than part ii so you’re welcome?

Rating: T+ Genre: Angst, Friendship, Family Characters: Byleth/My Unit, Claude R., Dimitri B., Sothis, the Golden Deer Words: 7,958

AO3 | FFN

pt. i | pt. ii

iii - white clouds, redux

- ~ -

/ great tree moon /

If Byleth swings her sword a little quicker now, Jeralt doesn't notice. Cutting through the bandits is achingly familiar, but she feels weak. Her muscles are looser and not as practiced and the skill of her students is lacking as well. Byleth finds herself fighting close to Dimitri's side out of habit, but it feels wrong somehow to see him as he used to be–whole and unbroken.

There's a terrible, dark moment when she sees the leader of the bandits lunge at Edelgard. She wonders, what if I don't save her? What happens then? Her feet are anchored into the ground as her mind deliberates.

The answer is not one she likes. Both Claude and Dimitri lunge forward to protect the Imperial Princess in her stead. Dimitri takes the axe across the back and his lance dips and plunges into Claude's stomach as the Alliance Heir shoves Edelgard away. Byleth doesn't wait for their bodies to hit the ground before she's whipping time backwards.

"As to be expected," Sothis says. "We'll have to change things later on."

Byleth drives her blade up and protects Edelgard. She escorts the students back to the monastery, alongside her father, Alois and the Knights of Seiros. The familiarity of everything hurts and Byleth can't help but feel that she's trudging an endlessly repeating path to a mass grave.

As Garreg Mach looms above before them, Byleth can feel the unease rolling off of her father. Alois seems excited, as always, but Byleth keeps her mouth pressed quietly into a firm line. She watches Dimitri and the other exchange barbs. There's a lightness about him here, in this moment, that she aches to feel, but now that she looks at him all she can see is the hunched shoulders and incredible pain of the Dimitri he may become five years from now.

Edelgard's posture is stiff, but it's not yet the posture of the emperor she may become. Her lips still quirk at something Claude says which tells Byleth that she has time. Now that she's looking closely, she easily picks out the sheath of Dimitri's dagger at her hip. If it mysteriously disappeared, would it fix anything?

Claude, on the other hand, is still just Claude. His green eyes are playful and allude to the cleverness that hides just beneath the surface. To her surprise, however, Claude keeps stealing glances at her. When he studies her when he thinks she's not watching, his brow furrows just a bit and Byleth sees the analytic part of her student as he tries to dissect her with his gaze alone.

Later, after Alois drags Jeralt off for a drink and Byleth is left standing in the entrance hall with the three house leaders, Dimitri and Edelgard excuse themselves to find the rest of their houses. Claude lingers.

"This is going to sound a bit crazy," he says slowly. "But, have we met before?"

Byleth feels surprise ripple across her face because of course they have met before, but there is no way that Claude has any memory of it because that timeline was destroyed the moment she broke that thread.

Sothis? she inquires cautiously.

"Hmm, how peculiar," the goddess muses in Byleth's head. "He certainly has no real memory of you, but perhaps this is something deeper at work."

"No," Byleth articulates finally. "I've always been with my father and I've never left Fódlan."

Claude shakes his head briefly and gives her one of his signature trouble-maker smiles. "Of course, how silly of me to assume otherwise."

He leaves then and Byleth watches him go, a warm curiosity blossoming in her chest. Maybe, she ponders.

"Indeed," Sothis agrees.

- ~ -

The second time, she succumbs to her wonderings about Claude, Alliance Heir.

- ~ -

/ harpstring moon /

The Golden Deer have a kind of unrestrained chaos that was absent through her time with the Blue Lions. Sothis finds it funny as she struggles to rein in Claude and Hilda and to connect to the quiet Ignatz and Marianne.

Leonie seems to have a grudge against Byleth that can only be attributed to both of their relationships with Jeralt. Lorenz seems to have a mild enough interest in her, but she remembers that it is simply due to her Crest-bearing nature, even if no one here knows she has the Crest of Flames yet. Raphael is bright and optimistic and seems interested in her strength on the battlefield and her appetite in the dining hall.

Ignatz is quieter, but she catches him studying her many times as she lectures. Byleth hides her smile and lets him doodle her portrait. He has a great talent. Marianne is back to the quiet, self-hating girl Byleth remembers from before the war and she does everything she can to try to boost the girl's spirits. Lysithea is all sharp edges and defensiveness. She continues to work herself to the bone and Byleth brings her sweet treats and soothing tea to absolve the girl of some of her stress. Its origin is unknown to her, but she refuses to let any student of hers crumble under the pressure.

Hilda is both infuriating and entertaining to watch. She's a beast on the battlefield, cutting down her foes precisely and powerfully. But, she plays herself off as a dainty flower, batting her eyelashes and showering her fellow students in compliments until they do her dirty work. Byleth just rolls her eyes and presses Hilda for answers in class until she inevitably gives up the act and gives the answer that she's looking for.

Claude seems to find everything Byleth does funny. He sits in the middle of the classroom, close enough that she knows he takes notes in his elegantly messy scrawl, but he watches her all through class and combat training and even over shared meals like he's trying to break her down slowly. He has a calm, casual smirk on at almost all times, but it never seems to soften the sharp judgement of his green eyes.

In the time she has been here, Claude has not given up on his theory that he has met Byleth before and she would be lying if she said she wasn't a little bit worried about that fact. Claude is disastrously clever and the last thing she needs is a distraction from the reason that she's here–to fix things. Sothis finds him funny and takes every occasion to tell Byleth so.

Byleth ignores her for the most part, but when Claude gives her a more genuine smile it warms her right to the core and she has to turn away to hide the growing smile on her own face.

- ~ -

/ garland moon /

Facing off against Lonato feels strange without Ashe. Byleth has made a habit of checking in on her Blue Lions students pretty regularly and trying to forge connections with them even as she leads the Deer. She finds him in the cathedral the night after Lonato's death against and this time she sits with him and holds out her hand.

Ashe takes it without a word and squeezes it so tightly that it stings. After a while, his grip loosens, but his head hangs and he doesn't let her go. He doesn't seem to understand Byleth's investment in the situation, but he says nothing to her. When he finally leaves in the early hours of the morning, Byleth lingers, staring up at the statue of Saint Seiros.

Is any of this pain worth it? she asks silently.

"Is any of it preventable?" Sothis inquires back.

Byleth frowns. I don't think so.

"Then we must keep going," the goddess says.

Byleth nods and turns to leave. Claude is standing in the entranceway of the cathedral, staring at her and she stumbles when she sees him.

"Good morning, Teach," he says casually.

Byleth folds her arms as she approaches her student. "What are you doing awake?"

Claude shrugs. "I was going to do some aerial patrols and I saw you and Ashe. What's your deal with the Blue Lions, anyway?"

Byleth presses her lips together. "They're good kids. You all are. I'm just trying to make sure that everyone gets their fair share of time with me. I do teach everyone even if I'm leading the Golden Deer."

Claude steps forward, tipping his head to the side like a cat. The sharpness of his eyes glitters in the dim light of the cathedral. "And these good kids must include Edelgard and Hubert, right? And that's why you refused to correct Edelgard's axe grip even if you spent almost an hour trying to get Hilda to admit she already knew it."

"This child is too observant for his own good," Sothis grumbles.

Byleth steels herself and tries to present the neutral expression that had been second nature to her when she had been the Ashen Demon. "Shouldn't you be glad I'm not increasing the skills of another House Leader as much as I am with someone in your own house?"

Claude recognizes her deflection and gives her a slightly cheeky smile. "I am going to figure you out, Teach, you can mark my words." He winks and turns to leave, the yellow of his cape fluttering with the movement.

Something deep inside Byleth aches for a familiar blue cloak and the quiet stolen moments she shared with Dimitri in another life. She frowns as she watches Claude leave. He whistles for a wyvern as he's partway across the bridge connecting the monastery proper to the cathedral. He flies away on the beast like it's second nature to him and Byleth shifts uncomfortably.

Sothis is right. Claude is entirely too clever and observant for his own good. She needs to try harder.

- ~ -

/ blue sea moon /

Byleth has tea with Ferdinand and Lorenz one afternoon and smiles at the bottom of her cup as the two nobles chat about frugal things. It's a conversation that she's sat through before, but it's nice to see a lighter, genuine side to both of the students.

"Have you ever thought about changing houses, Ferdinand?" she asks before she can stop herself.

Ferdinand's teacup pauses halfway to his mouth. He cocks an eyebrow at her. "To the Golden Deer?"

Byleth shrugs. "Or to the Blue Lions."

Ferdinand muses over it for a moment. "It's an interesting proposition, Professor, and if my loyalties didn't lie so heavily in the Empire, I might consider it more."

Lorenz chuckles. "Well, we did win the mock battle so I can't blame you for wanting to join the clearly superior house."

Byleth laughs lightly at Lorenz's words, but the depth of Ferdinand's words draw her the image of the young man so corrupted by loyalty he died for a ruler who had no particular care for him. She bites into her lip and hides her displeasure behind her teacup.

They're sharing tea in Byleth's quarters upon Lorenz's suggestion and as she looks past her two guests, she spots Dimitri strolling by. She stands up before she even realizes what she's doing. She pauses, looking down at her students and smiling.

"Excuse me for a moment, I just need to grab Dimitri for a moment."

She slips out of the room before either noble heir can protest and sees that luckily Dimitri hasn't gone too far.

"Dimitri!" she calls out.

The Blue Lions Leader turns and smiles upon seeing her. "Professor, what a pleasant surprise!"

She smiles back at him. "Would you like to join us for some tea? Lorenz and Ferdinand had just stopped by and I thought you might want to sit down with us."

Dimitri's smile dips a little and he glances to his right to the Training Hall. "Ah, I would, but I had promised to train with Ingrid and Sylvain."

Byleth steps back. "I won't keep you then."

Dimitri looks back towards the Training Hall and hesitates. "But, if you'd like to join us after you finish with tea, I'm sure we would all appreciate your guidance."

Byleth raises her eyebrow. "Lances and spears are definitely not my strength so I'm sure you're all more adept than I would be." She presses him curiously, interested to see how he responds.

"But you're a strong fighter so you could figure it out, or you could use a sword and just absolutely destroy us either way," Dimitri points out.

Byleth chuckles. "I suppose I could." She glances past Dimitri to see Claude exiting the Training Hall and she consciously steps back, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between her and Dimitri.

Claude beelines towards them and slings an arm around Dimitri's shoulders, smirking. "Hello Dimitri, Teach," he greets.

Dimitri tenses at Claude's touch, but relaxes once the Alliance heir starts speaking. "Hello Claude," Dimitri greets coolly.

Byleth notes that the tension isn't completely gone from the prince's shoulders. He's definitely not as comfortable with Claude as he feels around just Byleth. She presses her lips together and turns her attention to Claude.

"Would you like to join Lorenz, Ferdinand and myself for tea, Claude?" she invites politely.

Claude winks at her. "I'd be honoured. I'll see you around then Dimitri." Claude lets Dimitri go and brushes past them both towards Byleth's quarters.

Byleth hesitates for a moment before following after Claude. "I'll see you for training later then," she says as a way of goodbye to Dimitri.

He smiles and warmth curls in Byleth's chest. He's not lost to her yet.

- ~ -

Much later, the Sword of the Creator hums in her grip. It's warm to the touch and familiar, but the way that the Golden Deer eye her with awe and surprise is a bit off-putting. She cracks the sword against the stone and cuts down the Church rebels without much further thought. There's no time for her to consult the familiarity coursing through her veins.

She focuses on the fight, not stopping until her breathing is the only thing she can hear. Her chest is tight and she's tired, but she is alive and her Fawns are alive and they're stronger than they used to be. They have gotten used to following her commands and execute them almost flawlessly.

Pride wells in her chest as she examines the path her students have carved. There is loss there too, for the time she has tackled this same set-up with the Blue Lions, but she refocuses on the moment. Her Deer have become important to her too, just like she intended.

"Professor!" Hilda calls.

Byleth turns and sees Hilda striding toward her. Claude is limping along behind her, his eyes fixated on the sword clutched in her hand. Byleth slides it into a loop on her belt and descends the dais towards them.

"Who's hurt?" Byleth asks Hilda.

Hilda shakes her head. "No one seriously," she replies, still staring at Byleth. "What is that?"

"It's the Sword of the Creator," Claude answers. His brow is cocked curiously. Despite whatever reason he is limping for, he doesn't seem to care, focusing entirely on the unique relic Byleth holds. "Isn't it?"

Byleth nods slowly. "Yes, I think so."

Claude shakes his head. He is obviously still suspicious, but his relief at the end of the battle seems to dominate his current consciousness. "I think you're going to have to explain some things to Rhea, Teach."

"Explain to Rhea?" Sothis scoffs. "More like she has some things to tell us."

Byleth shrugs both for Claude and Hilda and the goddess in her head. "I'm hoping she'll be able to answer some of my questions, actually."

- ~ -

/ verdant rain moon /

The black beast that Miklan turns into is no less unnerving this time than it was last time. It roars and charges her students and Byleth doesn't have time to be distracted. It seems to have a personal grudge against Ignatz as it pursues her archer even as he retreats.

Byleth doesn't have time to get to his side before it's atop him–jaws tearing at his throat his chest–and then she's calling on her Divine Pulse and praying desperately she can prevent that future from coming to fruition. For a terrifying moment, Byleth hears the beast's cries echo across the stones mixed with the terror of her students, and then her gut lurches and time winds backwards.

She instructs Ignatz to stay back this time and the beast focuses on her instead. She faces it down, clutching the sword so tightly that her palm burns from its constant heat. She slashes at it, Lysithea blasts it with her dark magic, and Marianne's white magic keeps her on her feet long enough to take it down.

Ignatz approaches her after, holding out a Vulnerary. "Professor," he says, brow creased. "How did you know to keep Claude, Leonie, and I out of its line of sight? We would have been done if that thing had gotten in close range."

Byleth downs the healing drought and smiles warily at her student. "I have a feeling that that thing was still clever enough to see an advantage where it could take it."

Ignatz studies her face for a long moment and Byleth hopes he can't read the lie on her face. After a moment, he nods and turns away. Byleth exhales and rubs her shoulder. The vulnerary has helped some, but she's still aching.

Better me than them, she thinks determinedly.

"They're different from the others," Sothis notes quietly.

Byleth considers the statement, watching as they clear the ruins of the bodies of the thieves, helping each other and passing around healing items to those who need them. Lysithea and Marianne focus on magic while Raphael and Hilda do much of the heavy lifting. They know their strengths and play to them.

I think I love them too, Byleth admits.

Sothis laughs and it warms Byleth where her heart should be. "I know you do."

- ~ -

At the monastery, as soon as Manuela lets her out of the infirmary, Byleth looks for Ingrid and Felix. They're chatting quietly in the Knight's Hall and look surprised to see her.

"Professor!" Ingrid exclaims, straightening her spine as Byleth approaches. "Weren't you hurt?"

Byleth waves off the concern. "Nevermind that." Felix eyes her slightly suspiciously and Byleth takes a deep breath. "I can talk to Hanneman for you," she offers.

Ingrid looks surprised, but Felix keeps his face strategically neutral. "Why?" he asks bluntly.

Byleth smiles sadly. "Because I know Sylvain is hurting and I want to help."

Ingrid frowns. "You don't have to do that."

"You'll do it even if we tell you not to though," Felix discerns, studying her face.

Byleth nods. "I will. I wish I could have stopped it."

"Did he really turn into a beast?" Ingrid asks quietly.

"I wish I could tell you otherwise," Byleth says slowly.

Felix turns away, staring at a training dummy in the sandpit instead. "And now Rhea wants Sylvain to take that relic, doesn't she?"

"He's safe to use it," Byleth assures, but Felix turns his flint sharp gaze back to her quickly.

"And you're sure about that?"

No, Byleth thinks desperately. I don't know if having the relics brings more pain than it's worth, but I'd so much rather it be in his hands than the hands of the church.

"Yes," she says instead.

Felix looks frustrated, but Ingrid nods. "We'll talk to Sylvain," she says finally.

"I wish you didn't have to," Byleth adds before she turns to leave. I wish I could absolve you all of your pain and your burdens.

- ~ -

/ horsebow moon /

Byleth feels the burn of the poison in her veins as soon as the Death Knight's scythe cuts into her. The familiar burn triggers something in her and she drops to her knees as pain turns her vision white.

"Professor!" Lorenz yells. He's the closest to her so he pulls her to her feet and studies her face intensely, trying to see why she collapsed.

Byleth drops the Sword of the Creator and breathes slowly as her vision comes back to her. The pain isn't even that bad yet, but the memory of it seems to have shocked her body to the extreme. "Get Claude," she orders strictly.

She stumbles against him and Lorenz whips his head around. "Raphael!" he yells. "Get Flayn and Monica out of here. Leonie, find Claude. The professor needs help."

Byleth feels a spark of admiration for the leadership traits Lorenz has, even if he buries them under layers of noble snobbery most times. Marianne hurries over to them and her white magic tingles as it heals most of Byleth's wounds. She says something softly to Lorenz that Byleth doesn't catch, but Lorenz shakes his head in response.

Another pulse of fire burns from the wound and Byleth grimaces. She steps away from Lorenz and looks around the crypt. The strange soldiers are gone now, including the Death Knight, but their presence makes Byleth's skin crawl. Those soldiers had been Edelgard's last time and the insignias they bear this time are the same.

Am I too late? Did I not do enough?

Sothis doesn't reply and anger prickles along her skin. She has torn apart her future to come back to try and stop the war and to save her students and she isn't sure that she can handle losing them again.

"Teach!" Claude yells. Leonie and Claude are rushing towards them. There's a smear of red across Claude's cloak from where he had dammed Manuela's wound. He looks wild and shaken, but relief blossoms across his features as he realizes Byleth is still standing.

His hands land on her biceps as he reaches her, looking her up and down. "What's wrong, Teach?"

Poison pulses through her veins. She grimaces and grips Claude's hand in her own. She slides it towards the wound. His hand is warm against her even through her shirt. The blood seems to concern him, but he's sharp and knows that's not what is actually bothering her.

"Leonie, give me your hunting knife," he instructs.

He cuts away the fabric where it sticks to her skin and curses as he uncovers the wound. Leonie, behind him, blanches at the sight of the blackened veins. "What the hell?" she exclaims.

Claude touches the wound and fire burns through Byleth. She cries out unintentionally. Claude hisses an apology and fumbles for the pouch of poisons and antidotes on his belt. He pulls out the familiar clear vial. Byleth doesn't hesitate, downing the antidote without waiting for him to say anything.

Most of the pain fades, but the wound still aches dully. Claude slides an arm around her waist. "Come on, Teach, let's get you to the infirmary."

Even with Claude's support, Byleth stumbles her way out of the crypt. Her exhaustion seems to have caught up with her and the lingering effect of the poison amplifies it. She leans her head against his shoulder as they emerge from the tunnel in Jeritza's room and breathes slowly, trying to centre herself.

"Kid?"

That voice makes her look up sharply. Jeralt and a contingent of knights have just entered the room and her father's worried gaze is fixed directly onto her. She straightens up a bit, trying to look less like she's relying on Claude to keep her upright.

"I'm okay," she assures.

Claude snorts out a laugh. "The Death Knight's blade was poisoned," he informs. "I got it out of her system, but she needs rest, not whatever the hell Rhea is going to try to have her do."

Jeralt's brow furrows. "I'll worry about Rhea." He walks forward and presses a firm, warm kiss to Byleth's forehead. The display of affection is unusual for Jeralt, but she knows the meaning he places behind it. "Get her to the infirmary," he says to Claude.

Byleth wants to ask him to stay, to take her himself, but he's a captain and he has a job to do. She bites her tongue as he walks by her even if every bone in her body wants him to stay or to leave and get as far away from the monastery as possible. The selfish shadow in her chest tells her that she's not sure she can go through losing him again.

"Teach?" Claude inquires. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Byleth inhales deeply and tears her eyes from where her father had disappeared to. "Yes, I'm just tired."

"Why are you still lying to him?" Sothis asks suddenly.

Claude steps forward to assist her again and Byleth realizes that she doesn't have a good answer to that question.

- ~ -

/ wyvern moon /

This time, Claude once again backs her participation in the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion. Dimitri and Edelgard had protested, as expected, but Byleth studies their expressions as they each present their argument. Dimitri still seems concerned about her well-being, but Edelgard has something cooler and tenser in her expression. It is disconcertingly reminiscent of the expression she had held in the Holy Mausoleum.

Between Claude's scheming and Byleth's tactics, their battle plan comes together smoothly and even more efficient than it had been when she had fought this fight with the Blue Lions. Ignatz and Leonie share the responsibility of the ballista and the defence of it. Lysithea, Marianne, and Lorenz easily sweep through Felix, Ingrid, Dedue, and Sylvain due to their lack of ranged attacks. Byleth, Raphael, Hilda, and Claude take on the Eagles and the whole thing topples with remarkable efficiency.

After the battle, Byleth's standing with Claude atop the hill when Dimitri and Edelgard approach.

"Professor, that was a remarkable strategy," Dimitri compliments. "It's like you knew my every move before I could make it."

Edelgard inclines her chin. "Almost as if you knew what it would be, really," she adds. There's an undertone of suspicion in her tone and Byleth frowns.

Thankfully, Claude, despite his notable previous suspicions, laughs. "Come on then, where's my compliment? I am an equal contributor to this strategy," he argues.

Byleth smiles. "He's right about that," she points out.

Edelgard rolls her eyes. "Your schemes hardly count as a concrete battle plan, Claude."

Dimitri's attention stays fixed on Byleth. "It did all feel familiar," he says to her quietly. "But, strange, nonetheless. Almost like you should have been fighting with me instead of against me."

Byleth laughs weakly. "Strange," she echoes.

Dimitri shakes his head and holds a hand out. His palm is warm against hers as she shakes his hand. "A battle well fought," he concedes.

- ~ -

/ red wolf moon /

The Golden Deer are equally as disturbed as the Blue Lions were after the battle in Remire Village. Lysithea and Ignatz, in particular, seem concerned with Solon and the fact that he had been disguised as Tomas.

Byleth had been heading back to the Golden Deer classroom when she heard mention that Tomas had been at the monastery by recommendation of House Ordelia. The admission had caught her off-guard so she redoubled her pace to the classroom, wanting to talk to Lysithea again.

Unfortunately, Tomas's connection to House Ordelia is as concerning to Lysithea as it is to Byleth. Her youngest student has three different historical texts in front of her and her eyes have dark circles underneath them. Byleth reaches over and closes the book in front of her. Lysithea turns a burning gaze to her, displeased and Byleth shakes her head.

"Get some rest. The situation won't change much by morning, and we need everyone to be at their best for the future," she says to her student.

Lysithea's shoulders hunch. "I know," she admits slowly. "I just," she trails off, looking frustrated and vulnerable.

"It's not your fault," Byleth says. "Don't ever think that this is your fault."

Without another word, Lysithea twists in her seat and tucks her arms around Byleth's waist. Byleth tenses for a moment before she lowers her hands to reassuringly touch her student's shoulders. Lysithea is stubborn and her refusal to be seen as young means that she builds so many walls to hide her emotions behind. Seeing her scared and vulnerable like this is almost reassuring because it shows Byleth that she's feeling and that she's connecting with people.

The quiet contact between professor and student seems to reassure her and Lysithea pulls away after a lingering moment. She wipes at her eyes and stands up from the table. She looks exhausted, but her shoulders are square as she announces her plan to head to her room and take a nap.

Byleth shifts uncomfortably as she leaves. She can still hear the cries of people in Remire Village in the back of her mind and she's afraid of what it will mean for the next month.

- ~ -

/ ethereal moon /

The ball is suffocating. She wants to smile and enjoy herself like she did last time–to dance with Dimitri and to spin in silly circles with Claude since neither of them actually know how to dance properly–but the air in the room feels stale and it burns when she breathes.

Byleth ducks out and heads to the goddess tower, hoping that it's empty. The height and quietness of it call to her. She keeps her hands pressed against the stone as she climbs to ground herself. Her head feels like it's spinning as she climbs and her breathing is shallow.

She reaches the top and staggers to the balcony on the edge. She curls her fingers into the stone railing and breathes. The air is cool and it stings, but she's finally able to feel like she's breathing again. She doesn't feel like she's going to collapse anymore.

She stands alone at the top of the tower for a long minute, eyes closed and breathing slowly. There are soft footsteps behind her and she prays for a moment they'll leave so that she can be alone, but not even she is that lucky.

"Teach?"

Byleth turns to face Claude. He is standing just at the top of the stairs and he looks concerned. She bites her lip and turns her gaze back to the window she had been looking out. She can't look at Claude. Like Sothis has said, he is very observant and too good at reading her expressions even when she doesn't want him too.

He apparently either doesn't realize that she wants to be alone, or doesn't care, because she hears him walk over until she can feel the warmth from him radiating into her space. "Are you going to tell me why you ran away from the ball?"

Byleth swallows. "I'm worried about tomorrow," she admits.

Claude raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Byleth rubs at her temples. "It's not going to go like we think it will."

"You sound sure," he points out.

Byleth bites her lip. She's tired. She's so tired of living the same days and losing people and watching the world fall down the same spiral that led to 5 years of brutal war. She really doesn't want to do this anymore.

Claude contemplates something when she doesn't reply and she feels, more than sees, him shift in her periphery. "Teach, what are you so scared of happening tomorrow?"

Something in Byleth breaks and she leans forward onto her hands, pressing her forehead against the stone. "I'm running in circles and nothing will stop any of this. There is so much senseless death and destruction and I can't make it end. I thought I could stop this, but I've been following the same footsteps and walking the same path."

Claude doesn't hesitate to sink so he's level with her. "Teach–Byleth–I don't know what you're talking about."

Byleth inhales slowly and tries to calm her racing mind. "I have a goddess inside my head and I can turn back time," she says abruptly. Claude tenses. She laughs and shakes her head. "You probably think I'm crazy and I don't blame you. Tomorrow my father is going to die and I'm so terrified I won't be able to do anything about it."

"You're not crazy," he says firmly. "I may not understand half of what you just said, but, Teach, you're not crazy. I mean, you trusted me with this, so maybe you're a little crazy, but you're not crazy."

Byleth laughs lowly. "I can't lose him again."

Something warm drapes over her back and shoulders and tugs her sideways. They shift so that they're sitting on the floor of the tower and Claude's arm is wrapped firmly over her shoulder. Byleth presses her head to the crook of his neck and breathes in his familiar scent of pine and parchment.

"We won't lose him," Claude assures.

Byleth shakes her head against his neck. "That's what I said last time."

She can feel his pulse thrumming where she rests against him. He doesn't seem to know where to take the conversation and instead just keeps his arm around her and lets her rest against him where they sit. She's sure there are a million places Claude with his charming smile would rather be, but he makes no attempt to move away from her, staying a warm, reassuring presence to her.

Slowly, Byleth reaches for his hand. She guides his fingers to the inside of her wrist where her own pulse pulses rhythmically. He doesn't say anything, but his index and middle fingers press into her skin as he feels the hum of her pulse. After a moment, she guides his palm up to her upper chest and rests it against her bare skin above where her heart should be. After a moment, Claude stiffens and pulls his hand away.

"You have no heartbeat," he says matter-of-factly. "How is that possible?"

"I have a goddess inside of me and a Crest Stone instead of a heart."

Claude's breath catches as he leans away from her just enough that he can make eye contact with her. "You weren't kidding."

Byleth closes her eyes and shakes her head. "No."

He leans forward again so that their foreheads are pressed together. The moment feels painfully intimate and a part of Byleth's head is in uproar–DIMITRIDIMITRIDIMITRI, it whispers–and the rest of her is blissfully silent because as wrong as this feels, it feels more right than most things have since she reset the world.

- ~ -

Byleth presses her forehead to the side of Jeralt's face and closes her eyes. She's crying and shaking and

everything hurts again

. She thought she had done it right this time, putting herself between her father and Monica, but Jeralt had asked her to check on Leonie who had been injured in the battle. Byleth had hesitated and her father had insisted and Monica had already been walking away.

He had taken her blade straight to the heart as soon as Byleth had turned away. Thales had thwarted her Divine Pulse and Byleth was once again in the mud, clutching the still body of her father.

Why am I not enough? she asks Sothis desperately. Why can't I save him?

"Perhaps this is his fate. I am the Beginning, but I cannot see the End."

Byleth shakes her head and pulls Jeralt's body closer. With a shaking hand, she tries to pour white magic into him, but just like last time–just like with Dimitri–the spell doesn't take. Finally, having exhausted everything, she cries again.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to her dead father.

There's a sharp gasp over her shoulder and a rush of footsteps as her Golden Deer finally find her. A warm body presses against her side and a tan hand reaches forward to gently close Jeralt's eyes. A hand closes over one of hers where she's clutching Jeralt's chest and she leans into the body, letting it keep her upright. The other hand curls over her back, stroking and comforting as best it can.

Claude swallows heavily as he holds her. "I'm sorry," he whispers. It hurts because he knew and he tried, but they're still sitting here and her father is still dead.

The Golden Deer pile around them shortly after. Their hands brush against Byleth and against Claude and against Jeralt. No words are exchanged and no one complains. Raphael inserts himself last, using his large frame to try and shield as many of them as possible from the rain. Leonie presses her head against Byleth's curling both her hands over Byleth and Claude's joined fingers on Jeralt.

The warmth of their bodies pressing around her is like an echo of the other life, but Byleth thinks this one hurts more because she knew it was coming.

"I'm sorry," Sothis whispers. "I'm so sorry."

- ~ -

/ guardian moon /

You have got to be kidding me! How could you fall for this again?

" Sothis scolds.

Byleth lets out a growl and spins. The odd place where Sothis resides is exactly as it was last time and she's just as annoyed. "I'm sorry, alright? I just got mad." She exhales slowly and turns back to face the goddess.

Sothis descends the stairs towards her. "You understand what this means, don't you?"

Byleth frowns. "I can't leave here without your power, can I?"

Sothis shakes her head. "No, you can't. And we've established that you must go. But," the goddess pauses.

Byleth stares at her. Sothis looks remarkably young, as she always has, but she looks troubled. "What is it?"

Sothis reaches out and stops just before she touches Byleth's face. "My friend," she says softly. "If I go this time, I do not know if you will be able to reach me again."

Byleth tenses. "I found you last time."

"And we have been together this time differently than last time. I fear you will feel my absence more."

Byleth lowers her head. "I have to go."

"I know," Sothis replies. "And I am sorry, Byleth, that I have not been enough to save your father and that I was not enough to save Dimitri last time."

Byleth shakes her head and looks the goddess straight in the eye. "We are one, Sothis. Any weakness of yours is a weakness of mine as well. I will find you again when I need you."

Sothis laughs. "Oh my friend, you misunderstand. I hope you will never have need of me again."

Without another word, Sothis reaches forward and presses a hand against Byleth's chest. The goddess dissolves into golden light. The light burns, bright and warm and Byleth screams out. Once again, golden light sears the darkness and she swings blindly out with the Sword of the Creator.

The world bends around her and she cuts through it, tearing the fabric of dimensions to return herself back to her world. There are mixed gasps from around her from the Golden Deer and from Solon's forces.

Byleth ignores it all and flies at Solon, letting her rage burn through her as her awakened sword strikes down. She cuts through the remaining enemies in a blind rage, grieving for Jeralt and for Sothis and for everyone that she has lost.

When she's done and Solon is dead, Claude is at her side. His hands grip her arms and steady her as the glowing energy in her veins fades leaving her drained and exhausted. He studies her, taking in changed hair and eyes and shakes his head slowly.

"Your goddess," he murmurs. "She gave you her power?"

Byleth nods. The world blurs at the edges and her eyes are hot with tears. She tries to ask Claude how her Fawns fared, but her tongue is lead in her mouth and the darkness spins violently. She blacks out so hard and so quickly she almost doesn't hear the cry of her name that tears from his throat, drenched in concern.

- ~ -

/ pegasus moon /

"Hey! Teach!"

Byleth spins to see Claude jogging in her direction. She's standing on the eastern balcony at the cathedral and she's a bit surprised he found her. But, to be fair, Claude is relentless when he wants to be. She nods to him in greeting and he slows to a walk.

"I wanted to catch you before we went into the Holy Mausoleum. I want to know what you're feeling about all of this," he says.

Byleth wraps her arms around her waist and looks out over the monastery again. "I'm still worried," she admits. "There are things that may happen today that we may never recover from. I can only hope we've done enough."

Claude's brow furrows. "This isn't just about what revelation you may receive is it?"

Byleth sighs. "No, it isn't."

"We'll be with you, Teach, all of us. No matter what."

Byleth turns to look fully at Claude. "That promise we all made to come back in five years. Do you think they'll honour that too?"

Claude laughs. "You've met us, right? We're a bunch of crazy sentimental fools."

Byleth smiles and it feels a little sad. "I like the sound of a bunch of sentimental fools."

Claude smiles and something in Byleth's stomach twists. She has no idea what awaits them in the Holy Mausoleum and she can only hope it won't be exactly what she's expecting. She steps toward him and slides her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, Claude," she says quietly.

He hugs her back and for a moment it's quiet, just the two of them and the wind.

- ~ -

After Rhea gives her the order, Byleth's grip on the Sublime Creator Sword tightens until it hurts. She stares down the leader of the Black Eagle House.

"Is it worth all of this, Edelgard?" she asks.

Edelgard's face is steeled cold and neutral. "Everything was leading to this. I've accomplished my aims here."

"Why does it have to lead to war?" Byleth presses.

Edelgard frowns. "There is no other alternative. Professor, we have been walking this path since the moment we met. There was no other way this could go."

Byleth holds her sword out and shakes her head. "If I'd come to you, could I have set you off this path?"

Edelgard's expression hardens into something that's almost cruel. It almost reconciles the images she has of the Flame Emperor's cruelty and the young woman before her. "Professor, if you would have joined me, you would have had the pleasure of being on the winning side of this war that will come."

Hubert appears in a burst of light and then they're both gone and Byleth's chest tightens until it hurts. Inevitable, she laments. Was all of this for naught? It hurts to consider that everything she had been through, all her pain and suffering, was just so that the world could walk the same brutal, bloody path again.

Byleth closes her eyes and lets the tip of her sword brush against the stone. She doesn't want to see the rage on Rhea's face and the dismay and betrayal on Claude's. She doesn't want to think about telling Dimitri and initializing the Kingdom Prince's true descent into madness.

She doesn't want to think of Thales and the cliff and what might come next.

- ~ -

/ lone moon /

Byleth finds the Blue Lions in their classroom, looking serious and troubled. She has just finished speaking with the Golden Deer about the situation and imagines Hanneman has done the same for the Blue Lions. Still, several of them turn sharply in her direction when she enters that classroom.

"Professor!" Ashe exclaims. He wrings his hands in front of his, his brow creased. "Is it all true?"

Byleth nods slowly. "Edelgard is the Flame Emperor and she is leading a march on Garreg Mach. We must be prepared."

Sylvain frowns. "And the Black Eagles?"

Byleth shakes her head. "No, none of them knew but Hubert. I imagine many of them are just as shocked as the rest of us." She looks around the classroom and notices two notable absences. She bites her lip and turns towards Felix and Ingrid, almost not ready to hear the answer to the question on the tip of her tongue. "Where are Dimitri and Dedue?"

Felix scoffs. "The Boar is in the Knight's Hall butchering everything he can get his hands on before he gets to Edelgard."

Byleth flinches. She had, futilely, hoped to be the one to talk to Dimitri, but it didn't look like she was going to get that chance. There is a good chance that Dimitri has already started his spiralling into the mad prince he became after five years. "Dedue is with him?"

"Yes," Annette pipes up. "The rest of us thought it would be good to give him some space."

"It's hard to believe Edelgard would do all of this," Mercedes murmurs softly.

"She's always been ambitious, but this isn't what I was expecting at all," Ingrid adds.

Byleth pulls a hand through her newly mint-coloured hair and sighs heavily. "It will not be an easy fight, that is for sure, but we must all survive."

She turns to leave the Blue Lions. They are not hers anymore, no matter how much she still cares for them now. She hopes that her attempts to guide them and connect with them this time have resonated enough to keep them the same kids and young adults she knows going into the future. She pauses at the threshold of the Blue Lion classroom.

"It's a shame there won't be a celebration for the Millennium Festival. I would have looked forward to seeing you all there."

- ~ -

After the initial briefing, Byleth is placed in charge of relaying the commands to Dimitri and Claude. She sends a squire to summon them both and meets them above the graveyard where if she cranes her neck she can just see where both of her parents are buried. It doesn't take long after she summons them for the two remaining House Leaders to find her.

Dimitri looks haunted. His eyes are tired and his posture stiff and alert. His facade of "perfect prince" is well enough in place for those who don't know him, but Byleth sees through it and she knows the Lions do too.

Claude, on the other hand, simply looks tired. His green eyes are dimmer than usual and his hair is messy, even for him. He has a book tucked under his arm and a bow slung along his back.

They both look achingly young for what lies ahead.

"I have information from Rhea and Seteth about the plans to protect the monastery. We want to protect the monastery, but if it comes to it, it is more important to evacuate those who cannot fight. We want to survive, not be slaughtered here," Byleth instructs.

Both Claude and Dimitri take in the information silently, nodding along as she relays their instructions. When she reaches the end of the information that Rhea had given her, she pauses. Byleth holds out both of her hands, one to each of her students.

Claude doesn't hesitate before slipping his hand into hers. Dimitri takes a moment longer, but she has forged enough trust with him that he does take her hand. She squeezes both of their hands and sends a silent prayer to Sothis that this is not the last time she will see them.

"You must survive," she tells them. "Your people will need you and we will see each other again."

If her words ring oddly to them, neither says a word. Dimitri's hand–large and calloused across the palm–squeezes her back lightly. Claude's hand–slimmer and rough along the fingertips–reciprocates a tighter grip.

- ~ -

In the end, little changes. There is a cliff and a crack and this time she doesn't scream.

She closes her eyes before she hits the ground and welcomes–

darkness.

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worldofblade · 6 years ago

Text

The Alien and the Thief. Ch 1

BTS AU Fic: Yoongi/OC

Rating: R

Beta: None

Warnings: violence, reference to child abuse

Summary: The Sesh came to Earth looking for willing females to help keep their race from dying out. Can an alien and a thief find their happy ever-after?

Notes: I hope you enjoy my new story, and would love to hear any thoughts/comments you have about it. Thanks.

Chapters: 1| 2 | ...

~~~

The aliens came around two years ago. Earth was shocked, but was also at the point of not caring. The planet, as a whole, was so far into starvation and never-ending wars that the entire population of Earth was almost grateful to be obliterated by an unknown race. Instead, the Sesh wanted to help Earth. Medicine, food, and other necessities would be provided for all; for a price. Women. The Sesh race would soon be gone as they had not produced more than a handful of women in the last century. Earth, on the other hand, had an abundance of women. The aliens figured Earth could share. The few politicians who were left gave an unconvincing show of bravo and outrage, while the Sesh just went on with their plan only contacting the “leaders” out of courtesy.

People around the globe stood in awe when aliens and construction materials were beamed down to different parts of Earth. Buildings went up in hours. Each with a sign that said, “Intake Center”. That was amazing, but the aliens themselves were more so. They looked human, but more perfect. More sculpted. Somewhat harsh, and undeniably sexy. They stood tall, lean, and had an air about them that said they could handle their own.

While everyone stood dumbfounded watching, huge screens dropped down from the sky hovering above the Intake Centers. The screen flicked on, and the most beautiful man anyone had seen smiled at them all. His dark black hair fell roguishly over his large brown eyes. His face looked as if it had been sculpted by a master who made every line perfect. He had what must be a type of military uniform on. It was dark blue, and had different colored gems adorning his right sleeve. Earth held its breath, as he began to speak in the native language of each country an Intake Center was established.

“Greetings to Earth. I am Emperor Seokjin of the Sesh. We are very happy to offer our services to your world. We have food, medicine, and many other necessities that are scarce on your world. As many of you already know, the Sesh race is dying out. We would be honored if the women of your world would join with us to create the families that are needed to see the Sesh prosper. These Intake Centers will be where the rules and regulations will be told to any who wish to join with a Sesh male. Any woman who wants to make a life with a Sesh male will be treated with honor and respect. She will be treasured above all. We look forward to having a beneficial alliance with Earth. May your life be full of peace.” With one last radiant smile. The screen went blank.

Riots started almost immediately. The Sesh warriors who came down with the building materials, just watched with an almost detached amusement as everything that was thrown at them was unable to penetrate a force field that encompassed the whole Intake Centers. Rocks, bullets, knifes, and even a missile produced from some end of the world cache could not pass through the field. After two weeks, even the dumbest human understood that nothing they did could make the Sesh go away. Little by little women began to make their way to the Intake Centers. This riled up the mobs again, but they fast learned that if they tried to forcibly stop a woman from entering an Intake Center, the Sesh had no qualms about doing whatever was necessary to save said woman. Several men found their grasping arms broken. It was done quickly and efficiently, with the Sesh helpfully pointing out where the attackers could get medical help at the new hospital down the street.

In less than three months, things had settled down into an uneasy truce. Now it was two years later, and things had gotten somewhat better for Earth. People were still greedy and mean. So, the rich still got richer while the poor struggled. It seemed that the Sesh were happy to let Earth manage what was given to them with little interference from them. A voucher system was put into place for the women of Earth. Someone who wanted to join with a Sesh had to have a voucher. Vouchers were highly sought after, and for the poor seemed to be a pipe dream. It seemed that humans could even mess up and turn an alien invasion into a way to screw each other over.

```

Amy Toth was a thief, among other things. She did have rules, though. She would only steal from the rich. Others of her trade would steal anything that they could, no matter who it was from. Amy figured that the poor already had it rough enough, and the rich would be fine being a few credits lighter. So that is why she was in the swank part of town, pretending to enjoy a fruity drink, which had cost her a pretty penny. She had used more credits to shower, and had on her best set of cloths that she only used when she came to this part of town.

Her mark was a woman so occupied laughing with her friends, that she had no clue her purse was open. On her first reconnaissance pass, Amy had noted that the woman’s wallet was small which had sealed the deal. Figuring it was now or never, Amy proceeded with her plan. Getting up from her table, Amy threw her cup away, before stumbling on nothing and going down hard in front of the marks table.

“Oh, no! Are you okay?”

All the women jumped up with a cry, trying to help Amy. Leaning her weight on the mark, Amy deftly lifted her wallet from the open purse and slid it into her pocket. It was smooth and done in seconds.

“I’m so embarrassed!” Amy cried, in the high pitch nasal voice that all the uptowners seemed to use. “Thank you so much for helping me!” Giving an embarrassed laugh, Amy repeatedly thanked the women until she was around the corner. Taking off at a run, she was two streets over before she started fishing into her pocket to see what she had managed to get. Suddenly, her talkie went off. Shoving the stolen wallet back into her pocket, Amy scrambled to pull her small talkie out of her other pocket. The device had cost almost a years worth of savings, but Amy was happy to have it.

“What’s wrong?” Amy asked the second she clicked the answer button. The only person who knew this number was her little sister, and her sister wouldn’t call unless something was wrong. Amy began running even before her sister answered.

“They are here!” her sister whispered, obviously trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Stay in the emergency hole. I’m coming!” Amy clicked off and then ran faster than she ever had before. She knew who “they” were. Skif and his crew had been after Amy to join their operation. She had said no more times than she could count. Looks like the last no was one too many for them.

Running through the back allies, Amy was soon climbing a fence that led to a totally different world than the part she was just in. Throwing herself over, she hardly took notice of the ripping sound of her pant leg getting caught on the top before tumbling down on the hard dirt. Scrambling up she took off running, crossing the old train tracks in record time. Her lungs were on fire, but she pushed on. She would die before she let anything happen to her sister. Cutting up a garbage strewn street, she could see her front door wide open. Charging up the rotting stairs, she bursts into the shabby apartment.

“If it aint Miss Amy. We was lookin’ for you. Also lookin’ for your cutie sister.”

Amy tried to gulp air into her lungs. “Get out Skif!” Amy managed to wheeze out, trying to take in the positions of Skif and his two men. One was close to the hidey hole that Amy knew her sister was in. Taking a few deeper breaths, Amy pushed her way through the men, and then turned to faced them. Causing them to group around Skif and move away from where her sister was hiding.

“Is that any way to treat a friend, lovey?” Skif’s broken and yellowed teeth flashed in a tight smile as he took a few steps toward Amy.

“Not your friend.” Amy answered, standing her ground. She reached into her back pocket and brought out her switch blade. The click when the blade made its appearance made Skif’s eyes harden.

“You really think that little poker is gunna save you?” Skif asked, giving a little laugh.

Skif was the leader of a smallish gang. Amy had hated him for years, but lately he had started looking at Amy’s sister, Lydia, with a hunger that made Amy want to throw up. Soon after that had started, Skif began trying to get Amy to join his gang. Now it seems they were done playing nice.

“If you don’t leave by the count of 3, you will see how good I am with this here poker.” Amy never took her eyes off Skif, as she widened her stance. Holding the knife in her fist, blade pointed down, she raised both her fists to chin level. She would not go down without a fight, and she had been brawling on the streets since she was ten. Her father had been part of the Old American military. He had made sure Amy knew how to defend herself.

The sound of a gun being cocked, made Skif and his men whirl around to the front door.

“It seems you fellas need to listen to Amy and get out.”

Amy could have cried when she saw Digger standing in the doorway, his pistol pointed right at Skif. Digger was old, but was still a good shot. Everyone knew that. He had also been in the Old American military.

“Do you really think you can take all of us, old man?” Skif tried to laugh again, but Amy heard the unease in his voice.

“Well, I guess you can stay around and find out.” Digger’s voice was calm, and his hand holding the gun never shook. “Or you could leave, and we can all pretend this never happened.”

The face-off lasted only a few seconds, before Skif laughed again.

“We’ll talk later.” He threw over his shoulder at Amy, before he and his men made their way out of the apartment, keeping a close eye on Digger who turned to let them through, but kept his gun on them the whole time. Digger watched the gang until they were around the corner, and then came into the apartment and shut and locked the door.

“You and Lydia need to get different digs.” Digger said, putting the safety back on his gun and sitting down on the dilapidated couch.

“You too, and thanks.” Amy said as she knocked on the wall above the hole, letting Lydia know she could take the lock off. A piece of the wall slid open, and Amy helped Lydia out of the hole. Lydia was eight years old and small for her age, but soon the hole would be too little for her. Amy had realized that there was an empty space between their own apartment and the neighbors when she accidentlly kicked a hole in the wall. It housed some pipes, and would never be big enough for Amy, but it made a perfect space for Lydia to hide when needed. Digger had helped her with the door, and most would never know it was there.

“You’ll need to make it quick.” Digger said as he went toward the door. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Amy watched as Digger left. She wanted to beg him to take them with him. Wanted to stay together, but that was not how it worked in this world. Digger did what he could. Now they were each on their own.

“Grab the go bags!” Amy said to Lydia, who was already moving to where the emergency bags were kept.

Using her knife to lift a floor board, Amy grabbed all the saved credits hidden there. Suddenly, she remembered the wallet she had stolen. Pulling it out of her pocket she was happy to see a good chunk of credits to add to her stash. Taking a folded piece of paper out, Amy felt her breath leave her when she read. It was a voucher!

“Lydia! It’s a voucher!” Amy felt her hands shake as she held the voucher.

“The Sesh.” Lydia reached out a hand almost reverently to the piece of paper.

The two sisters looked stunned at each other, before Amy finally got to her feet. Shoving half the money into both packs before distributing the rest of it in the hidden pockets that she had sewn into both her and her sister’s clothing.

“Are we going to sell it?” Lydia asked.

Amy didn’t answer right away, assessing her options. They could make a tidy sum by selling the voucher, but that took time. Time, they didn’t have. Skif could be back any moment, and no matter where they hid, Amy knew he would eventually find them. So that left only one option.

“We are going to go to the Intake Center. Now.” Amy said, hefting her backpack into place, then helping Lydia do the same.

“You mean, you are going to marry a Sesh?” Lydia asked, her eyes wide.

“Yes.” Amy said, not letting her fear show. Everyone said that the Sesh were a noble race, that treated women well, but Amy never truly believed that they were as good as they claimed to be. She wasn’t going to tell her sister that, though. Especially because this was their only option now. “Let’s go.”

Amy and Lydia double checked that their bags were closed, and then headed out. Glancing out the door, Amy didn’t see any of Skif’s men around. Grabbing Lydia’s hand, they ran down the stairs, and started towards the better part of town. Toward the Intake Center. Towards their chance to get off the hell that was Earth.

```

Warrior 7th Class Yoongi of the Min Clan was tired. Tired of inspecting Intake Centers. Tired of the rotten planet called Earth. Tired of all the crooked deals that made the help given by his people almost impossible for the truly poor to get. He was at the Intake Center in an Old American city that was called Chicago. It was the last stop of the day, and he was looking forward to getting back to his ship. They had already had all the formal pageantry that came with his arrival, and Yoongi was now conferring with the Warrior in charge.

Suddenly, loud voices could be heard coming from one of the receptionist areas. Yoongi started toward the disturbance. Coming around the corner, he could see one of the human receptionists glaring at another human who slapped her hands down on the desk and leaned in.

“It says I can bring any personal possessions that I want.” The woman said, tapping the pamphlet that briefly went over some of the rules of the Intake Center.

“Your little sister is not a personal possession.” The receptionist said, narrowing her eyes at the other woman.

“Says who? Nowhere in the rules does it say I can’t bring a human. Besides, the Sesh would have another woman to join with when my sister grows up. Two for the price of one!”

“That is ridiculous!” the receptionist also came to her feet and leaned toward the other woman. Both of them looked like they were gearing up for an out and out battle.

Yoongi watched the clash with interest. It was true that the woman’s claim that her sister was a personal possession was a bit crazy, but at the same time she did find a loop-hole in the rules. One that if she pushed hard enough, would let her get her way. Yoongi was sure that this woman would have no trouble pushing as hard as she needed to. Holding up his hand to stop the Warrior in charge from intervening, Yoongi crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. It would be fun to see what this Earth woman had up her sleeve next. He noted with growing interest that the woman was pretty. She was petite, with brown hair that was currently in a messy bun. Her cloths were ripped and dirty in places, but all in all she was clean. Her sister sat in a chair next to her. The child seemed extremely small to Yoongi’s eyes. Her cloths were cheap, but clean. She had blond hair, and her big blue eyes were watching her sister.

“Why am I even talking to you? I want to speak to whoever is in charge here!”

Yoongi figured that was his cue. He had decided that he wanted this little human.

“I will allow you to bring your sister, if you join with me.” Yoongi called from where he was leaning against the wall, causing his men to gasp. Straightening, he made his way toward the desk where his little human stood.

Amy looked up, and then took a step back. There was a whole group of Sesh staring at her. Trying to focus on what had just been said. She looked at the Sesh who seemed to be the leader of the group. He was dressed in the blue military uniform that all the Sesh seemed to wear. He had silver hair, and almost black eyes. He was not as tall as the other Sesh surrounding him, but he was still taller than her.

“I…I..What?” Amy wanted to smack herself. She was stuttering like a fool. She felt her face burn in embarrassment when the Sesh gave her a somewhat patronizing smile before repeating what he said.

“I will allow you to bring your sister, if you join with me.”

“Who are you?” Amy made herself stand tall and look directly in his eyes.

“Warrior 7th Class Yoongi of the Min Clan. At your service.” Yoongi bowed.

“Ok. Warrior what-its from the Min Clan. Why should I join with you?”

“I will honor you and your sister. I will keep you safe and happy. We will be a family. Plus, I’m the only one who can say yes to your claim that your sister is a personal possession.” Yoongi finished with a slight smirk.

Amy locked eyes with him a while longer, before slowly nodding her head. “I’m Amy Toth. As long as you keep my sister and me safe. I will join with you.”

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